Date: 2011-07-15 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Demons
Description: The demons have returned and are ravaging the countryside. The realms appear to be under siege by unknown forces, and the Kings have dispatched armies to march in their defense. The powerful wizards of the Keep are oblivious, and remain in their Keep with their noses buried in their studies. Once, the wizards of the Havenhold Keep ruled the world and were considered gods, now, they are irrelevant and forgotten. Ja'tar, the Keeper of the wizards, is confused. Events lead him to believe, for the first time in centuries, that all is not right and that it may be time for the wizards to re-enter so
Publisher: Mythforge LLC

Eyes of the Keep

Book 1

Legacy of the Ten Saga

Scott D. Muller

Mythforge, LLC.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, places, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locals is entirely coincidental. The publisher has no control over and does not assume any responsibility for third party websites or their content.

Eyes of the Keep, Book 1— Legacy of the Ten Saga

Copyright (c) 2010 by Scott D. Muller

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form, including printed or electronic. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

A Legacy of the Ten Saga Book

Published by Mythforge, LLC.

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Merry Content Faeries: Dan Barber, Randy Clinton, Chris Coslor and Christine Muller

Editors: Jill Maxwell, Richard Chapell

Map and Cover Design: Scott D. Muller

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ISBN - 13: 978-0-615-49139-4

First Edition: June 2011

Printed in the United States of America

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If you purchase a book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payments for this “stripped book.”

Acknowledgements

Limitless love and thanks to my wife, who sacrificed time for this to come to fruition by watching our two beautiful children while I pounded away at the keyboard. To the best parents a son could ask for, much love! For my father who passed his love of reading to me. To my mother who has always supported my crazy ideas and hobbies. Special thanks to my grandfather, Joseph, who kindly pushed me to always explore the unknown, patiently guided me to master the difficult, and engrained in me the motto, that anything worth doing, is worth doing well.

Special thanks to my content fairies for keeping me honest.

To those who have brought me countless hours of fantasy and wonderment through their tales. Thank you!

The Five Near Realms

The Prophecy

“… a woeful time of darkness shall stretch over the aontaithe (united) lands, poisoning and consuming all it touches, for the Lord of Chaos reigns, the realms are adrift, and the ancient art of magic has been poisoned. None shall be observed <damaged text> and the lost will venture forth as a <translation missing> child who is not a true child is born. These three signs shall be as a gate, comharraidhean (marking) the epoch that will come to be known as ‘The Age of Darkness.’ A great evil shall …”

Translated from a tattered remnant of the Tome of the Ages, written during the First Age, The Age of Reason, by the Prophet Xi’am.

Note: the excerpt presented above comes from a well-worn and tattered papyrus dating back over seven thousand years. It had originally been carefully translated from the ancient glyphs to Torren by the banail (female) druid called Cliste Ailleachd (Wise-beauty) prior to the first battles of Ror, and although every effort has been made to accurately translate from the ancient Torren language, scholars still argue over word choice, and their meanings. Much of those times were lost through carelessness, even though the original translation was passed down beul-aithris, by the oral tradition. The only known written copy is stored deep in the Havenhold Keep in the Room of Archives.

The Legacy of the Ten Saga

Eyes of the Keep, book 1

Coming Soon …

The Third Sign, book 2 (early 2012)

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements ix

Prologue xiv

Signs 19

Watcher 32

Five Peaks 53

Mourning 61

Haagen 74

Duvall 82

Suspicions 87

A Few Words 107

Confrontation 124

Perhaps a Quest 139

Naan 165

The Cave 185

Quaint Rundown Inn 211

A Night to Remember 238

Tinker 254

Haagen’s Cross 267

Three Rivers 298

D’Arron 320

Hagra 357

The Real Gift 383

Harsh Words 404

Skree 416

Struggles 434

Confusion 456

In my Dreams 484

I Was a God 492

Alive 505

Epilogue 509

Glossary 513

Prologue

Bal’kan, the Third Keeper of the Wizards of Havenhold sat in his oversized chair in the tower of the Ten, high above the valley. He stared down at the stack of notes he had written to his son. He wondered why it seemed so much easier to write frankly in a letter than it was to talk face-to-face. Only one note remained unsealed and he wasn’t happy with it. It felt … too impersonal. He had wanted it to be less regal. Trouble was, after all these years, he didn’t really know how not to be the Keeper anymore. He loved his son, and was fiercely proud of him, but he fumbled with ways to say and show it. It was one of his biggest failures in life.

He stood up, grimacing as pain shot through his hip and up his back. He steadied himself, giving his old bones a chance to get used to the strain before he walked over to the desk and poured a glass of wine. He swirled it in the glass and took a rather big mouthful. He let it linger in his mouth before swallowing and letting the tart fruitful beverage slide down his throat. Wine was one of the simple pleasures he would truly miss when he left this plane.

He held the last letter in trembling hands and read it to himself. A scowl filled his face, perhaps it was a bit too serious and rambling, but he had so much to say, and now that it was time for his ascension, he had little time in which to say it. He had procrastinated, dreading the deed. He had already said his goodbyes to his son, shallow as they were, and to everyone in the Keep. Ascension was a personal matter and he would take care of his business as soon as he finished his last letter.

Hail Ja’tar, Fourth Keeper of the Wizards of Havenhold!

Well, how does that sound to you? It sounds strange to me. I’m proud of you and I know I don’t say that enough, but I feel … I have been negligent as a father and have not shown you often enough how much I have enjoyed having you as a son. I feel uncomfortable saying much more, so I will leave it at that. I have left a stack of letters to help guide you in your reign. I’m afraid you face difficult times and I will not be here to help advise. Use them as you will, I hope they provide value.

For the last sixteen-hundred years the Guild has stood strong, a testament to the unspeakable atrocities of the Cleaving, which culminated the great mage battles of Ror? The Tofar Pact joined all magic users in battle as one to defeat the Dark Ones once and for all. It was our salvation and ushered in a long deserved period of peace where all races coexisted.

Unfortunately, the war irreparably scarred and poisoned a vast portion of the realms, leaving them uninhabitable and possessed by rogue wild magic. These lands became known as the Wilds and the Waste. It is thought that spirits of ancient magi and demons wander still, trapped, though the accounts of such encounters appear to be more rumor than substance. I fear that I cannot add clarity to the reports as the Guild has refused to sanction an exploratory quest.

Although the atrocities of this war are unimaginable and the price paid deemed to be incalculable, we can take some measure of comfort knowing that all branded dark magi were eventually tracked down and destroyed, albeit at a horrific cost of well over ten thousand magi. The demon lord, Warvyn, summoned by the dark magi to fight alongside their forces, was cast back to the lower planes along with his minions and the ancient tome, Doors to the Unknown, captured and sealed away in the Cave of the Forbidden.

I can attest to the sketchy firsthand accounts of the final battle that attrition was swift. Training was summarily sacrificed for survival and many of those that claimed to be wizards were little more than single-spellcasters, recruited for gold and promises. In the end, this left us but a skeletal force of magi with sufficient skills and ties to the past to carry on the legacy of our craft. Over time, we grew in numbers and diversity. You will have your hands full. I suggest you form a few close alliances with those you deem worthy, but be warned; choose carefully.

The war was eventually won (by most accounts) through the perseverance and sacrifice of an elite group of wizards known as The Ten. These extraordinarily talented magi seized upon an opportunity to establish the Keep, train wizards and almost single-handedly saved the planet from dire consequences. I hate to imagine what would have happened had the dark magi and their demon minions triumphed. It is with solemn gratitude that their sacrifice is remembered each year, although none can say for sure where and when they died. It will be your charge to conduct this rite, and the many other ceremonies once you are elevated to Keeper.

After the war, the races, seeking to prevent another cataclysmic event in the future, drew up a concordat, which established the Guild and detailed the impounding of all magic users from the realms. Power hungry and self-serving magi had long sought to rule the world of mortal men and force them to do their bidding. This greed for power and wealth was their undoing and was at the core of the dispute between the dark and light as recorded in the Tomes of Retrospection. My personal copy is in the desk drawer in the Keeper’s Cove; read it and take it to heart. It will serve you well.

In their haste to contain events that were spiraling out of control, the Guild was made autonomous and established in a city to the north. They answer to no one (I personally believe we erred in this decision). The Guild has a group of surreptitious members, known as The Aristocracy, whose job is to enforce the pact. Much speculation and many rumors exist about who these guiding members are, and how they are chosen and replaced. I have personally had but a handful of dealings with this inner circle, and each time it was rather—unpleasant. The Guild members always present themselves cloaked and remain, to this day, unbeknownst by me.

The Guild sequestered all wizards to the Keep and its contained grounds, where we are allowed to continue our work. We are strictly forbidden to free-walk the realms. The elves were scattered into small enclaves, the dwarves sent back to their mines. Others with the gift had to choose to live with one of the above or they were forcibly silenced from the gift.

A precious few, selected by the Guild, were elevated to travelers. The travelers were assigned realms where they lived, observed and reported on magic use. As a side note, travelers are strictly forbidden from interfering in day-to-day events, politics and fiefdom struggles; they may not openly use magic and are to keep hidden their true nature. You can ask your sister about the finer details of these rules if you want.

These are rules you have sworn to uphold by position and title. Violating these principles is customarily dealth with using draconian measures by the Zola’far, assassins by any name. Take caution, the Keeper can be held accountable for his subjects, although this has rarely been enforced.

For many centuries, the Guild has upheld the law and none have ever questioned their authority, at least in public. As the Keeper, you will be their representative. You alone carry the burden of enforcing the wishes of the Pro Tem. Know that from time to time you will face enormous challenges in keeping this Keep of independent minds and talent placated. I fancy I could offer some sage advice, but fear that any I would offer up would seem—trivial.

As the days, weeks and months pass, life happens. Soon the months become years, the years turn to centuries, and time passes, clouding the history of decisions made for the common good. Each party eventually falls into a routine until lethargy sets in, life becomes drudgery and change becomes feared.

Just as a small pebble can cause a landslide, chaos has a way, through a series of seemingly miniscule events, of giving challenge to this awareness and this awareness leads to consternation. The choice becomes whether to answer the challenge or not. Remain vigilant, and may your reign be fruitful.

I know that this letter seems emotionless and hollow, but I am old and frail, and the chance at ascension is a gift I can’t refuse. I have made my peace.

Although leaving this mortal existence brings with it a certain amount of trepidation, I face it with eyes wide open. I hope that one day, in the next life, that I am once again able to gaze into your eyes, my son. Always remember that you are a Kandor’a; we are masters of magic, gifted by the gods. You will lead admirably.

With these words, I let you go; Sum
Licens Solus Fidens - I am only free without fear!

Your Father,

Bal’kan Kandor’a

The Third Keeper of the Havenhold,

Mage of Ascension, Chosen.

Bal’kan looked over the note, reading it a second time. His accomplishments these past eleven-hundred years seemed pale and insignificant, and he couldn’t think of a single noteworthy event, other than having a brilliant son and daughter. He took his time returning to his chair and before sitting down, set his goblet on the corner of his desk. He sat down hard as he let his weight pull him down, unable to lower himself gradually. His legs just wouldn’t hold him any longer.

He shook his head despondently and carefully folded the note into thirds before lighting the candle that would drip the blood-red wax upon which he would set his seal. He pressed his ring firmly and satisfied that the seal was crisp, lifted the ring and blew across the still soft wax. He uncorked the ink, dipped his quill and scrolled Ja’tar’s name across the back and cast a magic ward across the note so that only his son would have access to its contents. He watched as the magic settled over the note, causing it to glow ever so slightly. He removed the ornate ring that had adorned his right hand for over half a millennium and set it on top of the stack of letters in the tray.

It was done.

He was spent and exhausted. His body bore the many scars and injuries of the battles he had fought at Ror. Some had been healed, others not, but not for a lack of trying. The healer of the day, a man called Rx’al, had worked on his wounds for years, trying to ease his suffering. Initially, they hadn’t thought he would survive his injuries, and they had written him off as a total invalid.

He had fought back and made a life for himself, but the pain had always been there. Eventually, the Healer’s spells and potions had allowed him to walk, but he never regained his strength, or his health. He winced as he shifted in the chair, still feeling the poison and bitter dark magic as it ebbed away his strength and glazed his eyes. Now, even his breath came in shallow hoarse gasps.

His reign was at a premature end.

He stood, using the table to stabilize his balance before he hobbled over to the great crystal window and gazed out over the valley one last time. Fall was almost at its end, the leaves were red and gold, the harvest was complete, and the first snows dusted the tops of the Winseer Mountains. Soon the frigid bite of winter would descend into the valley and haunt the mountains, but not his bones, not this year. He took one last look around, closed his eyes, pictured his son and daughter, raised his trembling hands and chanted.

In less than a wink of an eye, he felt the surge of pure magic fill his body, easing his ever-present pain. A tear fell. He smiled once, and only once before his soul and quintessence scattered, becoming multicolored magic sparks that twinkled, and faded.

Balkan, the Keeper was no more of this plane. So began his son Ja’tar’s rule.

Signs

Tar’ac ran. He ran for all he was worth, his face stretched in horror, contorted by fear and grimaced from the exertion. In the dark of the night, he ran.

It was just after midnight, and he was lost. Oh, he knew where he was, mostly. Well, not exactly. He was on the west side of Beachdachadh Mountain somewhere between the Keep and the ceremonial ruins, but it was an awfully big mountain and in the dark, every trail looked the same.

As he ran, he squinted, staring off up the trail. The mist was thick and everything was a sickening murky gray. Even the ground at his feet appeared gray.

Most certainly, he was at least halfway to the Keep, or so he hoped. In the cloudy night, with the silver-gray wisps of mist dancing over the ground, every rock blurred. He was alone, separated from his friends—he held no torch, and he would not hazard carrying one! There were wraiths lurking about and they could sense magic.

He scanned the sky, hefted his robe, closed his cloak and pulled his hood up tight as he crouched low. Another fireball lit the night sky as it streaked across the horizon leaving a smoky vapor trail. It went dark, an unnatural dark, like the inside of a deep cave. Tar’ac shivered as a sense of dread came over him. Wraith, he thought as he froze in place, fighting the nearly uncontrollable urge to turn and run.

Thankfully, the full moon was obscured behind thick, low-hanging clouds. Of course, that was a mixed blessing. Although he didn’t know exactly where he was, neither did the spawn that chased.

He knew his luck was bound to run out; a man could only throw the cross-bone dice so many times and come up with three maids. He had to hurry. The weather was clearing and that cursed radiant orb, known as the White Moon, was already racing in and out of the low clouds unpredictably … and that meant discovery, death, or possibly worse.

He threw himself flat to the dirt as he saw the shadowed form of the wraith cross the horizon just above the trees, its skeletal outline and tattered cloak temporarily illuminated by a thin ray of moonlight that had found passage through the thick murk. It quickly rose up into the clouds and disappeared from sight. Tar’ac could feel its filth.

Of course dead doesn’t always mean dead, at least to a wizard. Some kinds of dead were worse than others, and he supposed these demons wanted him dead in the classical sense, no afterlife, with no chance for spiritual ascension. Demons seemed to be inclined that way.

He saw a fireball approaching out of the corner of his eye, but too late to block. He leapt to his feet and attempted to cut hard to his right and duck, trying to shield himself behind an enormous boulder jutting out of the ground. He cursed his timing and although the main impact narrowly missed him, he was still launched high into the air.

Tar’ac realized mid-flight that he was damn lucky to still be alive, but he had not been quick enough to avoid the unfortunate circumstance of finding himself tumbling over ten arm spans up in the air.

Although he threw his hands out, twisted and fought hard to find the ground, he landed bone-jarringly hard, face first when his hastily-cast spell of air failed. He felt the sharp rocks scrape his palms, which he had instinctively thrown up to protect his head as he clumsily tumbled to the narrow game trail, his long legs tangling in his full length prayer robe.

He presumed that he had landed safely, but while half sliding, and half falling, he heard himself scream out in agony. His voice sounded distant and strangely muffled, more like a child’s cry from down the hall through a thick oak door than the cry of a grown man.

He pushed his head up and tried to focus his eyes, but the images wouldn’t coalesce. All he saw were bright spots and streaks of color. He squinted hard and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. Seconds later the pain returned, making him grind his teeth. His right leg was spasming and felt rubbery, but fright gave him strength and somehow he managed to regain his feet by shifting his weight.

Dazed, he stared around squinting into the dark, looking for — what? He wasn’t sure. Where in the halla were those fireballs coming from? For that bloody matter, who was casting them?

He subconsciously chanted and as he held his hands out to his sides, scanning for threats, they crackled with magical energy. He released the magic and let it quickly dissipate once he regained his composure. It was best to minimize the risk of detection. He might die tonight, but he swore he wouldn’t make it easy. If need be, he would take a small army of the cursed spawn with him. He knew the demons were out there, searching him out, taunting him.

He took a side step to the trail and his right leg collapsed under his weight, forcing him to a knee. He shook his head in agonizing disbelief, quite confident he hadn’t twisted his leg as he had landed. He reached down to steady his leg and felt something sticky wet on his fingertips.

A jagged lightning bolt cast a web as it danced across the mottled sky providing enough light for him to glance down past his burnt smoking robe to see his scorched and shattered leg. He saw the bone protruding from under the skin, just breaking the surface. It oozed as its jagged end, which had snapped like a dry tree limb, dug deep into the surrounding pasty white flesh.

He cursed, coarsely wiped his trembling blood-spattered hand on his robe and risked chanting a strong healing spell as he limped, dragging his injured leg awkwardly behind. The magic quickly took effect and his leg glowed light blue for a brief second before straightening, the bone snapped back into place and the skin healed over.

The pain of the healing was excruciating and it took away his breath. He felt like screaming out as the bone shards found each other and reoriented themselves straight by knitting together. Tar’ac bit down hard on his lip instead, keeping the glorious agony to himself. He’d be damned if he would further give away his position because of a flesh wound. He felt his teeth puncture his lip. The salty taste of his own blood mixed with his sweat reminding him that he still lived, so he refocused, concentrating on his survival. He needed a plan.

Tar’ac’s eyes went wide as he heard a rustle in the bush ahead. He panicked. His eyes darted from side-to-side as he searched for cover.

The trail was open and he made the only choice he had available; he quickly dove up against a squat, wind-twisted fir and froze, crouching low on all fours. He tried to disappear into the deep, thick undergrowth that sprouted from the base of the tree by using his hands to silently pull the branches between him and the sound. His newly mended muscles and tendons screamed at being strained so soon after a healing. He prayed that the White moon would stay hidden by the clouds for a while … just a while.

He watched as a pack of goolog loudly passed not twenty feet from where he crouched. The small warriors, dressed in leathers wore helmets made out of wood and carried small shields made from the armored back shells of schnell beetles, the oversized carnivorous beetles that claimed the deep, dank caves south of the Winseer peaks as their home. They chattered between themselves and waved their small knife-sized swords. Goologs! The halla! The damn waist-high, green and pink-skinned abominations were worthless as far as he was concerned.

He had considered them a nuisance, and harmless … mostly. At least that is what he had always thought until tonight. He waited for them to move along before he gained his feet and continued his race toward home.

An ink-black demon ran through the night, attacking, and killing. It paused, and arched its razor-sharp spine as it examined the trail. Stretching tall, it sniffed at the night air, rolling its eyes back in their sockets. Concentrating, it sorted through the many wonderful scents, wondering which one it would make its prey. Its wide nostrils flared as it inhaled deeply again, sorting out the plethora of odors from the battle. It found fear, blood, anger, and death. There was so many delicious smells from which to choose. The demon took another deep breath and ran its long split tongue over its sharp jagged teeth, tasting the fear. Its eyes widened. Found you me! It thought.

The gore-covered demon cackled. Caught in the thrall of blood lust, it threw back its hideous maw and screeched loudly. Tar’ac’s head whipped around, and for a split second, he stared down the narrow trail into the darkness. Although he saw nothing move, he knew the demon was somewhere just out of sight. Its unholy howl gave away its location.

He judged the distance, took advantage of its premature victory celebration, and hurried off up a side trail, weaving from edge to edge as best he could. He still limped, but his leg was starting to feel a smidgen better.

He used one hand to gather his long robe and the other hand for balance as he traversed the uneven, rock-strewn ground. He ran, his wide eyes searching for cover, any cover, but there just wasn’t any. That small, seemingly insignificant detail registered deep in his subconscious letting him know exactly where he stood; he was crossing the bloody meadows, much farther from the Keep than he imagined.

Tar’ac, still partially blinded by the flash, barely saw the gnarled log lying athwart his path in time to leap. Not graceful, but he cleared the rotting timber. Unfortunate? Perhaps, because he landed roughly on a massive hidden rock outcrop just the other side. His face was forcefully thrown forward as his leg bent awkwardly out, jamming his knee into the jagged stone. It was too late to throw up his hands; he swore under his breath, knowing full well that he would hit hard.

His chin hit, splitting open and his jaw racked to the side, causing him to take a good bite down on his tongue. Bloody hell, he thought to himself. Could things get any worse? He rolled to his side gasping, as he finally managed to draw a big gulp of air. The landing had rattled him. Nonetheless, he was grateful that he hadn’t blacked out.

Still seeing stars, with his vision blurred, he stood. Stood? Well, while not a picture of balance and prowess, he at least didn’t topple. Staggering sideways like a town drunk, he took a few hesitant steps up the trail. Still struggling to get his balance, he woozily clung to a small tree.

His head spun with vertigo as he summoned all his willpower and took a tentative step forward. Just one, he thought, now another. He tried to spit out the dirt and blood that covered his split lip, but all he managed was to drool, letting it ooze down the side of his mouth leaving a muddy track from his chin into his tangled beard.

He took another small step.

The air around him smelled of burnt rotting flesh making it hard to breathe and he used his sleeve to cover his nose as bile rose in the back of his throat. He forced it down and fought the impulse to purge the contents of his stomach.

He took two more steps before searing pain tore into his brain forcing tears to his eyes.

He struggled on, every step jarring him to the bone. He felt every sharp rock, pebble and branch through the soles of his worn leather boots. Not just any boots, damn ceremonial boots … he thought. Not his normal boots, these had paper-thin soles for praying and dancing, not fighting.

His luck just kept getting better. He shook his head and looked up the hill in desperation. He could just recognize the Keep’s silhouette backlit by the moonlight; the four tall multistory turrets stood tall, almost reaching the bottom of the clouds. The flickering yellow light of the candles through the delicate stained glass windows in the upper rooms cut through the gloom of the night—at least for a few feet. Below, the trail faded away, obscured by the swirling unearthly mist that had gathered. It looked so far away. How was he going to get there, he wondered. It seemed unlikely —

He cursed out loud at their predicament. Magi of the Havenhold Keep ambushed! They had been foolish, and complacent. They hadn’t expected trouble as they leisurely walked the winding trail a quarter-league down to the open-air stone cathedral carrying frankincense, jasmine, and other incense in preparation for the spring rites.

Full of roast duck and mead, and in a celebratory mood, they had walked right into the trap. Battle wizards, magi of the highest order, seasoned from centuries of war, ambushed in their own back yard by goolog! They had lost their edge. He was as much disgusted as he was angry.

They surely hadn’t expected goolog to attack. By the Ten, the pint-sized, half-blind goolog were afraid of their own bloody shadows and rarely caused what he would consider trouble, except for their uncanny ability to create chaos because of their curiosity. The demon offspring of goblins were afraid of people. Damn, bloody goolog!

A few goolog weren’t much of a problem, but a throng of goolog … Well, even a swarm of sugar bees is dangerous if enough of them get an inkling to do you harm. Same with goolog, and as if the hoards of goolog waving poison-tipped swords weren’t enough, fireballs and lightning bolts hammered them from out of nowhere.

Then, the beasts came. He shuddered. They had tried to form a fighting circle … tried.

The leathery demon got down on all fours, its tattered ragtag wings folded flat against its sides. It leaned over and pressed its wide nose to the dirt, using its long spiked tail as counterbalance. It sniffed at the ground and surrounding boulders before it scanned the horizon searching. Its veined yellow eyes glowed in the near dark. The brilliant white light explosions had temporarily blinded the beast, but not for long. Soon its eyes would adapt, yes they would.

The delicious bouquets of fear still lead up the trail toward the stone man-building. The demon raised its serpentine, horn-covered head and intently gazed up the trail, and it charged, head down, following the strong scent. It ran on all fours, which was far quicker than the inefficient two-legged walk. The demon didn’t need his sight to find its prey; it could smell the mage’s fear. Strong was the smell.

Tar’ac heard the heinous growl of another pursuer coming in quickly from somewhere to his left. A fiend, wolf, maybe a bloodbeast, he thought to himself. He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing for certain, demons didn’t growl. He focused on his path and hurried ahead, unable to afford even a single glance in the creature’s direction, not if he wished to survive.

Nearly on Tar’ac’s heels, the demon shrieked loudly, sensing the impending kill. It heard the loud beating heart of the mage, smelled his fear. Tar’ac shuddered and stumbled awkwardly, his tattered robe catching on the thorny shrubs.

He was frantic now, trying to drag his injured leg as best he could, using one hand to tug at his partially healed knee. The flesh, seared to the fractured bone made an awful squishing sound with every step and smelled putrid. If not for the powerful magic, he would be on the ground writhing in pain, unable to continue. He wondered why he couldn’t seem to focus. His brain felt cloudy.

Sweat poured down his dirty anguished face, burning as it seeped into open scrapes and cuts. Tar’ac madly lunged between the large outcropped rocks, trying to maintain his footing and all the while — keeping his profile low to any fireballs. He scrambled straight up the steep rocks to the higher trail, turned toward the Keep and ran.

Given his situation, maybe if he was fortunate, he would not be forced to choose between abject servitude and death, maybe he could orchestrate an honorable outcome to his pitiful existence. He swore he would not become a minion of the lower planes. It was that simple! No Drakone Royal would ever become a slave. Ever —!

On the other hand, the spells he needed to temporarily switch planes of existence were complicated and took time. Additionally, he needed Jackerwock Root and blood. Well, he had plenty of blood, but where the bloody hell was he going to find Jackerwock Root in the middle of the night while being chased by demons?

He hurriedly prepared another spell and deftly cast it with a backwards under-armed toss as he ran. It caught the black sinewy demon by surprise as it exited the rocky climb, exploding into its chest as it stepped from between two boulders. The red and purple plasma crackled over its black hide, splattering its acidic gore over the rocks as the demon collapsed in a pile of skin and bone.

The demon had been far too close and the flying carnage sizzled as it ate into Tar’ac’s robe and scarred his exposed flesh. He tried to brush off the acidic smoldering bits best he could without losing his stride.

Tar’ac’s breath was now coming in great hoarse gasps and his head pounded as he ground his teeth and cursed. Damn this thin air! He blasphemed the Ten for placing the Havenhold Keep in the highest peaks of the Winseer Mountains. His chest was pounding and he knew he couldn’t keep up this pace for long — and still the path led uphill —

The agony showed on his face as he struggled with each step, pushing himself even harder. He couldn’t clearly recall exactly how long he had been running and briefly wondered how many of his fellow mages still fought.

What was that? He flinched. A shadow moved to his left! Quick, cast a spell. Tar’ac scooped up a few small rocks as he ran and chanted over them before he threw. They appeared inconsequential, but upon hitting the hound, exploded into hundreds of razor-sharp shards. The vile abomination collapsed to the ground, clawing and convulsing just shy of its prey. Its front legs ripped to shreds, it was pushing itself across the ground using its rear-quarter, refusing to give up.

Tar’ac caught a good glimpse of the beast as he reversed his direction and ran past, backtracking. He shook his head in disbelief. From the shape and size of its head, he knew that it wasn’t a bloodbeast. He was being pursued by wolven.

His skin crawled and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight as he thought back on the stories he had been told as a small child about the beasts. Wolven dragged their prey back to the underworld where they became wolven themselves, returning to prey on their families. He quickly found a more direct route up the hill and hurried off in that direction as fast as his damaged body would allow.

Off in the distance, Tar’ac heard several loud thunderclaps, saw a flash in his vision’s periphery, and heard another scream that ended in a smothered gurgling sound. Damn! He thought. Will any of us survive the night? He made a quick prayer to the Ten followed by the sign of AEgis.

He thought he heard something. He froze in his tracks and listened. Hearing nothing, he walked quickly across an exposed meadow, his head nervously switched from side-to-side, leery of an ambush.

There it is again, he thought. What can that be —? Alert, he listened, scanned the horizon and saw nothing.

There it is. A faint flapping sound caught his attention and he hastily threw up both arms, covering his head as he ducked for cover under the canopy of a small tree. Fortunately, he had good hearing, for he barely escaped a flying drog, which raked at his back as it veered awkwardly to avoid the low-hanging tree branches.

Screaming, he arched his back as the dirty razor-sharp talons dug into the soft fleshy part of his shoulder piercing his meager robe. He felt the puncture tear his skin, and finally felt his back go wet with blood. The bat-like drog, smelling the fresh blood, went feral with lust, tossing its sharp-beaked head from side-to-side in delight as it veered off to the left to make another pass.

Tar’ac could already feel the venomous effects of the claws penetrating his spine, burning, making his head spin and knees wobble. His face hung loose as the numbing effect spread. He felt slaver slide past his lips and knew he would not be able to withstand much more. He grasped at his glowing medallion for comfort with his white-knuckled hand and held it tightly to his chest, chanting as he stumbled, barely able to control his body. He had to find cover.

With another beast on his heels, he desperately plunged head first through a small copse of trees and threw his shoulder to the side, tucking into a ball. He grunted as he rolled down a small knoll into a shallow ravine, ignoring the jagged thorns from the underbrush that pierced and tore at his skin. He felt every rock as he tumbled down the slope and moaned as his leg took the full force of slamming into a boulder as he came to rest at the bottom.

He ignored the pain and rolled to his stomach, blindly extended his trembling hand into the dark and let loose a crackle of lightning, catching the less fortunate beast in the chest as it crested the ravine. He watched as the bolt sliced cleanly through the fiend, spilling its guts. A rotten stench immediately filled the air. The creature fell to the ground at his feet, twitched twice and was still. Filthy bloodbeasts!

Praying that the other demons didn’t see his escape route, he hastily prepared the strongest spell he could remember. He flipped over, and using his good leg for leverage, pushed himself backwards with his heel until his back was against the steep side of the dirt ravine. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he came to recognize the dry streambed that ran adjacent to the Keep. It ran deep in the early spring, but this time of year, barely a trickle meandered down the river rock bottom.

The cool damp dirt felt good on his torn back. He laid there panting, waiting, hoping the dew and evening fog would obscure his position. He tried to get a better look without moving, but his long stringy hair kept getting in the way. He hastily stuffed it into his tunic behind his neck. Sweat burned his eyes and ran down his cheek. He wiped frantically with his robe to keep his eyes from further blurring.

Suddenly, his nose burned and his stomach churned. Tar’ac knew that smell, knew it well, demons! Tar’ac could just hear the clicking of their teeth and smacking of their lips and it made him shudder in horror. They were so close. His head whipped from side-to-side, trying to pinpoint their locations, but the echoing sounds in the ravine were playing tricks on him and they seemed to be everywhere. He was surrounded, like a caged mouse just waiting for his tormentors to end his inconsequential life.

He heard them talking. The unearthly low clicks, raspy growls and crescendo shrieks made his skin crawl. He didn’t understand their language, but the intonation of their voices let him know that they were angry and frustrated at his escape. Tar’ac held his breath and forced his heart to slow. The loudest demon, the leader perhaps, bellowed and by the sounds of it, was furious.

Tar’ac grimaced as he heard the sound of crunching bones and a gurgle and his heart jumped into his throat as the limp demon made a muffled thud, hitting the ground not more than a half-dozen paces from his hiding place. Tar’ac stared into the vacant pure-black eyes of the dead demon, its neck twisted at an awkward angle, back broken. He watched as the carcass decomposed and dissolved before it finally turned to an oily smoke that sunk into the ground.

One by one, the other demons charged off through the woods, their screams fading off into the distance and for a second, Tar’ac thought he might catch a break. He took a deep, well-deserved breath. He removed a small handkerchief from his pocket and used it to soak up water from the shallow puddles between the rocks.

His throat was parched and he felt dehydrated as he used both hands to wring out a small trickle of water from the damp rag. The water felt cool on his cracked lips and he quickly mopped up more, giving his body the moisture it craved. He wiped the sweat from his face, rinsed out the cloth and tucked it back into his pocket.

A loud crashing and ripping sound came from directly behind him and froze him like a statue against the small cliff. He felt his heart racing as the thrashing got closer … and closer, just over his shoulder. Patient — be patient, he mouthed to himself as he raised his hands.

An immense troll running full bore down the trail was ripping small trees and shrubs out of its way as it blindly ran, searching for more mages to eat. At the last second, the troll noticed the small ravine and because of its momentum, leapt. It glanced down as it cleared the leading edge of the small gully, legs stretching for the other side … and saw Tar’ac cowering there.

Tar’ac watched the troll as it sailed through the air above him. There was just enough pale moonlight for him to see the excitement in the troll’s wide, yellow eyes as they met his. He let loose the balefire and the troll, still in mid-air, was catapulted by the explosion far over the other side. Tar’ac heard it land roughly and watched it roll backwards head over heels, as it burst into flames.

It let out a loud woof as it stopped, forcefully wedged between a couple of large pointed boulders. It pried itself loose and rolled to its side flailing wildly trying to extinguish the mystical flames that were blistering its thick hide. Unable to extinguish the flames, it struggled to stand and ran howling down the path toward the river, a flaming-red fireball.

Tar’ac had a smirk on his face, because the dull-witted troll hadn’t had the time to give away his position. He lay there, very still, for several minutes, and ever so slowly pulled some loose downed branches over his form to disguise it. Rest at last!

He felt the wraith’s steely-cold magic long before he spotted it circling slowly above, eyeing the ground for its prey. Tar’ac froze. The tattered, smoky-black robe flapped softly in the wind, hiding the skeletal form beneath. The eyes glowed dimly against the dark evening sky. Tar’ac waited patiently for it to float off out of sight toward the Keep before he cast his first healing spell.

He worked as quickly as he could, clutching the medallion in his right hand and using his left to weave out the magic to repair the damage inflicted by the horde of evil he had faced.

He winced as the thin threads of magic took effect, mending his bones, and his torn ravaged skin. Because he healed himself so slowly, the agony was far worse than normal and he fought to keep from screaming out. His back arched as his muscles were wracked with agonizing spasms. He had to rest after each spell.

Although he wasn’t a healer, he knew enough. Most of what he knew, he had learned in the time of Ror. Great battles had a way of forcing knowledge on the young and uninitiated. In those days, he was both.

He was christened on the battlefield, trial by fire, making as many mistakes as he had successes. His mistakes died. He shuddered at the memory. He only used what magic he absolutely needed, trying not to use so much as to draw the attention of his foes, for he knew they could sense magic just as readily as he could.

Tar’ac only had a few brief seconds’ reprieve from his pain to consider his next move before he heard the telltale screech of the wraith. His position had been discovered! The nearly silent wraith had been circling overhead hidden by the fog and had seen his magic working. After calling out its location, it turned gracefully, and swooped down toward the ravine, skeletal hands extended, already glowing with magic.

Tar’ac threw off the branches and raced up the small embankment. He ran in abject terror as the wraith swooped down out of the sky. Tar’ac knew he wasn’t strong enough to face a wraith in his condition; he needed to make the dense cover of the ancient pine forest where the wraith couldn’t fly. There, the spirits of the ancient druids would help him.

The low branches and thorns scrapped his legs, grabbing at his feet as he lunged through the lowlands. Thankfully, the Keep was just the other side of the thicket of trees that towered in front of him. It loomed majestically, silver-gray in the strong moonlight. He was surprised that no warning had yet been sounded. Surely, they must hear the telltale sounds of their battle. He yelled out for help, but no replies echoed back. Only his hoarse voice hung in the still air.

He glanced twice over his shoulder, gauging the distance and the wraith’s speed. He smiled to himself knowing he would make the trees just in time. Ten paces. Five paces. He was —

A giant burst of white light and a clap of thunder exploded from the trail in front of him. A gigantic demon stepped out of the rift, appearing out of nowhere in a puff of white, sulfur-laden smoke and flame. It was larger than any demon he had ever seen, two men high and its horns almost three-arms across, it shoulders even wider. It was dressed in fine battle armor and had a gold chest-plate that had an embossed glyph he didn’t recognize.

He nearly fell head over heels trying to abruptly stop and change his direction. He scraped at the ground with his hands as he tried desperately to regain his balance and get to his feet.

Slaver fell from the demon’s open maw as it roared, arms spread wide above its head. It grinned maniacally, baring its jagged and disfigured teeth. Between its grotesquely disfigured hands, a purple cloud of liquid-lightning formed as it bellowed its incantation. The crackling mass undulated and flowed, lighting the ground before him.

The demon held the huge quivering mass in its colossal hands as it arched its back and, using both hands, threw the liquid-fire with all its might.

By now, Tar’ac regained his feet but he didn’t even have time to react. All Tar’ac managed to do was blink twice and take a staggered step backwards. Time seemed to stand still. He stood staring as the fireball slowly rolled at him, hitting him squarely in the chest, splattering across his body. It hit with such force that it lifted him off the ground and knocked him backwards several feet.

Before he could even take a breath, or think of a counter spell, his skin ignited and he felt the searing white heat melting the flesh from his bones. He held a hand before his face and watched the flesh melt away, dripping into his lap where it burned with a purple and green flame.

Screaming in silent agony, he sat up, clawed at his chest, trying to remove the liquid-fire that melted his skin. He grabbed at his chest and flung a sweat-soaked blanket to the floor. Tar’ac’s eyes shot open and darted about the dark room as he regained orientation, his trembling hands crackled with magic, held ready to cast deadly spells.

Slowly, he relaxed as his breathing returned to normal. Feeling totally spent, he fell back onto his bed, covering his eyes with his hands and tried to regain his composure.

This was the fifth night in a row that the dark dreams had invaded his sleep, and try as he may, he couldn’t warrant any reason for them. Yet, the wretched dreams returned and left him bewildered, wondering what manner of omen it was, if anything at all. He shook his head in resignation, he was exhausted, more exhausted than when he first retired. Dreams need to be taken heed of, his Pa always said. Those words had served him well over the centuries.

Watcher

Tar’ac slid to the edge of his lumpy goose-feather bed. He was still visibly shaken and not quite awake as he sat with his head hung low, waiting for consciousness to return. Impatient, he stood up weakly and staggered across the small dark room, blindly reaching for the small terra-cotta basin he knew was nearby. Finding it, he rinsed the sleep from his weary face and splashed the ice-cold water over his thin stringy hair. Awkwardly searching along the wall for the towel that hung adjacent to the basin, he snagged it and wiped the water from his face and eyes.

He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest and shivered. He squinted at the fireplace and casually flicked a finger in its direction. A small yellow-flame elemental leapt to the neat stack of logs prepared the night before. The magic being quickly started the dry oak logs burning as it devoured the tasty fuel and soon the room was alit in a soft yellow glow. Tar’ac rubbed his hands together and stomped his bare feet, waiting impatiently for the room to warm. He turned and stared at the fire and sighed before he cast a small spell of air and fire to take the chill out of the air.

The elemental turned and scowled at him. He shrugged, making no apologies. He was impatient this morning. He had a lot to do. He snapped his fingers and the tiny being flashed out of existence, back to whence it came.

He used a small washrag to wipe down his sweat soaked body. No time for a bath now, it would have to wait. He swore that he would take the time later in the day, once he caught up on his work. He tried to convince himself that he would, even though he knew in his heart of hearts that he would never catch up, and would probably go to bed stinking like a long-tailed sewer rat — again.

He ran the rough towel over his head, drying his hair and carefully folded the towel before hanging it over the ornate brass drying rack next to the basin. Still yawning, he ran his fingers through his beard and thought about preparing himself as he had every day for as long as he could remember.

He picked up his thin silver spectacles from the simple wood vanity, lifted his gaze to the polished metal mirror and stared into his near ageless face.

His skin was pasty white, even with the orange flickering glow from the fire. There were shadows under his eyes, he looked unkempt, and tired. Still, he appeared younger than he should. There was very little gray in his hair or his long ragged beard.

A chortle escaped his lips because he felt his age, every year of it. A knowing smirk filled his face. His bones hurt, but … not too bad for eleven-hundred years. He pulled a shell comb through his hair and he began his morning ritual.

His eyes rolled back in their sockets and twitched as he chanted. A low wail escaped his lips and his body convulsed as it swayed gently to and fro to the tempo of his chant. An untrained eye would have believed he was having a mild seizure. He concentrated on partitioning off his mind to that which was of himself, and only of himself, and that which he would use for his task — sacrifice to his task.

He built walls and he wove wards. His brow was soon covered with a thin layer of sweat from his effort. He could taste the saltiness in his mouth as it ran down his forehead, along his nose and finally settled in the corner of his lips. He involuntarily licked them to little effect. His eyes burned, but he hardly noticed and yet he instinctively threw up a robe-covered arm to wipe them dry. It was pure reflex, not deliberate for he was barely conscious. Only after he completed the task did he allow a small amount of himself to flow into the partition he had created. Just enough, not too much, he would risk little.

He was an extremely cautious man. He had to be. The Guild had found the last watcher mindless, staring into a vacant orb. As far as he knew, they still fed and cared for the man, now an empty shell with barely the presence of mind to breathe or swallow. He seemed to recall that they affectionately called him Babel.

He wondered where the minds went when the orb took them, a question that begged to be answered and that he had repeatedly asked himself since he passed the test, ‘The Watcher’s Tease’, some one-thousand plus years ago. He pondered. Were they still conscious or were they just absorbed into some altered form of being? For that matter, he wondered whether the One Orb was alive in some sense, or just a conglomeration of spells and enchantments. Well, the Masters took that secret with them when they passed on to the next Higher Plane many millennia ago, thank you very much. They took many secrets, dark secrets.

When he finished, he sat down on the bed to rest for a moment. The room spun a little. He could hear his other self off murmuring in the distance, muffled, like talking in another room down the hall. It always took a little while for him to get used to having two minds occupying a single brain. If all went well, he would reclaim that small part of himself tonight when he was finished.

He sighed. The dreams bothered him. He reached across the small end table and opened his journal. He talked out loud as the journal jotted down the details of his dream, the words appearing in his handwriting on the fine handcrafted paper. He flipped back and read his previous entries, too many similarities for his liking. He would examine them later, if there were time. He closed the leather-bound book and tossed it onto the disheveled bed.

With the flick of his wrist, the sheets tightened, the blanket evened and the pillows fluffed, the journal jumped to the table. It was a small thing, but it was always nice to come home to a neat room.

He stood up, walked across the room, and warmed himself by the small fire before he opened the small wooden wardrobe cabinet and removed one of the two simple white wool robes he possessed. They were a heavy weave and kept out the cold. All members of the Keep wore them for day-to-day activities.

He looked at the worn elbows and knew he should stop in to the weavers and retrieve a new one, but that was at the far end of the Keep. He supposed he could make this one do for a bit longer. Besides, he didn’t like the old Yarcock who worked there. He gave him the willies — four arms just wasn’t natural. And his third eye — well, that third eye just stared. He looked at his robe again. No, he decided. It could wait.

Before he closed the wardrobe, he spotted his other robe hanging off to the side. This one was quite ornate, and made of fine linen. It was for special occasions such as weddings, graduations, and births. It had been a long time since he had last worn the special robe. He ran his fingers over the fine weave and intricately embroidered trim. He let go reluctantly and closed the wardrobe door.

He threaded his boney arms into the well-worn robe and clenched the frayed, braided cord at his waist. The effort caused him to grimace in pain as the joints in his hands reminded him that he was old, even if he did appear in his early thirties. He fed a wafer-thin wisp of magic into the joint and quickly felt its soothing touch. He opened and closed his hands, making fists, checking them for hints of pain. Finding none, he allowed a thin smile to escape his overly serious face.

He looked around to make sure that his room was in order. The bed had been made as it had for the last eleven centuries, heavy wool blankets neatly folded at its foot. Next to the bed was a heavily used reading chair, a simple table and a lamp. In the center of the table sat his enchanted journal, and a mug. A dusty lute leaned in the corner and sat beside a song singer. The washbasin stood in the corner atop a short wooden vanity.

This was all he possessed in the world. He surveyed his meager domain. He had given up the fineries of the Drakone family long ago, although at times — times like today, he longed for them deeply. His father, the King, had been proud of him the day he renounced the throne and decided to follow the Way. His father hadn’t the aptitude, but his grandfather had, and had been a well-known mage of the highest order. The talent was known to skip generations in some families. No one knew why, it just did.

Tar’ac briefly thought about his family. He had watched his brothers grow old and have kids. Those kids had kids of their own. He had tried to keep touch for a while, but it was hard watching everyone you knew grow old, wither and die. They eventually stopped visiting and he never ventured out. It was best that way. Tar’ac was sure it was even more painful for them as they watched him barely age a year while they aged a lifetime. Tar’ac felt himself sliding into a melancholy mood. He fought it, but eventually gave in. It was going to be a very long day!

He thought about picking up the lute, but instead, just lovingly wiped it free of dust. There was never enough time to practice anymore. He missed the music. How long had it been since he played, he wondered. How long since they played and danced? Honestly, he couldn’t remember. Sadly, his work consumed him these days.

He walked to the window and pulled back the heavy tapestry. A blast of cold air filtered into the room, making him shudder. The shutters leaked something fierce, but at least they kept out the bulk of the storms. In the winter, he routinely cast spells to keep the cold air out, but this was spring.

He unlatched and cracked the shutters a little bit to let in some fresh air, the Keep was musty and the clean air kept him from sneezing and sniffling all the time. He gazed out, noticing that the sun had not yet started to rise and only a hint of glow outlined the snow-covered peaks to the east. Tar’ac’s nose detected a hint of scots pine from the heavily wooded forest that grew in the valley where the Keep was located.

Both moons were out tonight, the White and Ocht’or, although the White dwarfed the small orange by an order of magnitude. The White was almost behind the mountains now and in short time, would drop out of sight. The orange globe was almost straight overhead. For some reason, the Ocht’or moon was his favorite, if one was able to say they had a favorite. He wasn’t sure why he felt the way he did — it just seemed that the moon talked to him.

Tar’ac could just make out the tall pines along the valley floor, ancient trees over forty rods tall, a rod and a half in diameter, some more. Six full-grown men couldn’t reach around most of them; some would take ten or more. Of course, trees didn’t normally grow that tall here in the high peaks, but the magic surrounding the Keep made many things that shouldn’t or couldn’t happen — plausible. It was just that some of the changes were more obvious than others were.

He watched for a while as the morning mist gracefully frolicked over the rocks and caressed the trunks of the mighty pines. It was quiet, except for the sound of crickets and the small stream that ran adjacent to the Keep. Even the birds were still asleep. A lone bullfrog let out a deep echoing croak that broke the stillness, and just as suddenly, everything was quiet again. Even the whippoorwills were asleep. Tar’ac knew that he should be resting too, but he was impossibly far behind.

He slid his feet into the well-worn sandals waiting by the door, picked up his journal and stuffed it into his pocket. The floor was far too cold for him to go barefoot, as was the custom. He shivered as he opened the door and stepped into the dank dark stone hall, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust. He could just see his breath before him as he fumbled with the door’s latch. It clanked loudly just before closing, making a resounding thud that reverberated down the hall.

He absent-mindedly cast a ward over the door and watched as the blue glow around the seal faded. It was habit.

With a wave of his hand, several small dragon-shaped copper lamps hanging down from the tall arched ceiling on thick chains lit. They flickered dimly, barely providing enough light to walk safely. He began his long amble down the maze of halls and into the bowels of the Keep to the Room of Records, a trek he had made nearly every day since his graduation.

Tar’ac had decided to get some work done before he broke his fast; he would try to catch up on some of his supplementary duties until the others woke up. It was exceedingly early and the halls were deserted and quiet, a very good time to work. Only the sound made by his sandals shuffling over the stone broke the silence.

The shadows in the hallway danced as the dimly lit lamps that burned without fire flickered. The high ceilings were so dark that they could barely be seen. It was like looking up from a deep chasm. He thought about making the lamps brighter, but shrugged it off. This better fit his mood!

Suddenly his shadow moved out of sync with his body, causing him to start. He stopped and stared, watching the shadow dance down the hall while a toothy grin broke onto his face. Ancient spells still echoed these halls from days long gone when magi played tricks on each other. He was sure he had just been party to one of the pranks.

He was the only member of the Guild still living in this section of the Keep. He liked it that way, but he did miss the heat. The others who used to roam these halls were gone now, dead mostly, although from time to time he would see a ghost or two. Spirits of grand wizards from the past, wandering, refusing to let go of the mortal world and move on. Actually, he usually heard them more oft than saw them. They were quite reclusive, preferring not to interact with the living, but occasionally…

He supposed he should move in with the others, but the effort just seemed too great. It was folly of course. He owned very little and he could carry all of that in his small pack.

He passed several rooms that used to be employed for teaching the art. Now cobwebs clung in the alcove corners, along with the undisturbed dust and rust that had accumulated on the doors and their latches. Through the dirty bubbled glass, he could see the distorted images of tables and desks in the classrooms that stood as a reminder of what they had once been. Inside were empty desks, workbenches, and tools of the trade, all gone to waste from a happier time. Now, there were few new wizards to teach, less each century. They had been forgotten, and had become irrelevant in the world, no one wanted to learn.

“Cheese, food?” the thoughts came to him.

Tar’ac looked down at the small mouse at his feet. The mouse stood up on its hind legs, looked him right in the eye and chirped away, nervously wringing its small feet.

“Well, good morning to you too, ‘Mrs. Mother of Eight from the Blue Room.’ Why, no! I haven’t seen any cheese. Maybe the kitchen or the dining room would be a better place to look.”

“Bread —?”

“I’m sorry, I have no bread either.”

“You promised —”

“Yes, I did. But I forgot,” the mage said, shaking his head sadly.

“You always forget!” the mouse said, looking down the hall.

The mouse looked down and lowered herself before skittering off. The mouse stopped after a few feet and squeaked back at the wizard.

“Yes, I know it’s a long journey,” the wizard replied. “Yes, I’ll try to remember to bring back a few small pieces tonight when I finish my day. Don’t forget to be wary of Hunter Always Hungry.”

A few words came back, “Cat! We hate the cat.”

He waited until the mouse had scurried off and noticed that the hall was getting rather dusty. He raised his hand and with a flick of his wrist, his hands formed an ancient rune, and burnt away the cobwebs in the entire hall, which burst into small poufs of red and yellow fire before flaring out to leave only a bit of smoke.

He stood tall, pulled back his sleeves and waved his hands out from the floor to the ceiling with the flair of a Master, all while uttering a very clear incantation in perfect diction, caenom absisto et aggrero. A stiff wind rose and blew the dust and dirt to the end of the hall into a neat pile. He felt better. The cleaning staff would get it someday. He continued trudging along, winding his way down the hall toward the polished granite staircase.

Tax looked up from his early morning chores as sparks followed by a big puff of dirt and dust broke out of a hallway a couple stories below before swirling in a small cyclone and neatly arranging itself into a neat pile.

Tax struggled to get off his knees, wiped his wet hands on his apron, creaked over to the railing, and peered over. A shadowy form exited the hall and started down the stairs. Tax knew it was Tar’ac. No one else lived in that part of the Keep any longer. Tax’s long pointy ears twitched. He didn’t exactly hate wizards, but they were such a thoughtless, unkempt, filthy bunch, although Tar’ac wasn’t as bad as most.

“I see ye down there wizard, stirring up the dirt,” said the old halfling, shaking his fist over the railing for the wizard to see.

“Always makin’ a mess fer someone else to clean. You’d walk around in filth up to yer arse if we didn’t keep cleanin’ up after ye.”

Tar’ac looked up and saw the animated halfling standing on his toes, his hands barely reaching over the railing. A smirk filled his face. The halfling was right, wizards weren’t known for being tidy. Tar’ac kept walking down the stairs as the ranting of the halfling faded into the distance.

Tar’ac supposed he really shouldn’t address Tax as a halfling. That term was technically reserved for the elf-human mix. For some reason unbeknownst to him, those around the Keep always called the mixed races — halflings. It was wrong to do so, he knew it well, and yet he still misused the phrase. He didn’t know why, it just was. Tax was half goblin and half-elf. He didn’t look like a halfling at all. Halflings were rather stunning; the strong elf lineage brought the fine, angular features, deep blue eyes and long full hair to the table. They were considered one of the beautiful races. He smirked. Tax would never be confused for one of the beautiful people.

Tax’s frail deerskin-wrapped frame creaked and popped as he made his way back to his bucket of sudsy water and rags. He looked down at the marble staircase and shook his head. He had been cleaning the staircase since before Tar’ac was born, since before Tar’ac’s father was born. He cleaned it from top to bottom. It took him an entire week, and then without pausing to rest, he would start over again. Somebody had to take care of the wizards till the time came. Eventually, they would repay the debt, but until then… they sacrificed, all of them sacrificed.

Tax slowly knelt as pain shot through his face. He wondered how much longer he would be able to keep this up. The time of reckoning had better come soon.

He had no son to whom to pass the family promise. Hmm, he supposed the stairs would just get filthy and turn gray. Bah! Bet the damn wizards won’t even notice, he thought to himself. And yet, the wind and stars had been stirring as of late. Maybe the time was nigh.

He bent over, wiped the floor with his small rag, and squeezed out the water into the bucket. His raw and wrinkled hands throbbed from being in the lye-tainted water. He sighed as he saw a very familiar old face reflected in the shine and it smiled an evil smile. Maybe, just maybe, it was their turn to suffer … and pay! They owed a great debt — yes, indeed, a very great debt.

The staircase began at the center of the main level and circled to the very depths of the Keep, scores of floors were still below him. The staircase was hewn from a single piece of white crystalline granite, pure, unblemished, and almost transparent. If he didn’t know better, Tar’ac would have thought it was made of agate. It was magnificently fabricated, not by quarry tools, hammers and picks, nor by strong arms or backs, but by the elegant touch of sophisticated magic controlled by a master craftsman from ages ago, the Olath. A fine crystal ceiling glistened high above, spun of the finest glass it vibrated in song, sung into existence by elves as a gift to the Guild. Elegantly carved wood panels and columns decorated the side of the staircase as it wound down, story after story.

Tar’ac slowly stepped down, holding tightly to the railing, afraid that his knees would give way. After several stories, he finally turned into a side hall, lined with magnificent paintings of past wizards and battles. The paintings replayed battles from yesteryear in an ever-changing display of history. Gilded moldings decorated the high ceilings, mythical creatures and beings of wonder. He left the stair and walked down the hall, listening to the echo of his footsteps.

“Quiet. Hunting!” an angry voice whispered.

Tar’ac spun around. “Oh, it’s only you ‘Hunter Always Hungry.’ I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?”

The cat shook its head, purred and ran its arched form across Tar’ac’s leg before prancing off back to the stairs. Tar’ac watched him go and hoped he didn’t find little Mother of Eight. Catching himself daydreaming, he shook himself back to reality and continued his short journey.

He briefly paused to admire a particular painting of a Sorceress known as Duvall. She was one of the Ten, the original wizards who formed the Guild and the Keep. Powerful they were, learned in the old magic, the dark and mysterious ways, and the magic before the Cleansing. They say she was the most powerful of the Ten and that she was ruthless and cunning. Rumors still persisted that she actually argued with the gods … and won! She appeared ordinary in the painting.

There was little written about those times. This particular painting always stirred deep emotions in him. He wasn’t sure why. It was as if the eyes were still alive and watched him as he walked past. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they did. Her reputation was… quite disturbing. A chill ran up his spine. He realized that he both loathed her and worshipped her, even though he knew the long list of unconfirmed vile acts that were attributed to her over the ages.

He had a hard time tearing his eyes away, she was beguilingly beautiful and he missed the smiles of young women. Years ago … centuries ago, Tar’ac would have enjoyed meeting her. Well, maybe. There were no sorceresses who lived here now, only old men, old elves, and old halflings. A few housekeepers came from time to time, wives of the elders from the nearby village. Some visited daily.

Tar’ac chuckled to himself. For all the time he had lived at the Keep, he really knew very little about it. He had never explored its bounds, never wandered its halls. Never been up in the Ten’s Tower, where the Ten had studied and lived. Oh, he had strolled the great garden once, but it had been centuries ago. He had never left the Keep.

Of course never is a big word, especially to a mage. He shook his head and laughed out loud, his voice reverberating down the hall. His entire existence had been spent within a couple hundred strides of the library, dining hall and his room. He really should get out more often.

He had heard that the Keep had over five hundred rooms. He suspected more, rooms unaccounted for, forgotten. Hidden rooms, places known only to a select few. Ha! Probably a lot more - long forgotten and destined to remain hidden forever. The heavens help someone who accidently stumbled into one of those! He smiled to himself and vowed to explore more as soon as he caught up with his work.

He completed his lonesome pilgrimage, a dead-end corridor. Tar’ac beckoned and wove his spell. Slowly, an aged face formed out of the stones in the cave. It rumbled and spoke a deep guttural language of the elementals. The intense sound shook the whole hall and Tar’ac’s robe vibrated and swirled from the ribbons of energy. The walls shimmered and shook as the stone moved and undulated. Tar’ac stood his ground and growled back. A face of stone appeared and hands began to form, reaching for the wizard. Tar’ac threw his arms up and grunted out a primeval chant. The elemental, satisfied with the response, responded before dissolving into the surrounding walls to reveal a few more yards of hall punctuated by a hefty secluded door.

The heavy, roughly carved door was slightly ajar and gave easily when he pushed it. The iron-reinforced bands squeaked as he pushed and the rusty hinges let loose a small puff of rust. He could feel the wards that prevented those who were not Accepted from entering. He could see the shimmer; feel the threads of the spell give way as he passed. He likened it to passing through cobwebs. He always felt compelled to clear his face and wipe the threads away.

The room held great knowledge, dangerous knowledge in the hands of the wrong people, and was carefully warded. Those spells of protection would inflict severe bodily damage to the unsuspecting or unwanted. Luckily, those who were not allowed entry would feel their effects far before any lasting damage was done, if they somehow managed to get past the elemental. As if!

Tar’ac entered the immense library and although he couldn’t see the ends of the rows, which stretched for well over five-hundred rods off into the darkness, he could see the clutter adjacent to the well-lit entrance. The room, carved out of a vast cave, as were all the lower rooms, was as disorganized as was possible without someone making a concerted effort to make it more so.

There were books. Actually, there were mountains of books, piles on the floor, on the desks, and on the shelves. The shelves reached to the ceiling, towering ten arm spans above. Everywhere he looked, there were thick leather-bound books, stacks of tomes and scrolls. He sighed deeply as he looked at the disgusting mess. He bent over and picked up a small stack of books that had slid off the adjacent table into the walkway.

It was his job to keep order in the library, however, there seemed to be little enough time for him to do his work, let alone categorize and file. The halfling was correct, wizards were slobs. They were single-minded and scurried about dropping whatever they had in their hands, wherever they were, when a new and different thought crossed their minds.

He cursed under his breath. This revelation didn’t keep him from feeling guilty; after all, it was his responsibility to restore order. It was hard enough to get anything done when you knew where to look for information, let alone try to find a book in this sty! He cast a spell on a stack of books perched on the table, wiggling his fingers and chanting while balancing a stack of the ancient manuscripts in his other hand. He watched as they flew to their shelves and slid gently into place. How hard was that? Why couldn’t the mage who used them do the same? He cursed and spat. Not likely, he thought to himself.

It was a simple matter that there were just not enough wizards around anymore to complete all the work of the Keep. Everyone was overworked. There were so few full wizards now. Moreover, as for the wizards in training — pfft, he uttered. Well, some were marginal at best. Regardless, they were but a handful compared to the numbers from years long gone, and still, there was the same amount of work. Things might have been different if the Warvyn had not come … if the battle of Ror hadn’t whittled down their numbers …if the Cleansing didn’t happen. So many ifs, so — so many!

He stood up, and turned away from the mess while setting the books down in the space he had made. Today he would try to organize some of the mess. For a while, he feigned an attempt to clean, even completely cleaning an entire table, but he slowly gravitated toward his table.

He inadvertently twisted away a might too quickly while holding a tall wobbly stack of books and felt a sharp pain shoot up his back. He winced, but managed to keep from crying out, or dropping the books. It would not be good to bring the attention of the Keeper upon himself. Besides, his back was always sore! His back was sore from the long day he put in yesterday…and the day before … and the day before that. Too many hours hunched over his orb, his fanny wedged into the Dragonbone chair.

He reached his desk and picked up the oversized leather-bound tome that was left there by the old man himself, Ja’tar. Inside was the cursed list, the never-ending list of realms to monitor. He shook his head, it took such a long time and he was so far behind. Yet Ja’tar said nothing. Ja’tar knew the job was time consuming, up to a score of years for each realm if he did a thorough job. There used to be many watchers. Now, he was the last.

He was always conscientious about his job. He put on his best face. He knew that Ja’tar was nearby. He could sense him! He pulled out the Dragonbone chair and winced as it creaked along the floor from its weight. He gingerly sat himself down, favoring his back, bunched up a firm pillow and crammed it behind him for additional support. His journal dug into his groin. He had forgotten about it and he leaned to one side as he pulled it free of his pocket and set it at the back of the table. He pulled the large book Ja’tar had left for him next to his orb.

Tar’ac rarely read the book’s entries himself. He really didn’t care anymore. Oh, he used to, years ago when he was filled with wonder and curious about everything. Occasionally, he would remember something. His other self would feed a tidbit to his conscious mind, and he would dream of what he had seen. Mostly, he just enjoyed the seduction of his mistress.

There in front of him, under the fine silk cloth, was the One Orb, his mistress, El’batar. Tar’ac had emptied his life into her, learning her secrets. The lure to use her was seductive, a pleasure as addictive as roots and powders. He complained about the work, but inside he knew that he could no more skip a day with the orb than a Vision Seeker could forego a day with tor root. He remembered trying tor root when he was younger, much younger and stupid. He still had a fondness for it, even after all these centuries.

Along the wall adjacent to the table was a tall barrister case full of orbs all silent and unused. There were no other watchers to use them. He was the last. He didn’t know their names, the orbs, that is, but he knew most of their watchers, or rather, he knew their fates. The orbs were covered in the magical wrappings that prevented them from reaching out and grabbing an unsuspecting mind. He could hear them calling very faintly. They cried in eternal loneliness. He knew others wouldn’t hear because they didn’t know what to listen for.

He sighed and placed his hands on El’batar. The orb shifted under his hands, purring, the clear glass transforming and becoming like perfectly smooth skin. He felt the orb pulse and breathe. He peered into her soul, her eye to other realms. He gave her access to his other partitioned self, the small part of his mind he was willing to risk. His eyes clouded over and his face slackened, becoming blank. He was lost to her until his strength was drained from his body. Tonight, late, he would struggle to rise. Spent, he would hobble back to his dormitory. He knew he would only desert his chair when he had insufficient strength left to feed the orb. Inevitably, his lover would scorn him; cast him out, back to his room. He would still want!

Deep in the Havenhold under the Winseer Mountains, Tar’ac the watcher sat staring into the globe, El’batar. His was the skill of a navigator checking on the condition, progress and promise of the realms controlled and guided by the Guild. The Guild was formed in the First Age by the original wizards, the Ten. After struggling against the evil of demons and sorcery on their own, they saw merit in forming alliances.

What he observed through the orb was recorded, written magically into the Book of Records. You could think of him as the constable of the Guild, he was their auditor. Yet, it was not by observations alone that he accomplished his assignment. What was viewed was also felt. A magical vinculum of the mind and body bound to the energies of the land and its people. These feelings were also written into the record, but could only be experienced by a seasoned mage, well versed in use of the orb. In this case, Ja’tar was the anointed one, the Keeper. He reported the visitations to the Guild.

He gently slid his hands across the smooth surface, leading the globe from plane to plane, location to location. He searched for a long time, as the folds of time and existence are constantly shifting. He knew that for which he searched, a small lonesome realm of barbarians!

He slid his finger down the Book of Records, slowly recalling his last visit as the Book talked to him. Naan? He remembered that the plane was under the guidance of To’paz, sister of the Keeper.

It had last been audited … three centuries ago. Had it been that long? He wondered. He rubbed his chin. At that moment, he realized just how far behind he was on his auditing. He was damn lucky that Ja’tar was patient. He pulled out the brand new ledger book, binding it to the Book of Records, the two-melted together, becoming one. It still smelled fresh, of newly bound leather.

He knew where to start, first the overview, general condition, and then, ask for the specifics. He wrote his initial entry in near perfect script, set down the pen and began his search; the Book of Records itself would fill in all the details and would talk to his other self.

He scanned from small village to city, mountains to plains, always feeding his thoughts and feelings to the Book. He never knew the names of the people whose lives he briefly touched and he didn’t really care. He was only there to take in all that was this violent plane. He stared in amazement at how much had changed since his last visitation. He wondered what year that was. He had to pause to figure it out, but gave up, unable to calculate the numbers while under the sphere’s influence.

There were more towns now, much larger and far more crowded. The heavily forested landscape he vaguely remembered from his earlier visits had been partially cleared for settlement. The realm still appeared very primitive. Tar’ac wrinkled his brow and continued his overview.

The air was hazy from the multitude of chimneys that towered to the sky from buildings, some the size of small castles. They burped and puked black and brown smoke into the air. He could sense the putrid smell of burnt wood and tar and could feel the acidic burn in his nose.

He came to be over a sprawling coastal city, surrounded and protected by mountains, lushly green. A single dragon crossed the sky, catching the watcher’s eye. It seemed strangely out of place here, soaring majestically as it lazily flapped its huge leathery wings. He decided that this one looked a might peculiar, an odd ruddy color. He urged the globe to close the distance.

Finally, he was close enough to make out a heavily-robed creature sitting on the dragon’s back, hood pulled up tight. The creature had extended a grotesquely disfigured four-fingered hand at the end of which a ball of energy formed that crackled and grew, being pulled from the surrounding clouds. He cast the small crackling mass down on the land. It headed down, spinning slowly and accelerated toward the earth as the dragon and rider banked hard to the right, heading away. In a bright flash, the rider and dragon vanished in a swirl of multicolored smoke and light.

The flabbergasted watcher sat mesmerized, pondering the significance of what he saw. Tar’ac mouthed his questions out loud for the book to record, why bother attacking from such a great height? Without doubt, he knew you couldn’t hit anything from this distance. Did the beast fear reprisal? If so, from what — or whom? Why unleash such a small insignificant spell? Could it be an attempt to cause panic, perhaps? Where and how had the creature and dragon just vanished?

Many questions raced through his mind. None proved fruitful, but he did pour them into the book. Tar’ac decided to brush off investigating the observation and having made that decision, never gave the fireball a second glance as it appeared too small to inflict much damage and most assuredly, it was too small to trigger the defenses or the totems.

Without warning, El’batar flashed brilliant white, silhouetting Tar’ac against the rear Keep wall.

At first, there was only the light, no sound. Soon, the air in the vast cave cracked loudly like lightning and thunder. He felt the voices of hundreds cry out in anguish, tearing at his heart, dislodging his defenses. Desperately he tried to pull back his will and detach his other self from the orb, but it was too late. He felt the heat burning his eyes just before the searing ball of flame enveloped him. Just as it had those he was observing, he was lifted and thrown to the wall by the blast.

He would have screamed out in horror as his flesh burst into flame, his hands thrown in front of his face to shield them from the horror. However, no sound escaped his burning lips as the flesh was seared from his skull. His last thought was of his dreams. Tar’ac ceased to exist.

The loud clap of thunder caught Ja’tar by surprise as he stood on a small stool reaching for a long lost book he had finally located. He forgot he was on the stool as he stepped toward the sound and nearly fell to the ground, only his quick reaction and a spell of air saved his tumbling fall.

He was in the middle of getting off the floor as he caught a whiff of seared hair and felt a newfound sense of urgency to investigate the commotion.

He knew that only Tar’ac and he were in the library. They often worked early in the morning before the others awoke, trying to get ahead of the mountain of work that never diminished. He quickly wove his way down the tangled aisles, trying to get to Tar’ac’s table. The going was painfully slow because stacks upon stacks of books and parchments were scattered haphazardly across the floor. He had to check every step to make sure he wasn’t stepping on an irreplaceable tome.

In his haste, he knocked over one of the stacks of books and nearly injured himself when his ankle twisted out from under his weight. He had stepped on a thick book partially hidden under a parchment, which slid sideways, rolling his ankle. He winced and found himself falling over the cluttered floor. Only a desperate lunge for the bookshelves saved his fall, but wrenched his shoulder, causing him to grimace.

By the time a winded Ja’tar arrived at the entrance, all that remained were charred, shattered bones, ashes, and on the back wall, a clean silhouette of the watcher as he sat in his chair. Under the table, one pair of well-worn sandals, feet still attached, smoldered.

The rear wall was glowing blood red and was smoldering. Ja’tar could feel the heat from where he stood, and dared not approach any closer. The rocks hissed and sputtered as water that wept down the walls in the cave hit the searing rock while trying to reach the cave floor. Small puffs of steam burst from several nooks and crannies as the water vaporized. The heat forced Ja’tar to shield his face with the sleeve of his heavy robe.

Terror crept over the Keeper as he stood staring at what was left of his friend. Gone was the chair made of dragon bones. Gone! He had always assumed that dragon bones could never be burned.

Vaporized were the shield, swords and lances behind the table. Gone was the heavy armor, replaced by a pool of bright metal glowing in puddles on the rough-hewn rock floor. Disintegrated were the great maps, although thankfully no books had been lost. Vanished was his friend. Only a few charred bones, along with the foul smell of burnt hair and seared flesh, remained.

A small wisp of smoke spiraled toward the ceiling, riding on eddies that scurried about the room. Ja’tar could not sense his friend. He closed his eyes, extended a hand and reached out. He felt nothing. Tar’ac, the last watcher, was no more.

Ja’tar couldn’t comprehend what could have caused such chaos, but he knew that whatever had unleashed this devastatingly evil power had bridged through the orb, was watched by the orb, maybe… was still in the orb!

He jumped back in fear for his life as the goose skin and chills crept up his spine. He slowly inched forward, trembling and nauseous.

His whole body shook and his knees buckled from fear. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and left wet tracks as they meandered down his face. The warm salty drops stung his eyes and he blinked rapidly trying to clear them and hastily wiped his face with the back of his clean sleeve. His heart raced, beating wildly, ready to jump from his chest, his stomach tightened, and bile rose in his throat.

Ja’tar fought to control the fear he had felt only once before, many centuries ago, when the evil that was the Warvyn had escaped its containment circle into the crowded governing chamber. He shuddered as he unconsciously traced his finger across one of the long, deep scars on his arm. He still wore the mutilations from that encounter and had considered himself lucky to have narrowly escaped with his life.

He cautiously approached the orb from the side to avoid the onslaught of whatever was sure to come. The heat of the melted rock burned through the robe and blistered his feet when he ventured too close to the wall, forcing him to push the table back, giving himself room to maneuver.

The orb was wailing a hollow, sad, empty song that penetrated into every nook and cranny of the cave. Ja’tar’s head pounded and he clenched his eyes shut as his mouth contorted. His knees buckled as he fought for self-control as the wail pierced his ears in spite of hands clenched tight over both of them.

He tried to soothe the orb, reaching out reassuringly. The moaning slowly subsided to a tolerable level, allowing Ja’tar to remove his hands from his sore ears.

He managed to draw himself along the thick table, feeling his way along the edge until he knew his hands were on either side of the orb. The still smoldering floor burnt his heavily callused feet and he hopped from foot to foot trying to cool them. He cast a cooling spell that frosted his feet and cooled the rock where he stood and cordoned off his mind. Ja’tar barely cracked open his left eye expecting the worst. When nothing happened, he forced his eyes to look into the orb, hardly expecting to survive the moment.

At first, he saw nothing but swirling smoke. Slowly, rising out of the smoke he saw a towering shape. Its size was incomprehensible. The evil cloud raced up to the heavens, tall as a mountain with lightning crackling from its sides in all directions.

The demon laughed and roared as its mass boiled and glowed with reds, purples and sickening pea greens laced with mustard yellows. Its heinous bloodshot eyes glared with pleasure at the carnage below as its giant maw roared. It extended its arms out to the sides and bellowed in victory as pure power crackled from its fingers, lighting up the clouds.

Then, as if it knew it were being observed, the demon collapsed and funneled itself down into dancing thin wisps of oily-black, sooty smoke that snaked across the burnt ground. It sank slowly back into the earth, leaving only a small circular black stain that looked like spider veins radiating from the middle of the ruin and butchery it had caused.

Far below Ja’tar’s vantage point was all that remained of what once must have been a rather large enclave. The castle, at least it might have been a castle, had been destroyed. The immense cornerstones were shattered, cracked, tossed like small, insignificant bricks in every direction. Tall stone battlement walls were blown out. The red, clay-fired roof tiles lay haphazardly about the ruins, having been blown up and outward from the blast, which must have been in the inner keep.

Rubble, debris, fires, twisted structures and ash were all that Ja’tar could see for nearly a thousand paces in any direction.

The stables were gone. Flattened, charred carnage from the trapped animals poked out of the haphazard wreckage. Carts were tumbled and smashed; produce and merchandise scattered across the ground. Trees were laid down all pointing in the same direction, outward from the castle’s center. The blacksmith’s pit was gone but his anvil stood alone, melted and drooped over its stone mount.

Even the ground had been laid open; a gaping wound ran jaggedly across the outer yard and up the road to the moat, which had drained, exposing the caltrop with ancient skeletons of past glorious battles buried in the mud.

The ancient knights wrapped in rusty armor perched on skeletal horses; weapons still clutched in boney hands appeared to be grinning as if they had been finally freed from bondage. The drawbridge had been turned into kindling with only the huge metal brackets left swinging from the main supports by twisted and heat strained chains.

It seemed as if everything was burning and Ja’tar squinted trying to get a clear view. Foul smoke, thick and gray, swirled along the ground, being lazily carried away by errant breezes and eddies. Slowly, the smoke settled and dissipated, revealing the horror of the brutal attack.

He saw the mangled bodies. Bodies like those of his friend, twisted, burnt, reaching for the sky. He saw soldiers that were half hidden under impossibly-huge cornerstones that had been blown out of the castle, crushing everything as they tumbled across the grounds. Townspeople were impaled on tree limbs, snapped at the trunk and sharpened by the explosion, their heads hanging limply, eyes wide, horror written in their gaunt blistered faces.

He could look no longer. His knees buckled, his vision blurred and he lost the contents of his stomach over the table. What manner of demon was this? He had never witnessed the use of Wizard’s Fire like this, even during the Cleansing of the Magi Wars.

Even when Ja’tar thought he was too weak and all was purged from his system he still retched, doubling over yet again. His stomach was sore, cramped and still churning when his vision finally cleared enough to see the open Book of Records off to the side, splattered with his stomachs purged contents.

He held the end of his sleeve in clenched trembling fingers and slid his sleeve across the book, smearing away the acidic disgorged spew. The putrid liquid soaked into his robe and fell onto the floor, splattering as the partially digested chunks slipped from the table. He fought the smell and tried to read the now blurred entry from the last watcher, magically written into the Book of Records.

He put on his thin reading glasses, held out a trembling hand and cast a gentle spell to clean the page, just enough so that the last few entries could be made out. He leaned very close as the text cleared to read and slid his index finger across the last line few lines. The entry clearly pointed to the barbarian land called Naan. Naan? — To’paz! He whispered hoarsely. His heart sank as his eyes widened. By the Ten, I’ve lost To’paz!

He threw his head back in anguish and wailed, falling to the floor and pounding it with his fists. He wept, for a sister and a friend lost, for surely she could not have survived a demon attack such as this. The Gates would have closed. He knew in his heart of hearts that she was gone. He let out another blood-curdling howl that was filled with such pain that the orb itself echoed the sound as if it was its own.

Ja’tar felt his knees quiver as he tried to pull himself together. They failed to hold his weight and he gave up, collapsing numbly to the floor. He curled up into a ball and rocked.

How long he had spent curled up in the thralls of shock, he didn’t know. As he again became aware of his surroundings, his eyes darted nervously back and forth.

He didn’t move out of fear.

He was still curled up in a ball, gently rocking back and forth on the stone floor in the corner of the small alcove, eyeing menacing shadows that danced in the dark room. He began processing what he had seen.

He sat, fidgeting. He cast small spells unconsciously with his right hand causing small pops and flames to leap randomly from his fingers. He wasn’t even aware of what he was doing. His mind was in another place entirely.

The more he contemplated what had happened, the more fearful he became, almost to the point of being psychotic.

He was positive that he had been told of this kind of spell when he was young. So long ago — if only he could remember the context and who had told him. However, his mind was blank. The harder he thought about those days, the less he could recall. He strained, retracing his childhood and just couldn’t remember.

It was infuriating not being able to recall something he knew. It was as if his mind just went blank. Maybe it was the shock, maybe the stress of the past few years. Whatever it was, Ja’tar would just have to give things time. He knew that he would remember, eventually. He was mad because he needed the information now.

He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, resting for a few moments. His entire body was trembling. After a while, he ran his hand through his hair as he struggled, trying once again to pull the lost and scattered fragments from his memory, suddenly, for only a brief second—clarity.

His eyes widened as he remembered a small fragment of the lesson, or was it a long forgotten memory from the past? He wasn’t certain; it could have been either, because his mind was a jumble of unorganized thoughts. Horror filled his face as his resolve rose. He knew what he had to do. He had to call a Gathering.

Five Peaks

The dark ultramarine blue and black-as-ink clouds circled the tall cragged peaks, hiding their majestic glaciers and snow-filled cirques. They boiled and rolled, blacker than they should have been. The thunder clapped again, closer this time, rattling the windows in the small town. Next, the lightning started. This lightning was yellow, green, and spread like a spider’s web across the sky. It most certainly wasn’t natural lightning.

Thom ‘Topside’ Brokenhammer blinked hard, temporarily blinded by the flash of white light as he stared out the window of his small log home. He saw tentacles of the blast hit his neighbor’s house and soon, flames were licking at the thatched roof. Yep, this weren’t natural, he’d bet his life on it.

He had been living topside for so long; the locals started calling him by that name. It weren’t natural for a dwarf to be outta his hole that long. Although he’d never admit it, he kind of liked being topside; he liked the fresh air, the warmth of the sun, the trees and critters. Just don’t tell any of his kin that it were so. He’d never live it down if they found out, no he wouldn’t. They’d have a different nickname for him, that’s for sure. A name he would never care to be called in public!

He saw his neighbors throw open the door and run down the street dodging the dancing streaks of lightning, holding their children wrapped tight in their arms, blankets over their heads. He heard the children crying and screaming and he should have gone and helped, but he didn’t. His feet were glued to the floor and try as he might, he couldn’t make them move. He just wasn’t going out there in this storm. No, he wouldn’t. He would stay inside and wait for it to pass, if it would pass.

He looked up into the mountains, wondered about his kin, and smiled knowing they were safe deep inside the mountain. The storm could never reach them that deep in the ground. There weren’t no such lightning in the caves of the mountain, no there wasn’t. Any smart dwarf would have been underground too, but he weren’t no smart dwarf.

He frowned. It was too early in the spring for thunder and lightning, they still had another full moon worth of winter. Bloody Orcs, he cussed. The snow was still mid-calf deep in town, calf deep! Besides, there just wasn’t any rain, weren’t no snow neither! These mountain storms always had rain or snow with ‘em. What kind of storm was this? No wind and no rain!

Topside scratched his head and ducked for cover when a loud thunderclap near scared the life out of him. He threw his hands over his ears, pulling his short, stubby legs tight to his chest. He winced as his ears rang from that clap and his eyes wouldn’t focus. He didn’t like being above ground, no he didn’t. Weren’t no place for a sane dwarf to live, he thought to himself as he yanked his long red beard and rolled to his stomach before pushing himself to his feet.

He should have listened to his dream. The bearded man in his dreams had warned him to leave and told him to tell the others too. Said he was a mage. Bah! Tweren’t no mage alive no more, everybody knew that! But the man was right. Did he listen? No, stupid dwarf. He didn’t listen, he didn’t tell, he didn’t do nothing. He knew he should have. Stupid, stupid dwarf.

How was he to know it wasn’t just the liquor talking, after all he had been drinking ale steadily the better part of that night, or was it two? He vowed to start listening to his dreams, if he ever slept again and maybe not drink so much, although that was going a bit far.

He rubbed his fatigued eyes. He was exhausted but he couldn’t sleep in a storm like this, too much noise, not quite like the dark deep mines. He ran his hand nervously through his long, thick, tangled hair and prayed the storm would pass. He looked nervously around the room to make sure no one was watching. He’d never hear the end of it if he was caught cowering in the corner from a little storm. Just the same, this weren’t a normal storm. He swore it weren’t.

He saw another blast hit the ground and race along the street, melting a circuitous path in the snow, before it found one of the townsfolk running across the street. The green-yellow bolt raced up the man’s body and Topside saw him twitch and convulse just before his eyes exploded and his body burst in a shower of gore. Topside Brokenhammer shook his head, that weren’t natural at all. Lightning just doesn’t do that. He knew that much. He didn’t like the way it crackled and walked along the ground, like it were alive and searchin’ for something. He scowled and shook his fist at the sky, cursing.

He prayed to the god of steel for the storm to be over, but figured he just wasn’t listening, probably just fed up with ‘em. They was being punished, that much he knew for sure. He weren’t sure of what-the-for, but he knew the gods were upset, mighty upset from the looks of things. Topside thought about hiding somewhere, but where would he go? His eyes darted about the dark room.

He thought about crawling under the building. Subsequently, he thought of a cave he knew. Topside liked caves, they were quiet, and they were safe. The windows rattled as another thunderclap shook the small home, knocking the shutters loose as he dove for the floor, covering his head. As if the storm weren’t enough, now the shutters were banging away. Topside swore again. Gods be damned, enough was enough!

The thunder stopped for a second and he peered out with one eye from under his thick muscular hands. It was quiet. He should make a run for the mines. He thought about it, but his feet wouldn’t move, ‘twas like they were made o’ iron. He was just too terrified of being ensnared by the storm. ‘Twas his luck to be struck down dead and he knew it! Therefore, he sat in the corner of the room wrapped in his blanket, shaking. He knew the house was gonna be coming down around him. He was sure as dead, he was!

High in the mountains above Five Peaks on a small sheltered ledge at cloud level, five magi bound with enchanted neck manacles fed their energy into the roiling clouds. The emaciated, sunken-eyed, mages shuddered and twitched as the lich bid them to do his vile work. The yellow and green clouds billowed and boiled as the energy shot from cloud to cloud, building in strength until the jagged bolt broke loose and raced for the valley floor.

Each spell cast from each mage filled the clouds with more energy. They never paused, except to prepare another spell. They grimaced, growled and frowned as they worked for hours without rest. Bone tired, their eyes rolled back in sockets between spells. Still, they continued with arms lifted high. They would continue until they dropped, unable to cast any longer, their magic and life force spent.

The lightning pummeled the small town below as the five kept up their assault. One of the five moaned quietly and fell over dead. He was the eldest, and the rest of the chain of five paused to glance over at their dead companion.

The lich gave the chain a yank as he cast a painful energy pulse through the enchanted links that caused the others to howl in pain, as their eyes glowed red and rolled back in their sockets. They shook and spasms raked their frames so severely they were unable to breathe. He wouldn’t allow them a moment’s pity for their friend. They had work to do; his Master had decreed it. Finally, he let up and a big gasp filled the air as all four took their first deep breath in almost a minute.

The shadow people, demons bound to the lich, unlocked the deceased mage and dragged him roughly by his feet out of the way, his head thumping over the rocks as they carelessly tossed him to the side, like a piss-pot thrown out a castle window.

They brushed their hands off to remove the stench of the dead mage as they hobbled over and grabbed another held in the enclosed iron pen. They unlocked his neck piece from the chain strung between the upright crisscrossed iron sides and pushed him violently to the casting line causing him to trip and fall on all fours.

They beat him with a cane across his back when he wasn’t in the right spot to allow him to be shackled into place, causing him to cower and shield his face. His back was lined with the bruises and cuts of the cane and bled freely, soaking into his shredded robe. They jerked his head by the collar and roughly attached his neck bracelet to the chain with a spelled lock. He prayed for the brass medallion on his chest to break, releasing him from his captors, for even the powerful lich couldn’t keep them from aging once the link was broken.

On the other hand, he wasn’t sure why they hadn’t been cut off from the magic anyway. The totems hadn’t fired and they had been casting powerful magic, and a lot of it. The totems should have fired. They should all have been dead by now. He cried. Why couldn’t they all just die? That was what the totems were for, to protect against this kind of thing.

The storm spell called for five magi and they couldn’t continue until he was in place. They shoved a pointed steel rod with a gold tip that the shadow people called the tickler into his spine as they laughed. He immediately felt the vile magic paralyze his nerves. He heaved, his body spilling its contents as his legs shook and went numb.

“Cast!” The shadow demanded in a guttural, gravelly voice. And he did with all his might, forgetting about his plan to destroy the medallion.

The lich smiled, ambled over to the dead mage, raised his bony hands and cast his spell. The sleeves of his tattered robe slid down to his elbows, revealing his gaunt, emaciated flesh. He raised his hands high and chanted to the powers of the lowest planes. He glowered as he felt the thin wispy strands of purple and sickly yellow-green circle his deformed and gnarled hands before they left his fingers flowing toward the dead mage.

The repugnant magic entered the mage’s dead, staring eyes, mouth and coursed through his body. The mage stiffened and convulsed, his back arched as he took his first breath. His eyes lost their glaze and focused, while he searched for a reference. Realizing that he was still of this earth, he clamped his eyes shut, raised his hands to his face and wept, a low guttural wail escaping his bloody chapped lips. The lich threw back his head and howled in laughter.

The mage crawled on his belly, clawing at the dirt and rock with bloody hands, fingers cut and filled with infection. He strained toward the pen moving ever closer and begged to be let in. The shadow people taunted him and kicked at his ribs and thighs. He spit up blood and gurgled, hoping to die again, rolling to his back. Mayhap this time!

The lich watched the entertainment from his perch on a tall rock above the magi and finally waved a hand and the beatings stopped. They held open the cage door and he crawled in of his own accord and latched himself to the chain before he collapsed in the corner, passing out as the mild healing did what little could be done.

The other magi struggled to keep casting, down on raw, rock scraped knees, arms extended, hands pulsing with raw energy as they cast the magic the Dark One requested. Those that still had presence of mind cried with each spell for those below, and wet salty tears flowed down their cheeks mixing with the dust and dirt making trails of mud. However, they couldn’t resist the demands of the chain and they growled as they cast their strongest spells up into the ever-expanding storm just to feel the pleasurable relief from the magical chain, recovered from a long forgotten battlefield.

The lich grinned to himself; he didn’t know where or how the Master had located the chain, or even knew that it existed. It was a magnificent piece of work. The most twisted use of magic he had ever seen. The foul iron was old, very old and had obviously been used some time in the past, but the lich didn’t know when or by whom. He wished he had the cleverness and the power to devise such creations himself. Maybe someday, he might!

The magi wept for their souls and for those of their kind. They knew the end was coming, they prayed for it, lusted for it, for anything was better than this, death would be a blessing.

The others, the irreparably broken and nearly dead cared not for their minds were spent and empty. They were hollow shells for the magic and nothing more. They would be used until their bodies could no longer sustain life. For even with the seemingly endless powers of the lich being used to revive them, he could only do so much.

When they were first captured, many had tried to resist and break free, but now they would not even try. Captured and broken, the enchanted chains controlled them, compelled them to commit horrific acts of violence. Glowing white and ruby, the chains held them together, prevented their escape, bid them to obey. Rewarding them when they did, punishing them when they didn’t. They had desperately tried to die; to the point of casting death spells on one another and had been severely punished after being revived.

Seth had been among the last to be captured. He had hid under a dead tree when the lich and his spawn had invaded his town. He had taken his own life to avoid capture. He had died proudly defending his realm as a traveler. The Master had revived his spirit and made him serve in the Dark Lord’s pit for days to teach him a lesson.

He shivered at the thought of the demons and other things unmentionable that had toyed with him, tortured him, ate at his guts, burnt and pealed his skin until he thought he couldn’t stand it any longer, only to have the dark one resurrect him so that he could die all over again. He threw his hands up and cast another spell. He sighed at the rush. What else was he to do?

The lich tended his magi. He wasn’t about to allow anyone to die. Dying was not an option. Magi were a limited resource and he needed them, more than he wished to admit. Every time they passed on, their hearts giving up the life that had been coursing through their veins, he yanked their spirit back from the nether into their broken, beaten and dying bodies. He healed them—mostly.

He left them sores, broken bones and bruises that the spawn would jab, prod and hit causing excruciating pain whenever they didn’t perform as demanded. The guardian of the lowest planes of the underworld didn’t like it when he reclaimed what was rightly his, but even he was afraid of the Master and turned a blind eye to his wishes.

Just because his Master wished for them to survive to serve, didn’t mean he had to treat them well. He looked at them with disdain. He used just enough magic to sustain their existence, no more. Inside, he wanted them to suffer, that was the problem. He wanted them dead more than he wanted them to exist, but his Master didn’t and had made it plainly clear that he would pay a far greater price than the mages if he failed to follow his Master’s desire.

He shuddered and hissed, clenching his fists in anger. He had felt his Master’s wrath, once, only once. His eyes narrowed. Some day he would escape and take his Master to the underworld. There, he would show him pain and fear; he would pay for what he had done. He licked his boney lips and planned the moment. He would take his power, his jiin.

The Dark Lord Lich laughed maniacally, his patchwork dark tattered robe furling in the light wind, his deformed and twisted body relishing the feeling of power, for he was lich, dead and yet not, but teeming with power and able to live forever. He had been given a choice once long ago and he had chosen without hesitation. Better to live and serve as one of the most powerful beings in the universe, than to die and serve anyway. Sometimes, the only choices in life were undesirable, but in the end, his lust for power had overridden his sound judgment.

He had been a lich for so long, he no longer remembered how he once had been, what he looked like or even his name. He knew not from whence he had come, how or where he had lived. Now, all he lived for was power. Power and the feeling of ecstasy that he felt when there was great pain and suffering. It was all he felt.

He wore the long robe to cover his twisted and deformed frame. His shredded, rotting and tattered clothes hung to a skeletal form that was only held together with magic and served no useful purpose. He would rid himself of it if he could. He only lowered his hood when he felt the need to instill even more fear into those he commanded, for to meet a lich in its raw form was to meet absolute terror and he wielded that terror like a fine blade.

He watched from high up above, almost in the clouds, as the homes, and buildings burst into flame when the random white-hot lightning bolts found their targets. He raised his arms and laughed as the blasts found their marks. From this distance, he could barely see the flames. He was too far away to enjoy the looks of horror and dread on the fine people’s faces who called Five Peaks home, but he knew that they were there. He could sense them — and their anguish.

He lifted his nose to the air and breathed deeply. He could smell their fear, even at this distance and he ran his rotted tongue across his decayed bony teeth. There was much fear.

He had no conscience; he did as his Master bade him. He never asked why, he didn’t really care. Not that his Master would ever confide in him what the plans were, it was just that he never asked questions, no one questioned the Master and lives to talk about it. The Master was the only thing he feared. He feared and loathed his servitude and he lusted after the Master’s power.

It wasn’t personal that his Master had chosen Five Peaks to be destroyed next; the Master was making a point. It could have been any of the towns in any of the realms. They were just—convenient. His Master was in charge and controlled their destiny. That was the lesson. They would bow to the Master’s rule and they would do as commanded. They would call the master by the ancient name, AEsir, a true god. Eventually, everyone did his Master’s bidding. The Master liked it that way. No one ever crossed the Master and lives to talk about it.

He grinned to himself. The pain, all the beautiful agony, he could feel the townspeople’s fear and he could feel their delicious pain. He purposefully yanked the magical chain repeatedly sending yet another painful burst of magic along its length and watched as the captive magi quivered and convulsed. He drooled in delight, feeling the exquisite agony.

He wondered how long the magi would last and what his Master would do with them when he was through. He hoped that he would be rewarded, maybe even be given some of the magi to play with. He wringed his bony hands in anticipation. What he couldn’t do with a couple wizards? He could rise in power, and maybe even rule the realms. He wouldn’t pamper them the way the Master did. He would drain them; drain each and every one of every ounce of magic they possessed.

The storm was wearing heavy on the town. He would have much to report to his Master later tonight when he bowed at the throne. He was sure his Master would be pleased. Yes, maybe his Master would give him one of the magi to play with.

Mourning

It took Ja’tar a while to snap out of it and regain his composure. He thought about To’paz and his eyes welled up as he pulled in a deep sniffle. Although he was still numb, he finally sighed and slowly stood up, although he had to grab the table to keep his knees from buckling. He spotted Tar’ac’s journal on the table and because it was open, turned it to read. He read the last entry from the morning. He flipped back a few more pages and read the entries from the past three days. He wrinkled his brow and closed the small book, slipping it into his pocket.

For a long time, he just stood there thinking. He turned the Book of Records around and read the entry again, running his finger along the blurred script as he read the High Elven language of Torren. This time he focused on the very last word. It read—Closed. He knew what it meant, that single word, ominously written at the end of the entry. He knew all it implied.

He stood at the end of the table, staring blankly at the pile of swirling ash that used to be Tar’ac and the smoldering heap that was previously the Dragonbone chair. The chair, a gift from one of the last dragon slayers of the middle wars, Paxton the Great, was made from the bones of a giant Blue, known as ‘Torch,’ that had been ravaging the realms.

The bones of the last Blue to perish had been hand polished and formed together into the great chair using ancient dwarven steel called formel, a tempered metal of incredible strength. It had been imbued with the spirit of the beast to allow it to serve by allowing its wisdom to fill the user. It served as a daily reminder of why the pact had been drawn and how misunderstandings can lead to travesties. Ja’tar had thought the chair to be practically indestructible.

It had been ceremoniously presented when the Great Rotterdam Pact had been drawn between all the magical races, dragons included, stopping the purge and hunting of the great beasts once and for all; in agreement that if they held to the Northland, to the other side of the Ice Spires, they were free to live and roam as they pleased. Since that time, it was rare indeed for anyone to see a dragon. Ja’tar couldn’t even venture to guess how many still existed. Someday he wished to make the long journey to the Northland and see the dragons for himself, maybe even talk to one. It was an inhospitable place, a barren, rocky, frozen wasteland. A hostile place for any man to venture, mage included.

Small thin threads of smoke curled toward the ceiling from the jawbone armrests as the back leg collapsed. The fire finally weakened the bone sufficiently that it couldn’t hold the weight of the chair. The fasteners of formel were deformed and melted, lying under the surviving structure that no longer resembled the great chair.

He hesitantly reached down to the table with a shaking hand and grabbed the still-wailing orb, burning his fingers on the silky glass that was still near molten. The smell of burnt flesh instantly filled the air as Ja’tar swore.

Agony spread across his face causing him to almost drop the globe. He just managed to juggle it from hand to hand until he could wrap it in the hem of his roughly woven robe, causing the wool to scorch and smoke, adding a strong-burnt hair tang to the already foul mix. He quickly cast a spell of ice over his hand to stop the burn, but the damage had already been done. He didn’t realize he had been holding his breath but as the icy-cold eased his pain, he found himself pulling in a deep breath as the pain receded.

He leaned over the table and carefully rolled the pearlescent orb, El’batar, back into its white marble holder, easing it out of its wooly hammock. He cursed at himself for being so careless.

He gripped the hem of his soiled robe and tore loose a small square patch of cloth. He tossed it over the orb to stop the wailing as he searched for the magical covering used to silence the constant searching of the orb for a mind to absorb. He spotted the shimmering metal cloth at the far end of the table and summoned it to cover the orb. He watched as it floated over the orb and folded itself neatly around the globe.

With great resignation and the wave of his blistered hand, he conjured up a pail of warm soapy water, a brush and a small straw broom. For a brief moment he stared, memorizing every detail, then knelt and began the unpleasant task of cleaning the spattered floor.

Although he could have cleaned the entire area in the blink of an eye using magic, Ja’tar felt that it would have been irreverent to do so. His friend deserved so much better, and the task of cleaning the old way seemed to be a simple manner in which to pay his deepest respects. He cursed himself for riding the mage too hard. He had been short with the man, criticizing him for being so far behind. He was quite sure his last words were not those of a dear friend, but of a Keeper. He deeply desired that he could take them back somehow.

The ash was quickly swept into a tidy pile with the small broom, the gore was harder to clean, and required repeated scrubbings and rinses with clean water. The remains of the chair he left in place. He was nearly finished cleaning when other members of the Keep, after breaking their morning fast, had slowly started trickling down into the library.

The incident couldn’t have happened in a more visible spot. The small stone alcove was just inside of the library’s main door and was the first thing you noticed when you walked in. Normally a good quiet spot for reading, Tar’ac had commandeered the location, making it his own and working there daily. He had even set up shelves to hold the abandoned orbs of watchers past. Everyone in the Keep knew that when passing, it was necessary to walk quietly to avoid interrupting his concentration.

The first three wizards paused turning briefly to their left as they made their way down the main hall and stared at the frozen outlined image of the watcher on the rough rock wall. The black-as-coal image was burned into the stone wall directly behind the grand table and showed his hands thrown up in the air.

Other than that, only the heavy iron pins that had previously held the big roth-skin map of the first seven realms to the wall remained. The map, hand drawn during the Age of Reason, was the beginning of collaboration between the races. A couple charred remnants of the map, embers still glowing red at the edges, hung loosely from the smoldering pins and fluttered limply in the eddies.

The ceremonial spears and swords that had been crossed above the map on the wall were now puddles of metal on the floor, with small rivulets of the shiny stuff weaving down the course rock wall like silver veining in a deep rock mine. Each race had contributed a ceremonial weapon surrendered at the signing those many centuries ago. Now, except for the memories of a few, the significance was all but forgotten.

The old grand table fashioned from a single slab of a giant oak tree known as the Captain, which had been felled just outside the barbican of the Keep during the last battle had not suffered much damage. It was slightly charred around the rear edge, but it had avoided most of the damage because the orb was close to the edge and most of the blast had been reflected out and up, not down.

The three scanned the alcove, eyes wide, bending over to peer beneath the table, they noticed the twisted glowing charcoal heap that used to be the Dragonbone Chair, only the heavy jawbones remained identifiable. They saw Tar’ac’s leather sandals, charred leg bones, blistered feet and all. Qu’entza turned to the side and covered his mouth.

Finally, the smells of burnt hair and flesh that hung in the heavy air soured their noses. The tang of Ja’tar’s bile added to the soup of fetid odors and caused the onlookers to hold their breath, plug their noses and hurry away down the hall into the main section, although a single mage ran off back into the Keep to spread the word; the last watcher was no more.

It didn’t take long for word to spread, and slowly, one by one, the remaining mages made the trek down to the library to see if the stories were true. Seeing the proof for themselves, they knelt to pay their respects.

The sight was just too much for many, who covered their faces with their robes and scurried away. None spoke. Their faces expressed far more than words ever could. Besides, to ask about the tragedy was considered a bad omen, particularly when mortality isn’t a formality. Any event that reminds one that life is not forever is summarily ignored.

They had seen it all before. A watcher gone, another wizard obliterated when a grand experiment went awry. Magic was dangerous business, more dangerous for some. Being a watcher was especially hazardous. Now, with their numbers dwindling, each loss was more keenly felt. Each member was better known; each death meant another vacancy in their knowledge base and power.

Wizards continued to pass, a few more nodded solemnly, most just lowered their gaze, knelt, and hurried past as if nothing had happened and went on to their daily research in a Keep where their numbers kept shrinking.

Ja’tar sighed and reflected. Sadly, many watchers had been lost over time, but none like this. Some ended up simply being babbling idiots, most just went vacant, having lost their minds during the long hours of scrying. All it took was one short break in concentration, and the orb broke through the wards, taking over all that you were. They were found eyes open, drooling. Some died straight away, forgetting to breathe.

The watchers spent centuries learning the art, how to ward their inner thoughts from this invasion. Only after mastery were they allowed to touch an orb for the first time. The last watcher that had been lost they affectionately nicknamed Babel. He was still cared for in the upstairs sanitarium. Now that Tar’ac was gone, Ja’tar was the last with the gift.

A tear filled Ja’tar’s eye. He knew he wasn’t much better than mediocre with the orb. He was no watcher, not like Tar’ac. He prayed that he could find another to teach, but he knew it was unlikely. Outsiders no longer came to the Keep for training. They had been all but forgotten.

He knew he could teach another. He just didn’t have the ingrained aptitude to be a watcher. What would they do if he couldn’t find someone to teach? He shook his head in resignation; maybe wizards had outlived their usefulness in the world.

He looked at the storage rack on the wall where all the orbs of previous watchers sat in white marble holders, covered with fine metallic silk. They had no real need for the orbs, but held on to them just in case. The orbs were old magic. Nobody in the Keep knew whether the watchers were trapped inside the orbs, or whether the orbs just scrambled their brains, so they held on to them.

Just in case —

Ja’tar just didn’t understand how Tar’ac could have possibly lost his ward. The ceremony for becoming a watcher was arduous and very few had the mental capacity to constantly fight off the barrage of magic. Ja’tar smiled to himself reminiscing. In theory, the test was simple; keep eight balls in the air in the shape of a perfect cube.

The brothers tested the new watcher by flinging thoughts at them, suggestions to make them do things, distractions like bug bites, nightmares. They kept it up for hours, while the Keeper watched and observed whether any behaviors from the suggestions came to pass. If the balls moved … they would have to train longer. The test was aptly named, ‘The Watcher’s Tease.’

Only if absolutely nothing was observed, was the new watcher allowed to use the orb, and only under strict supervision for decades. Any single nay vote from the observers would mean years more training and retesting.

Ja’tar remembered when Tar’ac was tested. He was so young, so magnificent so … well, — arrogant. He was one of the few truly blessed individuals who could utterly erect an impenetrable wall between his conscious mind and his subconscious. He not only kept the balls in the air, but also carried on conversations with the brothers and joked while he was being tested. He never even broke a sweat! It just wasn’t possible in his mind that the fault was with Tar’ac. Something else must have happened, given the evidence.

Ja’tar looked up as each mage passed oblivious to anything that was being said. Nobody uttered a word to him, nor did they stop to help. He continued his work of scrubbing the stone wall methodically with his brush and soapy water, oblivious to the cuts and scrapes on his worn frail hands.

Occasionally he would dip the brush into the pail of soapy water and swirl it around. Next, he wiped down the cleaned stone with a big rag, leaving small red blotches as his wounds wept. He finished one stone at a time.

In retrospect, he supposed he should have done the cleanup magically, but it just didn’t feel right. He needed the physical connection to the stone. He needed the manual mind-numbing work. He needed time to think.

Tax had hurried down the steps toward the library after hearing all the commotion. His knees creaked and he had to grip the railing tightly with both hands to keep his legs from giving out as he raced down the tall steps. He tilted his large ears forward, trying to overhear the conversations. Hushed voices mumbled about another watcher losing his ward. That was impossible, not with the old man! He pushed himself past several of the magi standing inside the doorway talking in hushed voices.

He carefully crouched low and peeked around the corner. His ears twitched nervously and his eyes went wide upon seeing the image of the watcher burnt into the granite rock. The first sign! Tax wrinkled his nose at the smell and hastily made his retreat, trying to get back out the door before he was noticed. He reached up, trying to part the heavy robes of the two wizards blocking the door.

“You! You’re not supposed to be in here,” one of the wizards shouted out, pulling his robe back to get a better view of the halfling. “Out with you!”

“Someone said there was a mess that needed cleaning. My mistake,” said Tax humbly, excusing himself while casting his eyes down.

“See to it then,” the mage snapped smugly.

He pushed past the rotund mage, careful to keep his oversized feet from being stepped on by the clumsy wizards. He slowly walked back up the stairs, all the while grinning to himself. He threw his nose up in the air, just as he had predicted, the time was nigh. Now the wizards would find out that life is not what they expect! That was the trouble with prophecy, the signs were often vague, the timing was always bad, and no one could agree on what the prophecy actually meant. Well, we would see … Tax thought to himself, too bad about the watcher. He had actually liked the old man. That being said —

Ja’tar was lost in his toil and didn’t notice that his friend Zedd’aki had silently arrived and, after pushing through the crowd, had stopped in front of the wall. Zedd’aki’s eyes were writ with sorrow, as he noticed the burnt remains. He choked back his emotion both for his friend, and the watcher although you could barely notice a change in his expression hiding behind the long thick beard that covered the better portion of his face and almost reached the floor. He stood there, watching his friend work, unsure of what to do next.

Qu’entza saw Zedd’aki through the crowd because he was a full head taller than everyone at the Keep was, and he still had a full head of dark brown wavy hair.

He pushed his way past the cluster of mages talking in front of the table and grabbed him by the elbow before he could pass, “See if you can console Ja’tar. You are closest to the old man, maybe he will listen to you.”

Zedd’aki blankly turned to see who was speaking.

Qu’entza sighed heavily, leaned over and said quietly, “He is consumed with guilt. He won’t talk to any of us. He doesn’t even acknowledge that we are here.”

Zedd’aki looked down and, seeing the concerned look in Qu’entza’s hazel eyes, nodded. Next to Zedd’aki, Qu’entza and Rua’tor were Ja’tar’s best friends; they were the last of the magi from the time of Ror, although Ja’tar was the only one that had been a full Master at the time.

Zedd’aki took a couple steps forward and stopped at Ja’tar’s feet. He stared down at his friend for a short while before stooping over, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder and asking, “What happened here, Ja’tar?”

Ja’tar looked up, his red, puffy, water-filled eyes were glazed over. He shook his head as tears began to roll down his soiled cheeks. He didn’t know what to say or even where to begin explaining. His well-trimmed beard was covered with gore, which had dribbled down his chin and pooled in his robe.

“G-g-gone …,” was all he could manage to choke out.

“Gone?” asked Zedd’aki softly. “What is gone my friend?”

Ja’tar babbled incoherently while wiping the tears from his face with the long sleeves of his dark brown prayer robe. “…it’s all destroyed. To’paz … her realm … is cut off. She’s dead. My dearest sister is dead!”

Zedd’aki reached out and grabbed Ja’tar’s arm, helping him off his knees. Ja’tar’s old frame creaked for his joints had seized up from the hours spent bent over cleaning the floor. The agony spread to his face as he worked out the knots and stiffness. Zedd’aki steadied the old man, who was clinging to his robe with a steel grip. Ja’tar’s sobs made his body shake and twitch.

Zedd’aki wasn’t sure if he had heard Ja’tar correctly, and he supposed that it really didn’t matter. There would be time enough for talking later.

Ja’tar looked into Zedd’aki’s green eyes and broke into mourning. His hands were shaking and raw from the hours of scrubbing and blistered by burns inflicted by the orb. Zedd’aki turned Ja’tar’s hands over to examine them, wrapped his arms around the old man, and let Ja’tar’s sobs flow. They stood that way for many a minute before the sobs began to fade. All this time Zedd’aki said nothing.

Rua’tor, a stern portly mage with little hair, came stumbling down the aisle with a determined look written across his face. Qu’entza grabbed him by the sleeve and stopped him, shaking his head, “Zedd’aki has him. We should leave him alone.”

“Will he be able to conduct the ritual of the Vernal Equinox tomorrow? We have to conduct the rites,” demanded Rua’tor, completely oblivious to the pain Ja’tar was experiencing.

Qu’entza, who towered over the diminutive portly mage, looked down through his thin-framed glasses and answered curtly, “I’m sure he will be alright, but for now, we should leave him alone and let him mourn.”

Rua’tor growled and tried to push his way through.

“It will wait,” said Qu’entza forcefully.

Rua’tor tried to rip his arm away from the wiry mage, but thought better of it and patted Qu’entza on the forearm, “You are right. It was selfish of me.”

“What was it Ja’tar was saying about his sister? Did you catch it?”

Qu’entza shook his head. “I’m sure we’ll get the story from Zedd’aki.

“You are probably right,” Rua’tor said. “We should give it time.”

The Floormaster and Master of Ceremonies watched for a bit and retreated down the aisle. Rua’tor shook his head and talked to himself. He would prepare for the ceremony tomorrow. Qu’entza was probably right and Ja’tar would be just fine. There was so much to do. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Zedd’aki saw the two wizards having a spirited conversation and Qu’entza mouthed that they were leaving. He nodded an acknowledgement and turned his attention to his friend.

“You should see the healer,” said Zedd’aki tenderly, as he reached over and turned his friend’s trembling hands over. He shuddered at the sight; blisters, cuts and scrapes covered both of his friend’s palms. “Let’s go see Malloc.”

A wizard’s hands were paramount to his ability to form the runes and patterns needed to make the magic happen. If Ja’tar didn’t get healed, he may not be able to perform the rites, and he may even lose some dexterity, preventing him from casting some of the more intricate spells.

Ja’tar just nodded, his head lowered to hide his face. He knelt back down, dipped his brush in the now-cold water and carefully placed it on the floor over a new gore-splattered stone before slowly scrubbing in a circular motion at the stain. Zedd’aki watched silently.

At first, only a single word was choked out, then two. There were long pauses between, and at times he broke into Torren. Zedd’aki waited patiently, knowing that Ja’tar would tell his story in his own time. The story was slowly told, coming out in short blurts, followed by more sobs. Zedd’aki listened, letting his dear friend mourn and tell his tale.

They had lost watchers before, Zedd’aki had known many of them, but as the chronicle progressed, Zedd’aki discovered why this time was different. Ja’tar not only mourned for Tar’ac the watcher, he mourned for his younger sister, To’paz. Apparently, To’paz was the traveler assigned to the realm that Tar’ac was visiting when the incident happened.

He knew Ja’tar’s younger sister very well. She was well-liked around the Keep, and she was one of the last sorceresses in the Guild. She had volunteered to be a traveler many centuries ago, opting for an assignment on the fringe, where firm rule had yet to be established. She had claimed, at the time, that she rather preferred the more simple ways and less-structured existence to both that of the Keep, and the more mature realms. However, Zedd’aki always believed it was more to get away from her overbearing brother.

Zedd’aki expressed as much sympathy as he could muster. “So, you are sure that it was To’paz’s realm, my friend?”

“Yes,” Ja’tar stared blankly. “I’m certain. I recognized it the moment I gazed into the orb.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“It has jagged glacier-filled mountains. The largest has three peaks. To’paz lives … lived … in the valley below the grandest of the three. There are deep green forests. It was such a beautiful, untamed place. I’ve been there before you know… many times,” stammered Ja’tar, his voice still quivering as he thought back to happier times.

Zedd’aki just nodded, taking it all in.

“It was all in the book — written — in the Book of Records. It was scorched, but the last entry is clearly marked. Tar’ac was definitely reviewing Naan.”

“Perhaps he had moved on?”

“No. The orb doesn’t lie … it records everything exactly as it experiences the observation. It never errs, never!” Ja’tar whispered as he shook his head.

He wiped another tear from his already bloodshot eyes and cleared his nose pulling in a deep sniffle. He stared at the floor, but his eyes wouldn’t focus.

“I am so sorry Ja’tar; your sister was both respected and admired. I wouldn’t give up hope. Maybe she is still alive; after all, she is a resourceful one. Maybe she wasn’t even in the town at the time of the blast. Most travelers move about the realms quite often you know!” reasoned Zedd’aki with a feigned smile. “They do!”

Ja’tar shook his head in disagreement, “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter,” asked Zedd’aki in disbelief at his friend’s noticeably defeatist attitude.

Ja’tar sobbed and yelled at Zedd’aki, “Damn it! The last word in the book was ‘Closed’. The realm is closed.”

Zedd’aki couldn’t contain the look of shock on his face as he narrowed his brows, “You mean closed, as in —?”

Ja’tar interrupted, “As in the Querd totems have fired and have shut off the flow of magic to the realm. With no magic, the protective Querd medallion, the Sha’za, will grow cold and she will age. She will wither and die in a matter of days. It will be painful at the end.”

He choked out those last words before breaking into sobs again and burying his head in his hands. Zedd’aki rested his hands on his friend’s shoulders.

“Maybe she has some stored magic. Many of the travelers do you know. She knew something like this could happen someday. I’m willing to bet she had magic stored away,” Zedd’aki suggested.

“Maybe,” said Ja’tar weakly. “I suppose it is possible. She may be capable of hanging on for a small number of years. There is no way to know … for sure.”

“Didn’t she have that bracelet your Da’ gave her? I thought she always wore it because she thought it was attractive. It retained some magic.”

Ja’tar nodded weakly, remembering back.

“Well then, maybe there’s hope!” Zedd’aki said.

“Some.”

“We can talk some more as we walk, but we need to get your injuries healed and cleaned up. Come, my friend,” suggested Zedd’aki rather forcefully after wincing from the sight of his friend’s blistered and shredded hands.

Ja’tar stood and numbly brushed at his soiled robe with his ragged hands. His glazed eyes wandered aimlessly down and across the mess on his robe. It didn’t quite register. He looked down the aisle and saw several mages watching intently.

“I cannot go now — too much to do,” Ja’tar feigned defiance on impulse, pushing Zedd’aki back weakly.

Zedd’aki tried to prod his friend, “Come now, Ja’tar, changing into a clean robe won’t take long and we must get your wounds cleaned before they go septic.”

“It can wait,” Ja’tar mumbled vacantly. “I need —”

“You need your hands. You’re useless to your sister and anybody else without them,” said Zedd’aki sternly.

Ja’tar looked up and moaned, “I’ve failed them already. It matters not.”

“It matters to all those still alive. After we get you healed, we can return and finish. I’ll help you with whatever you need, but please — I’m begging you, you need to get your wounds dressed.”

Zedd’aki grabbed his friend by his arm and pulled him in the direction of the hefty oak door. At first, Ja’tar resisted, but eventually he followed. Zedd’aki helped him walk out the impressive library door, closing it as they left. The elemental closed behind them as they passed, leaving what appeared to be a blank stone wall. Ja’tar, lost in thought, hobbled behind his friend, following him impassively down the lengthy shadowy stone hall, back to the great stairs.

Tax stood peering down between the balusters, watching as Zedd’aki escorted his friend up the stairs toward his room, one step at a time. Each was a struggle. Tax watched and scurried off before they reached his hiding place. He would let the others know of what had transpired this day.

Deep in the bowels of the Keep, in a long forgotten corridor filled with dust, three small halflings gathered. The small dank passage was barely tall enough for the three to pass and was a remnant from times when the halflings and the dwarves filled the Keep and fought side by side with the magi. Mud-filled puddles covered the floor and the rhythmic dripping from roots that had invaded due to neglect echoed softly in the distance. A musty odor hung in the stale air.

“Why did ye calls us here?” the oldest asked, his hood pulled tight over his face.

“I have words for ye, that’s why,” Tax grumbled, “and I don’t have a lot of time for discussing. I needs to git back to workin’ on the staircase before them mages notice I’m missin’.”

“Well, speak yer peace already,” he beckoned.

Tax turned to the stocky halfling and spoke, “The watcher is dead.”

“How ye be meaning that,” the hooded one replied, stroking his long white beard with thick muscular hands. The beard was so long that it wrapped about the diminutive man’s feet and curled on the floor in a small pile.

“Dead! Just like the prophecy says — ‘and none will be watched,’” Tax said, turning to face the other. “Tar’ac was the lastest. They ain’t got no other watchers.”

“Don’t mean nothin’,” the short halfling with the heavy canvas pants uttered as he puffed up defiantly. “Prophecy could mean anything—”

Tax’s jaw steeled, “Does to me. This is the first sign, I knowed it! Yer just too dense.”

The stocky man’s head shot up and his eyes narrowed as he raised his blackened-iron spiked war club.

“Let it be,” the oldest said, setting a withered hand across the already raised fist. “So, yer thinkin’ that the end times are finally coming?”

“I think they’re already here!” said Tax. “We best be preparing to go to the caves.”

“Ye been saying that for centuries …,” the stocky halfling groaned, throwing his fist into the rock wall.

“Have you seen the signs?” the eldest asked as he pushed his hood back revealing milk-white eyes and a scarred and pockmarked face. A berry-sized red ruby set in silver dangled from his left ear and he tugged on it gently as he asked his questions. The gem glowed softly in the dim light.

“I have. The first, was today, clear sign, just like the prophecy says. The last watcher was killed this morn. Saw what was left of him with my own eyes.”

“Hmmm!” the stocky halfling scowled. “And the rest?”

“Ye knows the rest. The Seer already spoke her piece about that. She’s the one says we was needing to be lookin’ out. End times are a comin’ they is!”

The oldest narrowed his eyes. “Have ye checked with the Seer?”

Tax shook his head. He hadn’t visited the old lady yet, he had been procrastinating. He didn’t like the way she stared at him, it was as if she was seeing everything he had ever done wrong. He knew he would have to see her soon. He wrung his hands unconsciously and swore under his breath.

Haagen

Haagen gazed steadily off into the distance at the storm raging in the mountains up toward Five Peaks. He was used to fierce spring storms, but from what he could see, he knew that this storm was worse than any he had ever witnessed. Another deafening thunderclap made the ground shake and he cringed. He said a short prayer for the folks up that way and hoped that they were safe in their homes.

Spring was almost here and it was time for him to get the ferry ready for another season. The ferry was the lifeblood of the town, shuttling travelers and peddlers alike to the small community. Without it, the good folks would need to travel three days out of their way, and still face a treacherous crossing of the stream the other side of Finger Lake. Before he made the ferry, many wagons had been swept away in the churning rapids; many had died.

Haagen removed his vest and shirt, revealing a well-chiseled frame. He wouldn’t risk ruining the fine wares on his next task. Although he was well into his thirties, the day-to-day work of pulling the ferry across the river kept him in shape, though his face was scarred and worn, showing his age. His back rippled as he tied a thick cord to his waist. He was stocky for his frame; he was less than six feet tall, but his waist was thin and lean, giving him an attractive ‘v’ shape.

Over the years, his hair had grayed, but at least he hadn’t lost it like many men his age. When he worked the fields with his wife, he still turned heads, causing his wife to tease him; accusing him of taunting all the young women with his devilishly good looks. He had been tempted a few times over the years to stray, but his wife was too good to him. Besides, he loved her deeply. She had believed in him, even when his own father had thrown him out of the house for being a scofflaw and getting into trouble.

Haagen checked the cord twice. It was his life line should he lose his grip on the much thicker rope that draped across the river, strung between two huge posts buried deep in the soil and anchored back with tie lines. If he went over the falls, he would swing to the side and climb back up the rope to the top and try again. For sure, he would be a little beat up, having been pounded by the roaring water and flailed against the rocks, but he would live.

He didn’t fear it any longer. He had found himself at the end of that rope several times before. Although the falls always made his heart rush, he no longer feared dying from a fall. It was more inconvenient than dangerous.

He grabbed the other end, looped it around the support post and tied a double knot, finishing it with a couple half-hitches. Satisfied that the knots would hold, he reached over his head, grabbed the larger rope and started across the river, moving steadily hand over hand, swinging his body side-to-side keeping his rhythm. He had to hold his feet up so that they wouldn’t drag in the water.

His biceps flexed as his hands gripped the thick rope. Years of working the ferry had gifted him with a grip of steel. His hands were so callused that he could pound nails through wood with his bare hands, as well as crush walnuts between his thumb and forefinger.

He crossed; hand over hand, slowly making his way across the gorge. His left hand slipped, and he found himself hanging by his right. There was no panic, and no fear. He calmly looked down at the icy-cold rushing water and easily hoisted himself back up, regaining his grip. The last few yards were quickly made and Haagen soon felt his feet on solid ground.

He pulled free his handkerchief and wiped his brow. He had worked up a good sweat and his back was covered in perspiration. He knew better than to dawdle. The longer he took, the more likely he was to catch a chill from the crisp spring air.

The whole reason for the journey was to check the ropes, tighten the lines and make sure that no rot had formed over the winter. He could ill-afford having a line snap while taking a load of wagons and goods across the treacherous ravine.

Haagen had prepared the ropes for winter by wiping them down with resin he made from pines and tar. It provided a degree of protection from the elements and since he started doing this, he found that his ropes lasted for several seasons.

When he first started, he had to replace the guide ropes every year, a very costly endeavor. He had to travel south to Edu’bar on the edge of the I’jean Sea and bring the huge spools of rope back by wagon. He would lose several weeks in travel, not to mention the pocket of silver pieces it cost.

Haagen found the forked lever he had made to tighten the rope. It was the size of a man’s arm in diameter, twice as long as a man was tall and had a deep ‘y’ shape at one end. He leaned it against the upright support pole in the notches he had carved and attached the smaller thumb sized cord to the main rope using a series of sheep bend knots, fully knowing that the more pressure he exerted on the knots, the tighter they would grip.

He opened the heavy canvas bag that hung from the lever and filled it with rocks that were neatly stacked next to the post. The weight of the rocks pulled the lever down and stretched the guide rope tight. Once the bag was filled, he added his own weight to the load and hung by his arms, bouncing up and down, working every last bit of slack out of the rope.

He lashed the lever down to a giant boulder to which he had wrapped a heavy rope with a loop and let loose. Once he was satisfied that the lever was firmly secure, he quickly untied the main rope at the base of the support pole, pulled it tight and lashed it back into place.

Pleased with the result, he pulled out the rocks from the bag one by one and released the lever. The guide rope stretched across the gorge like a tight rope. There was no sway — even when the wind blew.

Haagen slung the canvas bag back over his shoulder and set the lever away, lashing it to the support post. He mounted the rope and quickly returned to the far side.

Haagen put his shirt and his leather vest on, lacing the front tight. A cool breeze had picked up and the sun hid behind clouds that were building in the peaks. Haagen knew that a spring storm was brewing. With luck, he would finish by dark, beat the storm, and be home with his wife and kids resting by the warm fire with a tankard of mead.

Nevertheless, if the storm came in fast, he would have to hunker down and wait it out. He had learned long ago that it was better to let the storm play out than to try to brave it trying to get home. His wife would understand. He had spent many nights out waiting for a big blow to pass.

He had his supplies, blankets, sword, knife, jerky, water skin, and his flint and steel. He knew of a small cave just up the road, hidden by the trees. It wasn’t deep, but it would provide a measure of protection from the icy cold and blowing snow.

He lashed on his sword and knife and packed his supplies neatly in a pile next to the raft. He looked up, trying to gauge the time by the angle of the sun, which was already mostly hidden by the incoming storm. He still had a few hours of work left to prepare the raft.

He walked over to the last of the three logs he had fashioned over the winter. He bent over and hefted the twenty foot log to his shoulder; first by lifting one end, and next, by working it over his shoulders, trying to find the balance point. The log weighed close to ten stones and his legs strained as he fought to control his balance.

He gripped the log tightly and cautiously moved toward the raft, a step at a time. The ground was still muddy and he fought to keep his footing as the mud slid under his boots. He groaned under the strain and was forced to crouch to lower his center of gravity. His back screamed under the weight of the hefty log. He shouted, focusing his strength as he let the log free. It dropped off his back, bounced on the ground and settled near the water. He stretched, twisting from side-to-side, working the knots out of his back.

He gazed at the log while giving himself a well-deserved rest. He placed his hands on his knees, bent over, gave the log a twist to turn it over so that the flat side was facing up, and dragged it the remaining distance to the shore. He pushed it into the freezing water and slid it into place, adjacent to the rear of the raft. He lowered his head and went straight to it, lashing the loose logs, checking the guide hook and the lashing hooks.

He worked steadily and methodically. He fed the cord under the log, five wraps in figure eights before tying the cord off and moving another two feet down the log and repeating the process. It just wouldn’t do for the logs to wobble. A merchant could lose a valuable load of goods and perhaps a horse could twist a leg in a crack. Haagen took pride in his work. His raft was known as the best ferry in the realms and he intended to keep it that way.

A howl in the distance caught his attention. He looked up grinning. Wolves, he thought to himself. It sounded as if they had found their prey. Ah, my friends, here is hoping you eat well tonight!

He pulled out another length of cord and continued lashing another log to the raft. Customers had complained last fall that the bigger wagons didn’t fit right. He remembered the discussions clearly and knew that they were right. He had spent the winter taking a saw and plane to three giant logs, getting them ready for the spring. First, he selected the logs, seasoning them, sawing them in half and planing them smooth. He smiled. The last log was almost in place.

He stood up and admired his work. The raft was a good three feet wider; each log was almost a foot across. He was pleased with his progress, and hopped off the raft to gather the last log, the one with the posts that would anchor to the railing he had built around the perimeter.

He had removed this log and added the new logs into the middle. He hadn’t particularly wanted to have to craft a new railing, boring the holes into the logs for the tapered posts would have been slow tedious work. The old railing was still in good shape. He set the angular corner brace in place on each end and lashed them tight. All he needed was to lengthen the rope between the posts at the gate and he’d be done for the day.

He heard another howl. It was closer now, almost too close for comfort and it didn’t sound right. He couldn’t quite place why it felt wrong, it just did. It made the goose skin on the back of his neck stand. Wolves didn’t usually venture this close to people, although there had been times in the past that a stray traveler found himself or herself under attack, but that was usually in the dead of winter when food was scarce.

Haagen knew wolves hunted in packs of three to five, but larger packs were not unheard of. He removed the latch covering his sword and made sure it was free from the sheath. It was always best to be prepared, although he was confident that he could handle a few wolves, after all, he had the raft. If things became dicey, he could just slip out into the river and wait it out.

He stood and scanned the horizon; didn’t see anything, but hopped off the raft and grabbed his spear — just in case. While he was back on soil, he checked the reins of his horse and patted her on the nose. She pawed at the ground, happy at his touch, but Haagen could sense that she was nervous. Her ears were perked and she was sniffing at the air.

He didn’t want to put her at risk and loosened the rein so that she could pull away if spooked. She was a battle horse, trained to kick and buck. He didn’t fear for her not being able to get free if need be. She’d come back when things calmed down—she always did. They had history together. They had seen battle, plowed fields, dragged logs and rode like the wind across grain-filled fields.

Satisfied, he jumped back to the raft with his spear. He set it in the corner, just an arm’s length away. He heard his horse whiney and saw her rear back, pulling the reins free. She turned and galloped away, kicking up her rear legs. Haagen had spun to see what the commotion was and saw two wolves charging down the hill, one clearly in the lead by fifty paces.

He pulled his sword free and grabbed his spear before he anchored his feet in a wide stance making sure his balance was right.

His jaw dropped. He had never seen wolves this immense before and they moved quicker than he had ever seen wolves move. He didn’t have but a few seconds before they were upon him.

The first attacked, launching itself high from the shore. Haagen crouched down and wedged the spear against the raft, catching the wolf in the center of its chest as it landed. It shattered the shaft of the spear and landed on him hard, before bouncing over the edge.

“Damn it all,” he yelled.

The force sent him to his back and knocked the breath out of him. Haagen barely managed to hold to the haft of his broken spear as the fast-flowing water took the beast to its watery grave.

The second wolf halted on the shore, bared its teeth and growled menacingly. Haagen grunted and shook his head clear and waved his worthless weapon threateningly in front of the beast.

He knew that this wasn’t a normal wolf. The head was too bulky and the front legs were too long. The beast growled and snarled as it showed him its yellow and blood-red eyes. He pushed himself to a knee and stood slowly. He caught a glimpse of another of the beasts charging down the hill from his peripheral vision.

Haagen had never known beasts such as these. They were too fast to be wolves, and too aggressive. He swore that they moved together in an organized fashion. He crept slowly across the deck and released the cord that held the raft tight to the shore. He transferred the sword to his right hand, grabbed the guide rope with his left, and pulled it, easing the raft from the shore. He pulled the rope again and the raft moved farther out into the rushing water.

All he needed was another five or six feet, ten feet from shore should be sufficient. He pulled the guide rope again. As he was distracted with the rope, the nearest of the beasts jumped, landing half on, half off the raft. Haagen was caught by surprise; he had not expected the beast to be able to leap the distance.

He turned to squarely meet the beast, but was too slow and the wolf that was not a wolf had already gained its feet. It jumped at Haagen, knocking him over as it sunk its teeth into his leg, cutting straight through the heavy leather britches he wore. Searing pain shot up his leg causing him to bare his teeth and cry out in pain. He shoved his sword deep into the wolf’s neck and twisted hard.

The beast still clung to his leg, shaking its head from side-to-side, ripping deep into his flesh. Haagen clawed at his knife sheath, trying to gain access to the blade. He felt the well-worn leather shaft in the palm of his hand and yanked it free, sliding it across the beast’s throat. He felt the blade dig deep and heard the wolf yip as its throat was laid open.

He pushed himself up, reversed his grip, plunged his knife deep into the beast’s brain through its eye socket and felt the jaws relax. He used his hands to pry the beast’s mouth open, releasing his leg. He staggered, favoring his injured leg for a couple steps, reaching for one of the posts. He grabbed it in a white-knuckled hand and used his good leg to kick the beast to the side where it lay still.

He reached down, pulled the leather back from his leg and examined the wound. The wound was deep, but not critical, although he would have another fine story and scar to show the ladies. His leg was bleeding freely and he pulled a length of cord free from his pocket and bound the wound to slow the bleeding.

He tried to push himself to his feet, but his leg wouldn’t hold his weight. He rolled to his side and yanked the sword free just as the last beast cleared the shore. Haagen fell back and plunged his sword into the chest of the beast as it landed on top of him. The beast clawed at his vest with monstrous claws, ripping clean through the heavy vest and raking Haagen’s chest. He felt the claws shred his skin and dig deeply into his exposed chest. He screamed in agony.

The beast’s jaws snapped at his stomach, but couldn’t find flesh. Haagen pounded the beast mercilessly with his massive hands, causing the beast’s head to snap from side-to-side.

“Die! Die, damn you!” he growled.

The wolf’s eyes rolled into the sockets and its tongue hung to the side. He heard the beast’s skull crack with each blow and yet the beast continued its attack, raking its claws across his exposed midsection.

“Why won’t you die?”

Haagen was frantic. He couldn’t understand why the beast didn’t stop. He plunged his knife into the beast repeatedly as it howled and bit.

He used his free hand to try to force the jaws back while he stabbed. The beast twisted away and Haagen lost his grip on his knife.

He felt a little light-headed and shook his head to clear his thoughts. He raised his fist high and brought it down with all his might, shattering the wolf’s skull, causing its brains to squirt out from its eyes.

The beast finally went limp. Haagen was breathing hoarsely. He was out of breath and trembling. His stomach was laid open with deep gashes and he was bleeding profusely. He tried to push the beast off, but he was too weak to do so. He let his head fall to the raft and rested.

He stared up into the sky and felt the first few snowflakes hit his face. He rested for a few minutes before he pushed himself to an elbow, worked his way to the corner post and leaned against it in a sitting position. The beast was still partially on top of his good leg. He just couldn’t commandeer enough strength to shove it off his injured leg, which had stiffened and was without feeling. He tried to free himself several times before he was finally forced to rest again.

Each time he moved, he could feel his wounds ripping open further. He looked down at his blood-soaked vest, pulled back the tattered leather and examined his injuries, which were worse than he had initially thought. He had two rows of four deep gashes and he could see bone, the lowest wound had cut into his gut and his intestines bulged through the gap. He stuffed them back in place with his fingers and held the gash tight.

He grabbed the necklace his wife had made him in his strong hands and thought about her, picturing her soft smile, feeling the touch of her skin and remembering the way the sun danced on her hair the day he had met her at the fair in Toulereau. He would miss her and hoped she could find happiness without him.

“Forgive me my love,” he moaned as he said a quiet prayer to AEgis. “I’m afraid that I must desert you.”

The snow fell. He felt its icy touch, numbing him and taking away the pain of his wounds. His breath was raspy now, coming in fits of coughs as his lungs filled with blood, causing him to cough and spit up blood. The color drained from his face; a strong rugged face that had seen years of battles and strife.

His beard was crusted with ice by the time his eyes glazed over, losing their focus. It was so beautiful. He was so cold that he couldn’t feel his legs. He felt his heart slow, thump … thump … thump. His last thoughts were of his wife and kids.

“I-I-I have … always … loved … yo …,” he whispered as a tear trailed down the jagged scar on his cheek.

With that last breath, his head fell forward; Haagen — the man of iron died.

His horse stood on the shore, whinnying for its friend, pawing at the dirt. The evening air was still.

Duvall

Duvall reflected on her predicament. She was trapped in a bal’achar. Trapped! Well, her essence was trapped. A single moment’s carelessness and inattention to detail had allowed her to be caught, snared like a rabbit chased down a hunter’s path. Although that wasn’t exactly true, it summed up her circumstance.

She looked out from the small nondescript crystal, mounted in an ancient silver bracelet that held her captive; it had been both her salvation and her prison. She stared at her slumped body sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a carefully crafted containment ring that had a single small flaw. She easily saw the thin crack in the marble tile that had broken the ring and allowed the demon to escape. It was obvious, now.

She knew not from where the crack came. She had laid the marble floor herself and it had been flawless. She routinely inspected it. She had summoned many demons and foul souls to her room and drawn many containment rings. She didn’t understand why this time, she had not checked. However, even more curious was why the crack was there in the first place.

All that was left of her former self was sitting there on the floor, decomposing. Her crumpled, mummified form was facing away from her a bit, but she could see the gray-brown wrinkled skin of her cheek, the hollowed-out eye sockets and the patchwork hair. Her fine silken dress, decorated with ribbon and hand-stitched lacework, had decayed as well. Time had ravaged the beauty that she was. Where once she was the envy of the sorceresses in the Keep, turning the heads of all she met, royalty included, she now appeared more like a wraith, terrifying and decayed. Even her rings of power were hanging loosely from her bony fingers attached to desiccated hands and bony arms. In addition, her chest, well, her once ample bosom was now sunken and deformed, only barely holding her mother’s locket.

There should have been nothing left of her by now, but the strong magic of the room prevented all manner of insect and such from entering. Her body was desiccated, but the flies and maggots had not feasted.

Still, Duvall felt fortunate that she had escaped. If not for the bal’achar sitting on her desk, she surely would have been sucked down into the lower planes by the powerful demigod, or been incinerated in the ensuing battle. Things could be worse, she supposed. She could have been made into a slave, or worse, made to do hideous things to her fellow mages by the dark mages. She would have shuddered if that were physically possible.

She had certainly been surprised when the beast initially materialized. She hadn’t expected the summoning and incantation to work the first time she tried to invoke it. They rarely did! Her summoned demon had been far larger, more hideous and powerful than her research had led her to believe. Of course, one can never tell with these things, that is why she had taken so many precautions and cast so many protections.

In hindsight, it was her missing that small, seemingly insignificant hairline crack that had been her true downfall. She chuckled in her mind, but admitted to herself that something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. It was inevitable because of her arrogance and lust for power. She had been … less than humble in those days. Her mother would have been ashamed. But at the time? Well, even though it was not an excuse … she had been caught up in the rush of all the power she had accumulated. Conversely, she was consumed with fear that someone would take it away. It was a horrible way to live.

She vividly remembered seeing the demon’s yellow eyes narrowing in on the single flaw in the chain as it stepped out of the ether into the room. Next, there was the roar and frightening gore-dripping fanged grin it gave her just before it exploded out of the containment into her room. She had barely had a second to escape once the demon broke free of the blood rune.

She chose in desperation to send her being into the bal’achar, the ancient bracelet that held the war stones that could hold a person’s being. She knew she hadn’t the time or knowhow to defend herself against such a powerful foe. She had been woefully unprepared, too hasty, too power hungry, too anxious to gain a leg up on her rivals. Rivals? Nemeses more like it. She feared them more than the demons.

The demon, sensing that her life spirit had fled had held back its wrath and left her body alone, stopping mid-swing with its mighty clawed hand. For by itself, her old shell was of inconsequential value to the demon. This was no ordinary demon; this was a Lord of demons, far more deadly, far wiser, and far more calculating. This demon wasn’t consumed with rage, but had control of its emotions and actions. It answered to no one, and she had set it free!

She wondered what had happened to the beast, for once she had been deposited into the bal’achar, her ability to see and sense the real world had been severely curtailed, not to mention the initial nausea and disorientation she had experienced. She couldn’t see the door, so she couldn’t tell if it escaped her room, but she imagined that the evil being had been successfully returned to the plane that was its home. You never can be sure, a beast with that kind of power wasn’t held to the normal rules of the universe.

Her worst fears were that it had left her room and attacked or worse captured the other nine. She was hesitant to even imagine a world where demons controlled the remaining Ten. Heaven help mankind! Yet the tower stood, so no great battle had yet been fought for control of the Keep. She had no idea how her companions had fared, but she imagined them as captives in the pits of the lower-planes forced to do the Demon Lord’s bidding.

Either she had no idea how much damage it had inflicted on the Keep before the spell that brought it here expired or one of her nine rivals managed to send it on its merry way. Hopefully, little damage was done.

She tried to be optimistic and believe the outcome was in their favor, but that wasn’t of her nature. The spell she had cast to bring it here had a short time limit before it would send the beast back, but even five minutes was nearly an eternity for the demigod to wreak havoc. A lot of magic can be loosed in five minutes! She mentally sighed, relieved that she had at least limited its time in this world.

She sat, and she used that term figuratively, for her being had no form, watching her only thin view of the world into her room. From the angle of the gem sitting in the bracelet on her dressing table, she could see her body, the bed, the intricate containment pattern on the floor, the burnt and melted candles, her window, and her closet of magical toys. She couldn’t see the door or the rest of the room. She could hear nothing, although she assumed she would if she had not cast wards to prevent any sound from leaving her room.

She sometimes imagined that she heard muffled footsteps in the distance, and mumblings, but little else. When she heard them—sensed them, she would shout and reach out. It was probably futile, but she kept trying. Why, just a little while ago she thought she had heard someone next door. She shouted with all her might, but nobody came. Her exile was dead quiet. Once, a bird had landed on the windowsill and she still treasured its sweet song. She hadn’t put wards on the windows, after all; she was in one of the highest rooms in the Keep, and even she couldn’t levitate to that height.

The years dragged on. How long had she been trapped she wondered? Time was irrelevant. She was curious about who held the job of Keeper and wondered if she knew him. She wasn’t sure if she had been gone for decades, centuries, or longer. She kept track for a while, but eventually she gave up.

She wondered why none of her friends, and she used that phase loosely, sought her out. She frowned to herself. That was a lie! She really wasn’t surprised, not surprised at all. She would have been more startled had they actually taken the time to seek her out.

She scoffed, they were probably glad she had just vanished. She had been the most powerful, able to level mountains. However, she was not the most feared or loathed, that honor went to Druxell, well — maybe Skra. But Druxell had a twisted and evil streak that he barely managed to keep in check — most of the time anyway! With her gone, the others would sigh in relief. She would be one fewer of the Ten they would have to outmaneuver. Heaven knows she wasn’t well loved. Feared! Yes, feared, but definitely not loved.

She had plenty of time to reflect on her life and her choices. In introspection, she realized that she had become paranoid, arrogant and consumed with magic and its power. She knew she and her colleagues had made poor choices. She now realized just how dangerous a game they had been playing.

In her mind, she wondered if they had collectively rendered the Keep antiquated and brought its eventual collapse into being a current reality. They had left the Zylliac in place, fearing that given enough time the other wizards may acquire skills as great as theirs. That was just one of the many things she hoped to be able to correct if she got out.

She hoped with all her might that someday she might be able to rectify all the wrong she had done. She didn’t know if it was too late, or if those that remained would welcome her back. She realized that she wouldn’t trust herself if she came back. She knew that it would take strong action to demonstrate her change of heart.

And so she sat, watching her body turn to dust, hoping that someday someone would manage to break her room’s defenses and enter to find her stuck in this wretched prison and find a donor suitable for her being, for surely, she merited a second chance to make things right. She sighed to herself about the irony of her situation. She had made it so that no mage would ever be able to wield real magic, so effectively she had doomed herself to eternity in a room with a view.

And so she sat.

Suspicions

Zedd’aki had tried to aid his friend up the long stairs, but Ja’tar wouldn’t have any part of it. Every time he tried to help, Ja’tar ripped his arm away, so Zedd’aki let him do it his way. It wasn’t worth fighting about; his friend had been through enough for one day.

He had to pause several times to wait for his friend to catch up, but eventually, they made it up the spiral stairs from deep in the bowels of the Keep. They passed the aviary, the council courtyard, climbed the second curved staircase into the twelve sided entry chambers of the Ten and into Ja’tar’s private quarters.

Ja’tar cleared his wards, although Zedd’aki was right, he had lost some of his dexterity and it took him several tries before he got the spell correctly formed. The two old friends waited while the yellow crackling spell raced around the door before entering the room.

Ja’tar reset the wards and peeled off his filthy, gore-soaked robe. He threw it into a clothes hamper to be teleported to the staff for laundering. He soaked a towel and listlessly wiped down his chest and arms.

Zedd’aki stared at his friend’s back, staring at the irregular scars that raced across his muscular back. These were not ordinary scars; these were badges from the battles in Ror. Blue liquid lightning made a distinctive web-like pattern and left raised welts that no healing could ever erase, and they were said to be more painful than a manta’s sting. Zedd’aki knew the history of those scars, and even after all these years, the sight of them still made him cringe.

While Ja’tar had bent over the basin to wash with his back facing the hamper, Zedd’aki reached in and removed the robe carefully with two fingers. He crinkled his nose and tossed it into the heavy stone fireplace. With a flick of his wrist, he incinerated it. It wasn’t worth saving.

Ja’tar poured cool water from the copper pitcher into the porcelain basin, and gently washed his hands and face using the course bar of oatmeal soap, wincing at the sting of his wounds. The water turned a putrid ruddy brown color from the gore and dried blood that was crusted on his wounds. After rinsing, he dried off with a towel, leaving small bloodstains where his blisters had cracked open.

His hair was mostly peppered now and shoulder length, and his beard was well below his chin. He ran a shell comb through his hair, pulled it back into a tail, and tied it off. He looked into the mirror at the face staring back at him. It certainly didn’t feel to be his, not any longer. The fire had gone out of those blue haloed eyes and the man in the mirror appeared weary and beat.

Zedd’aki waited patiently, staring out over the valley from the tall windows of the turret, watching the tall pines sway in the breeze. A lone hawk floated on the updrafts high above the valley, searching for a tasty treat.

“Are you doing alright,” asked Zedd’aki over his shoulder after the hawk disappeared from sight.

Ja’tar’s response was listless, “I … need to figure out how this could have happened. I’m the Keeper, I should know —”

“You cannot know everything,” Zedd’aki compassionately replied, as he turned from the window and walked over to the hearth to warm himself. He reached down, added another log to the fire, and stirred the shimmering coals with a decorative brass poker. He was pleased, there was nothing left of the robe.

“You just don’t understand,” Ja’tar said, tears welling in his eyes as he slumped down at the edge of the bed.

“What don’t I understand?” Zedd’aki probed, hoping that his friend was finally prepared to converse.

“It’s not the same. It’s not the same,” Ja’tar repeated himself for lack of anything else to declare.

Zedd’aki, turned around to get a better view of Ja’tar’s face. “What is not the same, my friend?”

Ja’tar stared into Zedd’aki’s eyes from across the room as if he should understand, “This isn’t just another watcher gone mad or losing control, something is very, very wrong.”

“How so?” Zedd’aki shrugged, not seeing how this event could possibly be different.

Ja’tar spoke indignantly, “Well, first off, Tar’ac was … experienced. He would have had his guards up; you know his concentration was flawless. This isn’t as straightforward as it appears.”

Zedd’aki blinked hard, still not convinced and not entirely following Ja’tar’s reasoning.

Ja’tar lamented, looking into his friend’s eyes, “Zedd’aki, Tar’ac never lost his ward. In that, I am in no doubt.”

Zedd’aki was unable to contain his surprise. “Bags of bones! What do you think happened?”

Ja’tar shrugged weakly, “A demon, lower planes…maybe … or at least it looked like a demon did this.”

“A demon,” echoed Zedd’aki, mouthing the words, not believing what he was hearing. “It’s not normal for them to be this brazen.”

Ja’tar continued in the same breath, “But without the record … it’s hard to say for certain … it was mostly destroyed. We require the record from the book. Still, the demon was strong. So strong … strong as anything I have ever witnessed. It reminds me of —”

Ja’tar stood up, walked over to the overstuffed chair next to the fire, and sat down, “… I’m telling you, it had to be a demon of some sort.”

Zedd’aki swallowed hard, “You think it was after your sister?”

Ja’tar shrugged, “It’s possible I suppose.”

“Any thoughts on why? I thought your sister had the realm under control. Didn’t she say that there weren’t a lot of magic users there, and those that were … well, let’s just say they were amateurs.”

“Last I heard, but it’s been a while. Things can change, who knows with demons —”

“Maybe your sister survived, we still have time. We could try to repair the record,” Zedd’aki mentioned again, trying to remain positive and not comprehending what his friend was getting at.

“Stop changing the subject and pay attention to what I am telling you,” Ja’tar blurted in anger.

“I just meant —” Zedd’aki winced as he backpedaled; he hadn’t intended to further distress his friend. He turned away, focusing on rubbing his hands together in front of the flames as the fresh log caught fire.

“This came through El’batar,” Ja’tar spat out as if the words were vile poison on his lips.

“What?” Zedd’aki said, as his eyes went wide.

Ja’tar wailed, holding his hands over his face, “How could she sow could survive? It burnt the watcher and the chair through the wards. Do you hear me? Through the wards! Through the bloody thin ethereal link! It should have been impossible.”

“You must be mistaken,” grumbled Zedd’aki, as he turned toward his friend and placed his hands on his hips. “We must not understand the circumstances of today’s events.

“Zedd’aki, the orb only funnels the experience through to the watcher. You know that much. The wards only prevent the orb from invading your mind,” said Ja’tar, pointing to his head.

“I’m confused,” admitted Zedd’aki as he scratched his head and yanked on his long beard.

“Don’t you understand? The raw power that destroyed Tar’ac came through the orb,” Ja’tar bemoaned.

Zedd’aki stammered, “Through the orb? But … but the orb can only let a small fraction of the experience through, you said so yourself. The Zylliac would have — should have prevented it.”

“Agreed! Should have …” Ja’tar nodded.

Ja’tar sat staring off at the wall, casting small flame and explosion spells at the end of his fingers. The room was full of silence except for the rhythmic popping. Zedd’aki watched his friend nervously fidget.

“But didn’t?” Zedd’aki postulated.

“Don’t know. However that was one of the basic design principles used in creating the orbs, or so I understand. They could never harm by passing through the magic.”

Zedd’aki shook his head side-to-side, “So it couldn’t happen?”

“I didn’t say that —”

“Didn’t you?” a flustered Zedd’aki balked.

“Damn it! It burned the bloody Dragonbone chair. It incinerated Tar’ac like,” a shocked Ja’tar said, snapping his fingers. “It happened.”

“Perhaps it didn’t come through the orb, and we don’t understand,” Zedd’aki reasoned, drawing the wrong conclusion.

“Don’t talk nonsense! Look —” a frustrated Ja’tar blurted out, “—only the watcher and the orb were in the room … and me! The room was warded, no demon could enter.”

Zedd’aki howled, “But, you just said it was impossible ….”

“Curse the bloody gods! Apparently not impossible,” Ja’tar screamed back with terror filling his face.

Zedd’aki wiped his brow, “But?”

“It should be impossible, but it definitely came through the orb. Look before you,” reasoned Ja’tar again raising his voice and throwing his arm out pointing to the wall of his room, not realizing that they had left the library.

“The evidence is there. If that much annihilation came through the orb, how much damage do you think it did on the other side?”

Zedd’aki shrugged, not even willing to offer conjecture.

“Think. Could it wipe out a town, or a realm?” Ja’tar hypothesized.

“Bah! A town? A realm? Now you are talking nonsense,” said Zedd’aki, tugging hard at his beard.

“Am I? By the Ten, Tar’ac was leagues away from where this happened. Leagues!”

“Are you certain?” Zedd’aki asked, narrowing his eyes.

Ja’tar lowered his head and nodded solemnly.

“That would indeed be magic to be feared, way beyond what you or I could conjure or control … and we are the strongest of the elders left,” Zedd’aki phrased it as much of a statement as a question, his voice trembling as concern filled his face. “I shudder to think who or what could have done this.”

Ja’tar looked up and stammered half-heartedly, “I have no idea, but it reminds me of the team spells from Ror.”

“Ror,” Zedd’aki whispered under his breath as a cold chill came over him.

Ja’tar looked out the window blankly. Silence filled the space as both men sat and contemplated those sad times.

“It must be different than those days,” said Zedd’aki decisively.

Ja’tar looked up, searching the room, “Did you hear that?”

Zedd’aki stopped mid sentence, “I think that … What? Hear what?”

“It sounds like a woman crying out … calling for help!”

“A woman? Where …?” Zedd’aki asked with a confused look on his face as he spun in a circle. “I don’t hear anything.”

“How can you not, she seems to be screaming at the top of her lungs.”

“When? J-just now?” Zedd’aki stammered.

“Yes, just now! I mean she is —” Ja’tar’s face went blank and he stopped talking for a few moments and just stood there. “What? What did you say? What woman?”

Zedd’aki stared blankly, “You were talking about some woman you thought you heard ….”

“Nonsense,” Ja’tar replied throwing a hand to the air, “now what were you saying?”

Zedd’aki gave Ja’tar a strange look. Maybe his friend was still rattled from the incident. He definitely wasn’t right in his mind.

“I was talking about Ror.”

“Ah, please continue —”

“I said, surely it is different than those days,” said Zedd’aki decisively.

“It would have to be, I suppose. Still, I have no idea how this could have happened.”

“None?” a wide-eyed Zedd’aki frowned. “You think maybe a powerful coven …?”

Ja’tar waved him off, “Witches? Don’t be ridiculous! They don’t possess that kind of power.”

“Well, what else, in the name of the Ten, could it be?”

Ja’tar pondered the question for a bit trying to remember childhood stories before horror filled his eyes and his jaw dropped as he uttered, “As a child I remember—”

“Remember what?” Zedd’aki said, prodding his friend to recall.

Zedd’aki moved to the other chair by the fire and fell into the soft feather seat. Ja’tar had cast a clumsy healing spell over his own hands and winced as the skin healed over. He flexed his hands making fists to stretch the newly healed skin. Zedd’aki was a bit surprised that his friend had the peace of mind to accomplish much of anything given his condition.

“Aren’t you going to clean your wounds first?”

Ja’tar ignored his question, waving him off and continued his train of thought, raising a hand, “I remember … stories.”

Zedd’aki, deciding to drop his question after seeing Ja’tar’s hands were healed. “How do the stories help?”

“These were stories my father told me of the time before Ror,” Ja’tar said, knowing that Zedd’aki would understand.

“Why do you bring this up now?” asked Zedd’aki, confused and missing the point entirely.

“Because the more I think about it, the more certain I am that this was the old magic of the ancients, perhaps First Age, older than you or I can remember. Back in the time of —”

Zedd’aki hushed his voice and reflexively looked around to be sure nobody else was within earshot, even though they were alone in Ja’tar’s living quarters. “Are you suggesting that it came from before the Battle of Ror, before the Cleansing, back from the time of the Ten?”

Ja’tar shrugged, his shoulders dropped and he nodded half-heartedly as another sob escaped his lips, “Maybe even earlier.”

Zedd’aki’s eyes narrowed as he blurted out, “It can’t be. That would mean —”

Ja’tar hushed his friend putting a finger to his lips, and stared into his friend’s eyes, nodding his head solemnly, “I think it must be ….”

“Nonsense! How can you even suggest …?” begged Zedd’aki in a whisper, wishing it were not true. Nevertheless, it felt true.

He was worried now, and when he worried, he fidgeted. When he fidgeted, he played with his beard, rolling it on a finger, stroking it. It was a nervous habit.

“Clearly we are dealing with something beyond our understanding. None of us at the Keep can brandish such power, but those that could once existed,” Ja’tar contemplated out loud.

“But that was ages ago. Generations have passed … Ror ended those dark days.”

“So we assume. But in those days, they had a mastery of the Arts we cannot comprehend. Their magic was different, more … pure. I cannot put into words what I mean exactly, I just can’t seem to remember. It was as if they were the magic ….”

“But how…?” Zedd’aki begged the question.

“I cannot say for certain, ‘how’ without doing some research, research into things the Guild of the Keep would rather forget … and keep hidden.”

“The Guild prefers all to be hidden,” scoffed Zedd’aki.

Ja’tar grinned eccentrically, “Indeed!”

Zedd’aki smirked. “So they wouldn’t approve your looking into this?”

Ja’tar answered with mild mirth, “Oh, I’m sure the bastards most certainly wouldn’t.”

“So, you obviously will.”

Ja’tar grunted, “I’m seriously thinking about it.”

Zedd’aki just stared, “They’ll be angry —”

“They’ll be more than angry ….”

Zedd’aki raised a brow. “More than angry?” He was hesitant to even imagine what they would do if such an infraction were to occur.

Ja’tar cast his eyes down and lowered his voice, “Mmm, I think so. You see there are forbidden tomes and tablets that I know about that have been hidden for millennia. Have you heard of the Cave of the Forbidden?”

Zedd’aki’s eyes shot open wide, “The Cave? Everyone has heard the stories and rumors.”

Ja’tar groaned, “I think I will have to open the Cave of the Forbidden. I believe that there we will find our answers.”

Zedd’aki’s voice quivered, “The cave? Ja’tar, you wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Ja’tar testily fired back.

“It’s … it’s forbidden. You would be exiled if anyone found out. By the gods man, you’d be bound and cast out! Maybe even sent away to a realm with no magic to wither and die,” gasped Zedd’aki.

Ja’tar leaned closer, “We need answers.”

Zedd’aki pulled back, “But there has to be another way ….”

“I know of no other place to begin… all of this makes little sense,” Ja’tar said, with a quizzical look on his face.

Zedd’aki pleaded, “But the cave was sealed by the Ten after Ror.”

Ja’tar leaned forward in his chair, “… And your point is?”

Neither was willing to give ground. Ja’tar was positive that this was his only option and Zedd’aki was unwilling to entertain the option. So, like stubborn children they tried to stare each other down.

“It was never to be opened, never. It’s protected by killing spells, all manner of wards,” Zedd’aki stammered for he was very afraid. “It is by no means meant to be breached.”

“I only need to find a couple of the books, records of the war … Legend says that the War Hall of Records was near the front, not in the back where all the artifacts were stored.”

Zedd’aki’s jaw dropped, “Ja’tar! Listen to yourself. You sound a bit touched. You cannot be seriously ….”

Ja’tar cut him off, “Mad am I? Bah! I’m sure I could find a way in to do some quick research.”

“No one would suspect,” said Ja’tar nonchalantly, over-confident in his abilities.

Zedd’aki called his bluff, “Halla! Do you even know where the Cave is?”

Ja’tar was incredulous that his friend even asked the question, “Yes, of course,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief and waving his friend off nonchalantly with his hand.

Zedd’aki, eyes narrowed and he grew very suspicious of his friend.

“How is it that you know of a place only mentioned in whispers and legend?”

Ja’tar’s mouth tightened. “Zedd’aki, you forget that I am the Keeper. I know things that no one else knows.”

Zedd’aki dropped his gaze, “Still —”

“I passed the Rite of Passage,” answered Ja’tar flatly.

“So, what else do you know …?”

Ja’tar chortled, “I know that the specific area of the Keep where the entrance to the Cave is has been deserted for centuries. Why, that whole lower wing has been sealed for most of my lifetime.”

“You’re serious!” Zedd’aki gasped. He looked at his friend and couldn’t believe what he was suggesting, even though he knew Ja’tar was not a cautious man. His recklessness had gotten him into mischief often in their youth, and at times, the consequences of his rash actions had been costly.

“We need to know …,” he shrugged.

“No. No. No!” the old man pleaded with the Keeper, giving his beard a good yank.

“Zedd’aki we have to. The elders were different from us. They lived magic. They practically were magic. They were the ones who enslaved the Zylliac.”

“I don’t care,” said Zedd’aki adamantly, while stomping his foot.

“Imagine the power that it would take to enslave the beast of magic itself. They built this palace and they controlled the realms for generations. Think of it. Think of all the magic we have lost over the years. They knew things, spells, enchantments, they created the bal’achar.”

“The vessels of life and death exist? I thought … I thought they were myth,” Zedd’aki’s mouth fell open, his face turned white as flour. He tried to speak, but his lips just quivered. This was just too much.

Ja’tar grinned mischievously, “They existed, Zedd’aki. They still exist.”

“Th-th-they can suck your soul …,” was all that Zedd’aki could manage to choke out as he squirmed uncomfortably in the chair.

Ja’tar could see his friend was agitated, but he couldn’t help but show off and quietly stated, “Yes, but they can also deposit it into another body, or into anything that lives. They were used early during the battle of Ror to allow the strongest to survive.”

Zedd’aki cringed, “And the body they put them into? What of them?”

Ja’tar shrugged, “Sometimes the better good must be served.”

“Not if it’s you that gets used,” Zedd’aki grumbled bitterly under his breath.

Ja’tar soothed his friend, “From what I’ve read, they only used volunteers ….”

“Nonetheless,” Zedd’aki said, his lip quivering. “Ja’tar, the cave was sealed to prevent us from learning the ways of the ancients.”

“Was it?” Ja’tar asked smugly, eyeing his friend’s reaction as he crossed his arms.

“What?” Zedd’aki’s head shot up. “What are you implying?”

“There it is again —” Ja’tar said.

“There’s what again?”

“Can’t you hear that? It’s that same bloody woman screaming again.”

Zedd’aki paused and held still. “I don’t hear anything. Are you sure?”

“Of course —” Ja’tar answered. “It’s like she’s next door or …”

“Or what,” Zedd’aki probed.

“Or like — what was I saying?”

Zedd’aki shook his head. It was obvious to him that the whole incident with Tar’ac and To’paz had rattled him more than he let on.

“You were talking about the cave ….”

“Ah, yes! Was it really sealed to protect us?” Ja’tar pondered aloud, leading his friend to consider a different path.

“I don’t understand — where are you going with this?”

Ja’tar rationalized, “Zedd’aki, if what is in the cave is so dangerous, why did they keep it at all? Why didn’t they destroy it when they had the chance? Surely that would have been the sure and safest choice.”

Eyebrows raised, Zedd’aki replied, “Maybe they couldn’t destroy it! Maybe they didn’t know how.”

Ja’tar dramatically rolled his eyes, “Ha! Don’t fool yourself. Maybe they kept it for the future. I think they never intended to destroy the knowledge and items.”

Zedd’aki’s face turned pasty white. “Are you telling me that all that was remembered of the battle spells is locked away there, and the artifacts?”

“Indeed,” said Ja’tar smugly. “That is exactly what I believe.”

“Why now?”

Ja’tar pondered the question for a bit. “How can I put this delicately? I have … grown suspicious of the Guild as of late.”

Zedd’aki’s cocked his head and his eyes got wide.

“They seem to stifle innovation. No matter the question I ask, the answer is always no.”

“By the Ten, man!” Zedd’aki blurted out so hard that spittle sprayed from his lips. His eyes set and his face contorted with rage. He stood up quickly, walked over to the tray by the writing desk, nervously poured himself a tall glass of wine, and practically poured it down his throat.

“Calm yourself Zedd’aki. Listen to me.”

Zedd’aki was beyond words, “But …b-but.”

Ja’tar reasoned aloud, “Understand that there is much more there than just the magic and accounts of the Great War, the battles. If the spell that was cast in To’paz’s realm was from those days, there will be mention of it in the records, details on how to detect it. Maybe, if we are lucky, we’ll find a record of it in those books and figure out how to counter it. Those books are alive and are still recording.”

Zedd’aki refilled his glass and fell back down in the chair.

Silence filled the space between them.

Zedd’aki’s eyes narrowed, “Alive? How so?”

“Well, no, poor choice of words,” Ja’tar shook his head side-to-side. “Let me clarify. I don’t mean in the sense of being a breathing sentient life form. But they live on for eternity carrying out their purpose. Recording spells cast in the realms, and counters.”

“How in the name of the Ten did they manage that?”

“Does it matter?” Ja’tar curtly replied. “All that truly matters is that they did!”

“It matters,” Zedd’aki stated with an uncharacteristic growl.

“Why? Why does it matter?”

Zedd’aki set his hands firmly on the armrests. “Because we have no idea what we are getting into. Compared to their magic, ours is child’s play. We cannot use … control what we do not understand. Worse yet, we use it incorrectly and cause a cataclysm.”

Ja’tar defiantly blurted out, “Bah, cataclysm! We can learn …”

Concern filled Zedd’aki’s voice as he asked the only question on his mind, “But should we? We would be dabbling in things best left to rest. Dredging up the power of those years sounds like a very bad idea to me!”

Ja’tar’ eyes darted about reading the expression on his friend’s face. “You’re scared!”

Zedd’aki threw up his arms. “Of course I am, and if you are not, you are as big a fool as I have ever met.”

Ja’tar got right into his face.

“I’m no fool, but I am not an old woman either.”

Ja’tar was irritated. His friend had always been too reserved. As kids, he never gave his studies his all. Ja’tar remembered one of the few times he had. He had been magnificent. His spell so powerful, exact and focused, even their teachers had been in awe. Ja’tar stood up and shook a finger at his friend.

“Bah!” Zedd’aki said, spitting on the ground.

Ja’tar turned his back, “You have always let fear rule your life. You could have been a great wizard. Instead …”

“Instead I’m what?” Zedd’aki yelled.

“Doesn’t matter …,” Ja’tar said, shaking his head and trying to change the subject.

“No! State what you were going to say. Instead, I’m what?” Zedd’aki stood quickly and firmly placing his clenched hands on his hips.

Ja’tar got right up into Zedd’aki’s face and shouted, “Instead you never lived up to your potential. You should have been a leader. You should have mastery of which few of us could ever dream. I’ve seen your greatness. Wasted! You had the potential …”

Zedd’aki yelled back, “Maybe I didn’t wish for that kind of power!”

“Or maybe… you were too afraid of that kind of power,” Ja’tar mockingly whined back.

Zedd’aki loathed admitting it, but he knew his friend was correct. He was terrified. He was afraid of the flow, losing control. He reminisced from his youth how it felt when he had let go. He had wielded an immense quantity of power those few times. He had loved the sensation of all that power, and that scared him.

“So, where does that leave us?”

“Well, you are still my dear friend, in spite of your crippling limitations,” joked Ja’tar weakly.

“I will try not to be too big of a burden in your quest to be a god!” Zedd’aki shot back sarcastically.

“Well then, see to it,” Ja’tar mocked ire. “I used to be a god you know ….”

“Key words are ‘used to be’…,” said Zedd’aki, wrinkling his nose, but knowing the truth of it.

“I chose to return,” Ja’tar countered loudly. “Chose —”

“The Guild chose for you!” Zedd’aki reminded him.

“True. Still — I was chosen,” Ja’tar emphasized, trying to recall those glory days.

“Well, look at you. You are not a god now! The god’s were better looking … as I recall.”

Ja’tar grunted. “I was younger back in the day.”

“It must have been hard to have been called back,” said Zedd’aki compassionately.

Ja’tar nodded blankly, “Sometimes I remember things ….”

“Maybe you shouldn’t … that’s why you were descended.”

“I still think of myself that way. Sometimes.”

“Well, you are just Ja’tar now. You should try to get used to that.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ja’tar spat back, losing his resolve.

“Well, I may not be a god, but at least I’m smart enough not to have been sitting in a puddle of gore …,” Zedd’aki jibbed.

Ja’tar looked down and let a small chuckle out. “I surrender.”

He did smell bad, even after washing and changing his robe. He knew he should go downstairs and take a long bath.

Ja’tar refocused. “But, we still need to find cause. We cannot just ignore this problem.”

“Surely there are other ways to gain this knowledge. What about the sealed tomes in the lower library?” Zedd’aki said, calming down.

Zedd’aki sat down. Ja’tar walked over to get himself a glass of wine.

“The locked area is filled with useless drivel! I’ve studied them. I’m afraid that there isn’t much in them that can help us here.”

“But opening the Cave? I don’t —”

“You know of another way?” Ja’tar lips quivered as he interrupted, anger filled his eyes. “I don’t!”

Zedd’aki hung his head down and muttered quietly. “No, I do not.”

“Listen Zedd’aki, I promise you that I will only research what I need, no more. I believe that what we need will not be deep in the cave. The cave is rumored to be massive. I understand that the most dangerous of artifacts and spells are hidden deep, not in the anterior rooms. They should be less protected, agreed?”

Not seeing any other practical option, Zedd’aki nodded. “Agreed, but you must promise me that you’ll reseal the Cave when you are finished, replace every ward. No one must ever suspect.”

Ja’tar’s expression softened.

“Don’t worry my old friend. I will take care.”

Zedd’aki whispered half to himself. “I will miss you when you are dead.”

“Dead?” Ja’tar exclaimed, overhearing the unintended comment.

“There will be wards. Potent, dangerous wards set by battle wizards. By the Ten, yes! I’m sure there will be evil wards, and beasts… horrible beasts.”

“There probably are — But I am the Keeper. There are things that I know that are not known —”

“Not what?”

“Not known to —” Ja’tar cut himself off, but it was too late.

“To who?” Zedd’aki spat.

Ja’tar swallowed hard, “Not known to you — or anybody else here in the Keep.”

“So you are the Chosen?”

“Yes, and let’s leave it at that.”

“You seem to know a lot about the cave …” Zedd’aki shot back in an accusatory tone.

“I’m the Keeper!”

“I’m just saying —” Zedd’aki stammered, lowering his glance. He had not meant to accuse his friend.

Ja’tar emphasized, “I should know more!”

“But these protections were set by the Ten, the Ten! Get yourself killed you will, and I’ll be stuck wiping your gore off of the rocks if you aren’t careful.”

“Point well taken.” Ja’tar had not missing the not-so subtle reference to the watcher.

Zedd’aki spat on the ground. “I think I will leave you on the rock as a warning to others!”

“Zedd’aki,” Ja’tar said, raising his voice. “Enough! I hear your arguments.”

“Bah!” said Zedd’aki bitterly.

“Even if I find nothing in the Cave, we still need to find out what exactly happened. I fear we will be forced to deal with this one way or another. I would much rather control the circumstances, choose the time and place than have my hand forced.”

“Why?” Zedd’aki demanded. “We don’t know for sure that this event isn’t a singular tragedy. Why can’t we just leave things alone?”

“Alone? By the deities, the power it takes to control so much of the flow…. at a minimum, we have a new foe — a very mighty foe.” Ja’tar slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. His eyes shot wide before he spoke sharply and, leaning over close, he shook his finger in front of Zedd’aki’s nose. “We need to take action.”

Zedd’aki pushed the finger out of his face and grabbed his friend’s shoulder, rubbing gently. “Calm down Ja’tar. I’m sure that not all is as dire as you imagine it to be. You are still in shock my friend.”

“You are wrong!” Ja’tar replied, pushing his friend’s hand from his shoulder forcefully and staring him in the eyes.

“This power — I remember the last war between planes — I remember the horrible power we had to wield, the painful joining. I saw the results of the battle, the earth scarred, minds destroyed.” Ja’tar shivered as the thoughts he had pushed aside for centuries returned.

“The work it took to rebuild not to mention the lost lives! Think of the lives that were destroyed! My father suffered the sickness until he ascended. I had to watch him retch and quiver as the dark magic sapped his vitality and crippled his body. My older brother was killed in the early battles, and there were countless wizards and sorceresses who died, or were maimed to rectify the wrong we had perpetuated through our arrogance.”

Zedd’aki shook his head, “I remember too my friend. I was there by your side the whole time. I also lost my father, and an uncle. I too lost dear, dear friends. We were so young back in the day. We knew so little.”

“But I am two hundred years older than you are…”

“So, you are saying?”

“I saw more of the war …,” Ja’tar said, as his voice trailed off. “I fought in the earlier battles, when hundreds of wizards lined the banks of the Forlorn River and made it boil.”

“Maybe you did, but I feel the pain too,” said Zedd’aki indignantly.

“I just. I just remember my father telling me of his days as a young wizard, when the Ten were still around. And if those times return…”

“They cannot return. That knowledge was destroyed. The war was won, the Ten are dead and long gone,” said Zedd’aki hastily.

Ja’tar raised a brow, “So we are led to believe. Did you personally witness the destruction of the tomes? Eh? Do you really think that the Ten would destroy all those spells, artifacts and incantations not knowing whether they had truly sent the demons back to whence they came?”

Zedd’aki raised a brow, knowing where his friend was leading the conversation. “Surely they would… it would have been pure folly not to.”

“Indeed. But I repeat. Did you witness? Would you be willing to bet your life on it?”

Zedd’aki shuddered. “Are you suggesting that they saved all the old magic, all those evil, vile spells? Spells that create abominations, suck the souls, and control lower plane warriors?”

Ja’tar guffawed, “All? No, I don’t think even they could have gotten away with that, but we have never been able to gain access to their private rooms and it was well known that they all kept diaries of their greatest achievements. “

“We’d better hope not.”

“I’m merely saying that I don’t believe it would have been in the best interest of the Guild to destroy all that knowledge.”

“Because?”

“Because there is a chance that someday, the Guild may need that knowledge to defeat an unexpected return of the dark times.”

“So, you think the Cave still has hidden secrets, unknown to any living mage?” Zedd’aki fearfully queried.

“Absolutely yes, I think the Cave has many secrets. Most of which even I have no desire to learn.”

“Pray to the gods you don’t!”

“However, I also believe that some of the lesser artifacts could help us now,” Ja’tar said with confidence.

Zedd’aki was puzzled, “If the Guild hid the artifacts in the cave, who would know about them? If you are the Keeper and you do not know, who would they trust with such dangerous knowledge?”

“I … do not know. That is a conundrum. Maybe the Cave has an enchantment of need and all will become apparent if the need arises.”

“By that line of reasoning… this must not be the time,” Zedd’aki followed the reasoning to its logical conclusion.

Ja’tar took another big sip from his glass and swirled its contents around slowly, taking a big whiff from the goblet, “Until we check, we will not know.”

“I sense that nothing has changed,” said Zedd’aki, after searching his feelings.

“Magic isn’t exact. Maybe the wards were ill constructed. Or maybe we cannot feel the change from here.”

“By the Ten, you jest!” Zedd’aki laughed out loud finding humor even in this dire conversation.

Ja’tar just shrugged. “Everyone makes mistakes… however; I tend to believe that the shortcoming is on our side. Not theirs.”

Zedd’aki commented wryly, “Myself, I don’t believe for a second that Duvall ever made a mistake in her life.”

Ja’tar reasoned aloud, “Let’s say for sake of argument that we do find what we need in the Cave, what’s next?”

“What do you mean?” Zedd’aki asked, not following where his friend was leading.

“Would it be worth it, worth the risk?”

“I suppose, but where do you draw the line? How do you choose when to stop?” Zedd’aki was seriously concerned about their will power when faced with a life and death decision, or even worse, when temped with powers better left alone.

“We’ll know,” Ja’tar insisted.

Zedd’aki cautioned, “Remember, the stories of the temptations of pure power? It corrupts and was at the root of all that went awry in the days of Ror.”

“But we know better.”

Zedd’aki guffawed. “If they couldn’t resist the powers that made men as gods, if they yearned for more and lost their humanity, what will become of us, for we have neither the mastery nor knowledge that they possessed?”

“You really believe we can’t learn from their failures?”

Zedd’aki leaned closer to his friend and whispered in his ear. “Anything is possible, but think carefully on this; what if we liberate something that is better left dormant or start another Time of Woe in our haste? Where would that leave us?”

“We have no way of knowing in advance what may or may not happen. But what choice do we really have? Inaction isn’t a viable plan,” said Ja’tar, fully understanding what his friend was implying and knowing that his friend was right.

Zedd’aki’s eyes narrowed, “So you trust them and you’re willing to wager your life on this, and all of our lives, along with the future of the realms?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I don’t trust them, that is why I feel we are better equipped than they were. If we were to fail…” Ja’tar shook his head. He could see how uneasy his friend was, almost to the point of rage.

Zedd’aki stood up and paced in front of the window, nervously fidgeting.

“We need to remember how we got here in the first place. There were damn good reasons the Guild locked everything away never to be used. There were good reasons for the races to decide that the time of the ancients and powerful magi had come to an end. We are reclusive because of these reasons. We should not forget… those reasons,” said Zedd’aki harshly, scolding his old friend like a small child.

“Do not think for a second that I am naive and that I only seek the adventure of the unknown,” Ja’tar fired back as he chided his friend, shaking a crooked finger in his face.

“You seem to me to be overly eager to pursue this madness, Ja’tar. It deeply concerns me,” said Zedd’aki, matter-of-factly, raising the tone of his voice, “I don’t trust them, the Ten. No I don’t, not one bit. They were devious, scheming and single-minded in their pursuit.”

“I agree.”

“As I understand history, it was only the combined efforts of the other races which held them in check.”

Ja’tar nodded his acknowledgment of what Zedd’aki had said.

“Although I greatly respect their achievements, nothing I have read of their history leads me to believe they were honorable people. They were ruthless and greedy; they lusted for power and ruled by fear.”

Ja’tar searched his friend in the eyes. “I agree. I don’t trust them either, but who is to say that none of those ancient demons survived… or recovered. Those were desperate times. We cannot sit and judge their actions. By all accounts, they single-handedly saved the realms.”

Zedd’aki just nodded, knowing it was true.

“And…we can’t just sit back waiting for the next disaster to strike!” Ja’tar yelled back red faced. “We are too few.”

“We were damn lucky to survive the last time they attacked. This time…?” Zedd’aki voice faltered, as he knew he wasn’t going to win this argument.

“I want you to see something,” Ja’tar said. “We need to go back down to the library.”

“Now?”

“Now!” Ja’tar demanded as he stood and placed his empty goblet on the desk. Zedd’aki quickly drained his and followed Ja’tar out of the room.

Duvall felt them leave. Actually, she more sensed that they had left. She sighed heavily. For a second, she thought she had reached the man in the next room. She had been unsuccessful again. The wards on her room were just too strong for her to break through. She had tried to dispel them, but she didn’t have enough power from within the bal’achar. She stared out the window and watched the clouds roll past. May be today another bird would visit and sing to her.

It didn’t take long before they were standing in front of the giant oak table. The mess had been cleaned and the room had been put back into order. The orb still sat on the table, covered with its protective cloth. The tattered pieces of the flags and maps had been removed and the pool of molten metal had been scraped free of the rock and disposed of. Even the remains of the Dragonbone chair were gone.

“I need you to look into the orb. Prepare yourself!” Ja’tar demanded.

Zedd’aki sighed. He supposed there was just no use in arguing with Ja’tar when he got into one of his moods.

“I presume I don’t have a choice?” Zedd’aki grumbled. “If you are this worried, I guess I can take a look for the sake of the Guild.”

Ja’tar tossed the covering aside and set his wards in place. He grasped the orb and pulled up the last of the viewings. He set it up to repeat the last five minutes or so of the events that had played out earlier in the day. When he finished, he released the orb and pushed it in front of his friend.

Ja’tar nodded forcefully, motioned for his friend to gaze into the orb, and said in all earnestness, “Indeed! We are small in number, a shadow of who we were. Now… you need to look into the orb for yourself… You need to understand my suspicions, but I warn you, prepare your guards well. Danger may still lurk.”

“Very well, Ja’tar. If that will ease your pain, I will look into El’batar, but I am no watcher.” Zedd’aki frowned as he began his preparation, expecting the worst.

Ja’tar nodded and pulled out a chair for his friend. “That will not matter. Although I am not a true watcher, I used to teach and I’ve set up the viewing for you. All you need to do is ward yourself and ask El’batar to show you its last record. You know the words?”

“I remember them.”

Zedd’aki wove his spells and set his wards before leaning over the table and pulling the orb in front of himself. He beckoned it to show what was last observed.

He set his hands on the orb, which was still almost too hot to touch and watched. At first, just the swirl of the ethereal mist was visible, and the view slowly expanded and came into focus, replaying the last few minutes.

The scene was gruesome and Zedd’aki had to look away several times to quell his queasy stomach. Sweat dripped down his brow and his face was red with anger, as he came to realize the horror of which his friend had tried so ineffectively to explain.

He cut his connection to the orb and gazed up, Zedd’aki’s jaw quivered as he whispered, “Ja’tar, you were right. We must find out what did this. I didn’t know ….”

“Words cannot explain. This is what I fear.”

He stammered, “Oh, by the Ten, I didn’t know!”

“Indeed. However, just as important as finding the truth, I think we must also hold a Closing. Whatever did this must never escape. Never, do you hear me?”

Zedd’aki turned away from the orb and raised his brows. “A Closing? Ja’tar, is that absolutely necessary? The wards are already in place, you yourself said the Life Towers had closed the realm.”

“I don’t trust the wards,” Ja’tar mumbled.

Because Closings were so difficult, intricately woven and incredibly powerful wards were put in place to automatically cordon off a realm if the guardian spires detected black magic use or even regular magic use at a level deemed to be of a threat to other realms.

It wasn’t known exactly when the spires had come into being, or even who created them. Ja’tar suspected that the other races had joined to fashion them as a means of protecting themselves from rogue magi as well as from the demons, although much of the records from those days had been lost. For all Ja’tar knew, maybe they made the towers to protect themselves from the Ten.

There had not been a Closing held in ages, and Ja’tar had never actually presided over one in all his years as a Keeper. They were dangerous to perform and required nine of the elders to assemble to hold one. It was difficult to control the Zylliac, the wraith-like being that existed in all realms and acted as a conduit between the one source, the gift, and those who learn to command the magic through it. Only the Zylliac was strong enough to choke off an entire realm from the one source permanently.

A Few Words

Ja’tar casually threw a cloth over the orb and slammed the Book of Records closed, “We must hold council.”

Zedd’aki’s had been examining the charred remains he had found in a tidy pile hidden off to the side of a bookcase and the loud noise startled him. His head snapped around to view his friend. He had been caught by surprise and quickly asked, “Wh-when?”

“Soon…tonight if possible, I’m thinking after dinner. I feel we cannot afford to delay.” Ja’tar categorically scowled as he ran his hand over the intricately carved leather cover.

“What do we tell them? Even we are not sure of the events that transpired.”

“I suppose the truth, at least as we know it,” said Ja’tar calmly as he shrugged. “What else can we say?”

Zedd’aki nodded although he wasn’t sure that the truth was the message they should hear, “All of the truth? Do you think they will believe?

Ja’tar dusted off his hands and rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure it matters.”

“You think it doesn’t matter? Why not?”

“They’ll believe or not I expect. Nothing we can do about that.”

“But what if they panic,” said Zedd’aki, pursuing a thought path that was pure conjecture. “Where does that leave us?”

Ja’tar scrunched his brow as he looked up from the book. “Panic, how so?”

“I mean, what if they agree and want to call back all the travelers,” Zedd’aki reasoned. “What then?”

“Then we do as they ask.”

“We’re already as removed from the world as we can afford, any more and we might as well completely pull back to the Keep.”

“All we can do is our best to ease their minds,” said Ja’tar, resigning himself to the idea. “We’ll never please everyone.”

“I suppose so —” Zedd’aki nodded in agreement. “It’s just —”

“I know,” Ja’tar injected sympathetically.

“But —”

“If we are facing a new more powerful foe, we must let everyone know and we need to plan,” Ja’tar said forcefully, his eyes lighting up.

“Maybe we should wait. You know … until we know more? Now might not be the right time.”

“Now is the perfect time, everyone already knows the watcher is gone. Rumors travel fast. They will already be expecting me to say a few words on his behalf.”

Zedd’aki sighed, “It may make things … difficult.”

“Possibly,” Ja’tar said, raising a brow.

“You will be watched more closely. They will be on guard, looking to you to lead. It will make your plan to open the Cave more… difficult,” Zedd’aki whispered, leaning in to within inches of Ja’tar’s ear.

“We will have to deal with that. If we don’t tell them a truth, they will be suspect of all as things unwind. In good conscience, I cannot keep them totally in the dark. Their lives could be endangered.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Zedd’aki grunted as he yanked his beard, “but I still don’t care for it one bit.”

Ja’tar felt a headache coming on and rubbed his temples. “Neither do I my friend, it leaves too much to chance.”

“You realize, don’t you, that there will be no agreement tonight on whether or not to hold a Closing!” Zedd’aki frowned, running both of his hands through his hair in angst, and shaking his head.

Ja’tar nodded bitterly as he sat down stiffly at the Grand Table. His face mirrored how he felt, tired of all the petty gamesmanship and grandstanding. He traced simple runes on the table with the remaining ash. “Politics —!”

Zedd’aki motioned toward the door and started walking. “We have no time for politics.”

“With Guild business there is always politics,” Ja’tar agreed. He stood, swept the ash to the floor and followed his friend out of the library.

“Now that’s the truth,” said Zedd’aki, grinning as they started the long trek up the stairs.

The elemental ground and morphed itself back into a solid stone wall once they left the immediate area.

“We may be required to … how should I say this — circumvent the process to get things done. I suppose I could force the issue,” Ja’tar suggested, pausing for a brief rest.

Zedd’aki was surprised at his friend’s newfound courage. “Consensus may be wiser ….”

“I have the right,” said Ja’tar arrogantly, as the corner of his mouth twitched. He was feeling the need to act quickly.

“But it may be wiser to have everyone enlightened to see things your way.” Zedd’aki slowly resumed his climb.

“It’s my right …,” Ja’tar said, refusing to budge, and letting his friend get several steps ahead.

Ja’tar cleared his throat rather loudly, causing Zedd’aki to stop.

Ja’tar’s eyes flared as he spoke, “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, yes! You have the right, but if you force the issue …,” Zedd’aki said, raising a waving hand, his voice faltering a little, “you catch more flies with honey than …”

“I suppose if I invoke station, I might trigger some resentment.” Said Ja’tar sheepishly, as he walked up the stairs to where Zedd’aki was waiting.

Zedd’aki had a way of making him feel reckless at the most inopportune times. They made a good pair, the two of them, one overly cautious, the other, a bit reckless.

“To get a Closing through the council, you’re going to need all the votes you can.” Zedd’aki looked up the colossal spiral staircase, looking for the halfling. Zedd’aki didn’t want their conversation to be overheard. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Maybe there is another way …,” maneuvered Ja’tar, not being one to let anything get in his way, especially when he knew he was right.

Zedd’aki picked up on his tone and knew trouble was coming. “Another way? How?”

“There are ways —” Ja’tar said, leaning forward, furling his brow. “The Ten provided provisions for crisis that allow the Keeper some degree of — let’s just say … latitude.”

Zedd’aki was barely able to believe what he had just heard suggested. “Go behind their backs? You can’t be serious?”

“No, but —” Ja’tar waved his hands and slowly shrugged his shoulders.

Zedd’aki paused at the top of the stairs where they exited to the main floor of the Keep. He didn’t like where his friend was going with this plan. “You know that this could cause division in the Keep.”

“We already have division. The Brethren are the extremists, but Dra’kor and his gang are the worst. He has already built an impressive following. He fights me at every step.”

“Dra’kor!” Zedd’aki said in disgust as he wiped his hand across the railing, gathering a small pile of dust, which he flicked to the floor, brushing his hands clean on his robe. “Can we handle the Brethren?”

Ja’tar pondered the question for a minute, and replied. “They want to dissolve the Guild. They can be manipulated if necessary.”

“I don’t care for the Guild myself, although I think that openly defying them is tantamount to suicide. They are too aloof for my liking, but Dra’kor … he’s dangerous.”

“He influences many … he has some extreme opinions that sit well with many of the younger mages. I think he wants to relearn the old ways.” Ja’tar speculated, rubbing his chin. “I think that most of it comes from his upbringing.”

“That was eight-hundred years ago when —”

“He’s a royal you know. The second son to a King. He was raised a royal. I doubt that you ever lose that … his father was, well, let’s just say he was difficult.”

“Our Dra’kor? Huh —!”

“Dra’kor’s problem is that he has ideas about his self-worth that are delusional. He was raised in a manner where he became accustomed to being treated special — without earning it.”

“He’s an idiot!” Zedd’aki said, spitting at the ground. “Old ways? He just wants power.”

“Agreed, but … just because he doesn’t see eye-to-eye with the current Keep philosophy of quiet oversight, doesn’t mean his thoughts have no merit. He wants us to be more involved … with this I agree,” explained Ja’tar before he caught himself.

Zedd’aki was surprised at his admission.

Ja’tar looked around, “If we are to continue this conversation, we should take it out of the hall, just in case.”

Zedd’aki turned red and nodded, heading for their favorite place near the fireplace in the small sitting room, which was located opposite the main dining room, with the kitchen nestled in between. Zedd’aki and Ja’tar were about the only wizards who used the small room. That made it an ideal place for conversation, secluded, thick stone walls, private and cozy. Ja’tar followed closely on his heels as he opened the thick oak door and stepped inside. He almost immediately felt the warmth of the fire in the stone hearth. He walked over and tossed another birch log on before he sought out a place to sit.

Ja’tar sat down on the benches along the one long pine table. “Now what were you saying?”

“Ah yes, Dra’kor! Bah! He longs for the glory days when magi ruled. He wants the commoners to bow to him. He wants to —” Zedd’aki stormed on, bowing to an imaginary mage.

“Enough. We all know what he wants.” Ja’tar grinned widely as he interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Bear in mind Zedd’aki, he’s old enough to remember how the locals used to treat members of the Keep, but not old enough to recall the reasons of why we decided to become more … reclusive.”

Zedd’aki growled, “He’s a power monger!”

“I doubt it! I believe his heart is actually in the right spot. At least he is predictable. His motives are … totally transparent. Most importantly, he believes he is right.”

Zedd’aki blurted out, “that’s what makes him very dangerous.”

“What? Believing he’s right?”

“You know what I mean … nothing quite as dangerous as a man who believes that he knows everything,” Zedd’aki nodded grumbling.

Ja’tar caught the double-entendres, but ignored it, poked a crooked finger into Zedd’aki’s chest, “Aye, nor as vulnerable.”

“True,” admitted Zedd’aki as he pushed Ja’tar’s finger away.

“Would you rather have to deal with someone you can’t read?”

“No, but by the Ten, he’s got the tongue of the Dark Lord himself.” Zedd’aki confessed as he yanked hard on his long white beard.

Ja’tar snorted, “He is quite a bard when it comes to spinning a yarn.”

“I tire of all of his whining … and the drama. All he ever does is criticize people. He never has anything constructive to add to a conversation. He never has solutions.”

“I think it’s because of his rebellious youth,” chortled Ja’tar. “We were once like him.”

Zedd’aki snorted, “Ha! We were never that annoying!”

Ja’tar gave Zedd’aki an dumbfounded look.

“We weren’t,” Zedd’aki insisted, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

“Perhaps the way he acts suites his purpose. He stirs the pot, see what happens. Still, he’s a good speaker.”

Zedd’aki grabbed, yanked and twisted an imaginary foe. “Has a way with the words he does; twists them. He reaches down in your gut and gets you with those unsaid thoughts; emotional half-truths that don’t register as wrong.”

“I agree, Zedd’aki. They always seem to sound quite plausible … until closer examination.”

Ja’tar watched as Gretta waddled over nodding to Zedd’aki who looked over his shoulder and immediately hushed.

“Hello boys!” Gretta said, cheerfully. “Can I get you gents anything?”

“G’day Gretta,” Zedd’aki responded. “We sure could use a couple mugs of mead if you have some chilled, and a plate of your sausages.”

“I’ll get ‘em in a minute,” Gretta nodded and set a hand on Ja’tar’s shoulder, “Sorry to hear about Tar’ac. He was a nice gent …”

“He was …,” echoed Ja’tar, setting his hand on hers.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“No thank you, Gretta. I think that will do,” said Zedd’aki. “Wait, maybe a couple small rolls to go with the sausage.”

Gretta smiled brightly and turned to go. The two magi watched as she walked through the big door into the kitchen.

Ja’tar stared blankly. “Now where were we?”

“He’s still an idiot,” Zedd’aki said, not missing a note.

Ja’tar shook his head and grinned widely.

Zedd’aki scowled. “What …?”

“Nothing. You were saying?”

“I … I … damn! I lost track of my thoughts,” Zedd’aki said, red-faced as his lips quivered.

Ja’tar nodded as Gretta returned with the mugs, rolls and sizzling sausages. Ja’tar’s mouth watered and he realized he had not had breakfast yet.

Ja’tar thanked her and stabbed one of the big links with a fork. He bit it and felt the casing pop in his mouth as the succulent juices squirted out of his lips and down his chin. He wiped them away and added a torn off hunk of roll and chewed slowly, savoring the spices, thyme, rosemary, pepper, and fennel. Zedd’aki watched him stuff his face.

“You act like you haven’t eaten in a week.”

“Not since last night,” Ja’tar answered with his mouth full.

Zedd’aki joined him and for a short time, no words were shared as they almost polished off the entire heaping plate of grilled sausage and rolls.

Ja’tar shook a fork with a sausage on it at his friend. “Anyway, idiot or not, only time will tell. However, I believe that his basic problem is that he is very inexperienced and he doesn’t know the full implications of what he does or says. He is young, naive, and he is arrogant.”

“…arrogance that will someday extract a price. Do we allow others to pay for his foolishness?” Zedd’aki blurted out as he stared into space, and contemplated the cost.

Ja’tar had a small smirk on his face as he swirled the mead in his pewter mug. “Nay Zedd’aki, we do not. It would be unconscionable to let others suffer on his behalf. But … maybe we can use his arrogance to our advantage?”

Zedd’aki’s head snapped around, “What?”

“Let’s think about this. We need room to plan and maneuver, right?”

“Sure, so?”

“Eh? Maybe we can give him a quest.” Ja’tar nervously tapped on the table with his fingers, “something to keep him occupied.”

He peered deeply up into his friend’s eyes. “It has to be important enough that he feels he has the opportunity to prove his mettle. It must be convincing.”

“Aye! But not enough to get him killed,” Zedd’aki laughed and grinned mischievously, “or not…”

Silence filled the room.

Ja’tar took a couple big gulps from his mug.

“…or not” nodded Ja’tar. “Maybe he’ll take a few of his friends with him and get them out of our way too.”

Ja’tar shook his finger at Zedd’aki. “Perhaps he might learn a thing or two along the way.”

“Experience does have a way of being a very good teacher,” replied Zedd’aki, deeply chagrinned, as he raised his mug in a toast, “If you survive the lessons.”

Ja’tar tapped his mug into his friend’s mug. “Hear-hear. To surviving!”

They both smiled and took long draws from their mugs.

“Let’s hope he survives them, there are too few of us to lose another …,” Ja’tar added.

Zedd’aki harrumphed and flicked a bread scrap to the floor, “No big loss …”

“Just the same …,” Ja’tar replied as he eyed the last sausage, but Zedd’aki beat him to it causing him to scowl. Zedd’aki ignored his scowl and shoved the whole link into his mouth.

Talking with his mouth full, Zedd’aki mumbled, “Goob sausages! Doob we hab enough time to plan this out?”

“Plan?” Ja’tar guffawed. “We’ll plan later, after we know what we’re doing.”

Zedd’aki scrunched up his face and nodded, knowing the truth when he heard it. They were doomed!

Ja’tar placed his hands on his hips, trying to look incredulous, “I have no idea.”

Zedd’aki didn’t follow the question. It took him a bit before he realized that Ja’tar was trying to provoke him. He swallowed, “We really should you know!”

“You think?”

Zedd’aki shrugged, “I’m just saying … it might be better.”

Ja’tar frowned, “I have a plan ….”

Zedd’aki’s eyes got round. “Care to let me in on it?”

“Later. I need to think this through,” Ja’tar mumbled. “Let’s just say that I’ve wanted to send a team out into the realms for years. This may be the opportune time to just take a leap of faith.”

“Well, don’t take too long before you let me in on the plan,” Zedd’aki replied, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “You are going to let me in on the plan, aren’t you?

“Oh, yes, yes!” Ja’tar said, acting indignantly. “Of course I will —”

“Of course …”

Ja’tar wiped his brow, “Unfortunately, I don’t think we’ll have much time up front. However, you know how these things go. They could take months, even years.”

“We don’t have years, do we?”

“No, I don’t think we do … not based on what we’ve seen. Maybe not even months —”

“What’ll we do?”

“I still need to get nine self-centered wizards back to the Keep for the Closing. That will be … difficult. I suppose we should start there.”

Ja’tar wringed his hands and brought them to his chin, elbows leaning on the table. He knew that with their numbers so small, he would have to call on travelers. He also knew that all travelers were reluctant to leave their realms, even when Guild business demanded their attention. They would drag their feet until they were forced with disciplinary action before they would make the journey home.

“There’ll probably be plenty of time for us to fully plan what needs be done.” Resignation set in to Zedd’aki’s demeanor. This was going to take some time, for he also knew the truth of the matter.

“Yes, but I can plant a few seeds and see how they grow. I don’t see that we have any other choice. I fear that we are facing far more than what is apparent,” bemoaned Ja’tar. “And now, we are blind too …”

He paused for a second considering the choices, and continued, “What would happen if we didn’t act and this … whatever it is, gets loose and starts destroying whole realms?”

Zedd’aki gawked in shock. “What? We can’t —”

“Shh!” Ja’tar stood up and paced before the oversized stone hearth. “The Guild is too small now. We wouldn’t stand a chance against a full demon uprising. We would fail!”

“Aye, most likely we would,” agreed Zedd’aki.

Ja’tar continued, “… because we are ill prepared. Our skills have grown … rusty. Besides, I’m not sure the other races would even bother to assist us, our reputation isn’t as golden as it once was …”

“I agree, that would spell the end of us.”

“We can’t let that happen,” emphasized Ja’tar.

Zedd’aki nodded his agreement. “No, we can’t. But what if this is all for naught and no crisis ensues?”

“No harm done,” Ja’tar replied. “It would —”

“No harm?” Zedd’aki raised his voice. “Are you willing to risk a fight and perhaps insurrection on conjecture?”

Ja’tar’s face turned red, “Conjecture? Conjecture?” He threw his cup against the wall, “Zedd’aki, I think I have a little more evidence that we are under attack than that. Give me some bloody credit here.”

“It’s still just a single incident,” Zedd’aki said, pointing a finger into his friend’s chest.

“How do we know that? Huh? We monitor hundreds of realms. The watcher was hundreds of years behind on his oversight visits.”

Zedd’aki’s jaw dropped, “What? You jest! Hundreds of years?”

“Quite literally; the realms of the world could be in utter chaos and we wouldn’t know unless a demon came to the front door and told us. We would have to happen upon the right place at the right time.”

This was the first time Zedd’aki had heard that they were behind on the monitoring of the realms. How could he have known? Tar’ac had worked almost day and night. He had assumed it was so that he could keep up. If they were that far behind …

“I-I-I didn’t know.”

“How could you?” said Ja’tar, as he bent over and picked up his mug, setting back on the table.

“Surely the travelers would let us know?” Zedd’aki suggested.

“How could they, if their realms are closed?” answered Ja’tar acerbically. “We would never know.”

Zedd’aki furrowed his brow and reasoned, “So, you worry that we have accidentally stumbled onto something far more significant.”

“I fear the worst.”

He secretly feared that the situation was far more dire than they supposed and they were ill-prepared for what was most assuredly to come. He had a sinking feeling in his gut and his palms itched.

“I believe we have already lost most of the other realms and their travelers.”

Zedd’aki grimaced. “Do you know enough about the orbs to check?”

Ja’tar nodded, “But it will take time. Time we don’t have.”

“Now you have me worried, Ja’tar,” stammered Zedd’aki upon hearing the tone of his friend’s voice.

Ja’tar whispered, “You should be.”

Zedd’aki hung his head. “I had no idea it was that —”

“Nobody does. It was between Tar’ac and me.”

“Well, that certainly puts a few things into perspective,” said Zedd’aki, as he thought back over the past.

“Doesn’t it!” Ja’tar replied softly.

“It would have helped if you would have told me before … we could have skipped all this arguing,” a cynical Zedd’aki commented.

“Before, there was no reason for you to know,” Ja’tar explained.

A belligerent Zedd’aki mumbled, “Guild business?”

“Guild business!” Ja’tar echoed. “Nothing personal —”

Zedd’aki grunted and tossed his fork to his plate and pushed it violently to the center of the table.

Ja’tar changed the topic. “So, if it comes to it, who can we count on voting our way?”

“Less than half at best, even if we can get those you can trust to make the journey. The rest …?” shrugged Zedd’aki somberly, willing to go along.

“Are there any favors we can call in?”

“Not for something this monumental. Many will see this as an opportunity for private agendas. You have not endeared many friends over the years my friend,” Zedd’aki smiled willfully.

Ja’tar sighed heavily, “Indeed. Being the Keeper is not without its … challenges.”

Zedd’aki guffawed, knowing full well that Ja’tar had never cared what others thought.

“It is hard to rule wisely and still make friends,” Ja’tar grinned back, knowing that his friend saw the irony in what he had just said. “On the other hand, I have many alliances out in the realms amongst the races that I can trust to help us carry out our plan. We will probably need their help if we are to succeed.”

Zedd’aki wryly nodded, “It is in their best interest.”

“And they know it. However, time … time isn’t as important to the other races. Only we humans are consumed by it. It may be difficult to get them to feel a sense of urgency.”

Zedd’aki thought about what Ja’tar had just said. It rang true.

“We humans have less of it … only the Keep and the magic keeps us from aging… or we’d be consumed with it too.”

Ja’tar nodded, “Point well made. I will contact the elves and dwarves. They should be aware of what we plan and why. Perhaps they have information that we are not privy to that could give us some clarity.”

“They do seem to be more in tune with the land and the realms in general,” reasoned Zedd’aki as he tugged on his long white beard.

Ja’tar frowned, “They are cautious in their dealings with outsiders, but I agree, they are tied to the land. If something is up, they will know.”

Zedd’aki voice quivered more than he could control. “They may be our b-best hope.”

“I wouldn’t count on it …”

Zedd’aki caught the comment. “Why would you say that?”

“Let’s just say that there is … much tension between the races.”

“Tension?”

Ja’tar just nodded vacantly.

“What kind of tension,” asked Zedd’aki angrily, “or is this another of those Guild business as usual things?”

“I can say no more,” Ja’tar grumbled, turning away.

Zedd’aki spat angrily at the floor. “I suppose not.”

For a while, there was a very uncomfortable silence. Zedd’aki stared at his friend. It was as if he didn’t know the man any longer. He wasn’t his friend, this man. He was something else, something cold and calculating. Zedd’aki was worried. He broke the silence.

“Well, in any case we have things to do.”

“So it’s agreed? I’ll arrange for a meeting after dinner. Are they to know the topic in advance?”

Ja’tar pondered. “Agreed, but no — I think not. Let them think it is about Tar’ac. That will be best. Nobody gets a head start at trying to undermine the discussion. We need to convey the importance of this,” Ja’tar replied, rubbing his chin, deep in thought.

Zedd’aki stood up and walked away. He had almost made it to the door that led back to the dining room when he turned to look over his shoulder and nodded to his friend. “I’ll do my best to get everyone together tonight after dinner. You had better think long and hard on what you wish to say. You need to make the speech of your life.”

Ja’tar watched as he crossed the empty room. Zedd’aki paused on the steps, looked back at his friend, and thought about cutting through the kitchen, but the sound of pots and pans clanking made him change his mind. With that, he pulled open the massive carved door and stepped out into the main hall. Zedd’aki mumbled to himself as he walked.

“The gods be damned! What if Ja’tar was right? Suppose the demons are back, or worse … the dark mages have returned.”

Inside, he wasn’t sure that the Keep had done right by pulling back so far out of everyday life of the realms. They had lost their edge and skill. Their numbers decreased as the prestige of being a mage dwindled. Their ties to the people were tenuous at best. Mages were not as fondly remembered or thought of as they were in the past. They had become superfluous. This will be difficult to overcome in a crisis. A crisis is not the time to build relationships or trust.

Oh well, it is what it is. I guess we have to live with the throw of the bones we’ve been handed.

Zedd’aki rounded the corner and almost ran into Rua’tor. Rua’tor grabbed his arm and looked him straight on. “So, is Ja’tar going to be alright?”

Zedd’aki shrugged, “Hard to say. He thinks he lost his sister —”

“So I gathered —” Rua’tor’s eyes welling up with tears, for he secretly had loved Ja’tar’s sister and keenly felt her loss, even though it had been years since they were together.

“I’m more concerned that he thinks that this wasn’t a normal incident.”

Rua’tor raised a brow, “How so?”

“He thinks that there was some dark magic at work here, far more powerful than anything we’ve seen before —”

Rua’tor’s eyes widened, “You think he’s right.”

Zedd’aki threw his hands up, “I don’t know what to say. I’m certainly not the most informed about these things. What’s important, I suppose, is that he believes it.”

Rua’tor nodded, “Well, keep an eye on him.”

Zedd’aki smiled weakly. “That I can do.”

With that, Rua’tor rushed off.

Zedd’aki thought about what Rua’tor had said. He supposed he was best positioned to watch over his friend. As he saw things, the problem was what to do if Ja’tar was right?

Zedd’aki shuddered as a chill ran up his spine. He knew that he had forgotten almost all the battle spells he used to know back when he was a young mage. It had been hundreds of years since he even thought about them, and at this point, he couldn’t even remember a single complete spell. Hell, he could barely boil water! He cursed at himself for his complacency.

Who would fight with them? There hadn’t been any new recruits over the last few decades. As the Keep withdrew from daily life in the realm and shielded its doors, the parents stopped bringing their children for testing. How many generations of talent had they lost? There was no prestige in being a mage any longer.

Zedd’aki shook his head as he walked; his feet raised small clouds of dust as he scuffled along the cavernous hallway, but he didn’t even notice. He was deep in thought. Only the solitary echo of his footsteps could be heard, as he pondered their predicament.

It used to be a very desirable and prestigious profession. Being a Mage was considered a higher calling than royalty in most parts. People across the realms would send their children to be tested. The mages assisted the realms in conflicts, kept them safe from invaders, increased their standard of living, and healed their sick. Now … all they did was study the arts. Hardly anyone actually practiced magic any more.

Zedd’aki looked around. He looked up to see the portrait of Illiana staring at him. Thin, lithe, with flowing blond hair, hazel eyes and full ruby lips, her portrait masked her true nature. She was a temptress and a conjurer. Now, being a First Order Conjurer … that was really saying something. She wove weaves that had become legend. They say that she could balance thousands of threads at a time. Thousands, he mouthed!

He wondered what she would have done in this circumstance. She was considered the nicest of the Ten. What would the Ten do? Bah! As far as he knew, they could be the whole reason they were in this mess. Nevertheless, he was sure, she could single-handedly smite whatever beast dared raise a hand against her — and her eyes would twinkle as she relished the act. That’s just the way the Ten were.

He had been walking for a good ten minutes and not seen another mage. Pity he had to go all the way around to get to the dining room, but Gretta hated it when they cut through the kitchen and cooking crew quarters. Nobody in his or her right mind would want to face Gretta when she went on a rant.

The Keep used to hold thousands, a very busy bustling place. The Keep had been a small city unto itself. A mage could walk for hours and still not make a full trip around the entire outer wall.

Our numbers have been shrinking, Zedd’aki thought. Maybe Dra’kor isn’t such an idiot. Maybe he just saw how weak we have been getting over the past years and fears the same … maybe he fears the demons as much as we do.

Zedd’aki turned the last corner and entered the massive banquet hall where everyone ate their daily meals. The heavy carved doors decorated with gold were propped open; six could walk abreast into the room. The ornate ceiling towered above him.

High above, the stained glass panels showed historic scenes of famous mages, battles, heroes, all immortalized in colorful motion glass. Huge carved beams arched to a single peak and held the heavy glass pieces firmly in place. The colors danced across the room as the sun shined through the uneven glass and the embedded prisms.

The design was so elegantly executed by the elves that the light made holographic images in the upper chamber that danced and changed as the sun moved across the sky.

Before him, the long elaborately carved tables were neatly arranged in rows. The polished stone floor glistened, having been hand polished every week for millennia.

Except for Zedd’aki and a few of the housekeeping staff, the room was empty. His steps echoed as he walked. The housekeepers had already arranged the place settings for lunch, fine cutlery and polished metal plates were set in neat rows. Smells of roast meats and stews filled the air.

His mouth watered. He loved the smell of fresh bread. Just the thought of ripping open the golden crust and slathering it with butter made his stomach gurgle. He had to remind himself he had just polished off a plate of sausages.

There were countless rows of tables, but only the first fifteen feet of the first four rows were set. Admittedly, there were many who were in the realms, guiding and watching from afar. But still …

The hand cast pewter cups all stood upside down waiting for their owners to claim them. Each had the family crest and the mage’s name and year of graduation carved into the handle.

There was a large cabinet at the end of the room, filled with all the cups of mages past. Thousands of cups were displayed. Above each cup was an apparition of the owner, now dead or missing. Just a small living snapshot of that person when alive, usually caught when they were unsuspecting of being watched. Zedd’aki’s eyes welled up at the thought of so many friends being gone.

A few of the older ladies were shuffling about bringing in plates of bread and fruit. Zedd’aki walked up to the announcement board. It was empty; had been for many months. Zedd’aki paused to admire the fine gilding of the frame. He reflected on how to activate the Scheduler. He had not done so for a long time. He tried several renditions of the waking spell, at least as best he could remember. After a flurry of hand waving and incantations, he waited.

Nothing happened. Maybe he hadn’t flicked his wrist correctly, or mispronounced a few words; he tried again and was thwarted a second time. Frustration began to build and his movements were getting desperate. On the forth try, a ghost like image of an old man appeared in the center of the bulletin board.

The scheduler looked down in contempt at Zedd’aki through the small narrow glasses that dangled at the end of his nose, and in a soft raspy voice asked, “Cat got your tongue? Can I help you?”

Zedd’aki cleared his throat. “I would like to post a message and schedule a meeting.”

“Of course you would … what else would you be asking of a … scheduler?” the scheduler mused sarcastically raising a brow.

“Let’s get on with it please,”

He always felt a little strange talking to the apparitions that they had created to help around the Keep.

The scheduler folded his hands and leaned forward. “What is the message?”

“A meeting is requested by the Keeper for this evening after sup regarding the recent loss of the watcher.”

The scheduler shook his head deeply chagrinned. “Lost another watcher have we? Dangerous job, being a Watcher is, not much future in it.”

“Just post the message. Make sure everyone knows about the meeting.”

The scheduler wryly replied, “Irritable aren’t we? I guess I can mark this … urgent. I didn’t know that you mages were SO busy, my mistake. Let’s see … if I can fit you in …” The scheduler flipped though his appointment book, “Ah. Last meeting was … oh, three hundred six days ago. Hmm, finally, a blank line ….” The scheduler slowly dipped his quill in the ink cup sitting in the corner of his desk and carefully wrote the message in his logbook.

“Is that all?” the scheduler asked dryly.

Zedd’aki was tempted to say something profound, but fought the urge. There wasn’t much sense in arguing with an apparition. With the wave of his hand, the Scheduler faded and all that was left was a message written in impeccable calligraphy.

Every ten seconds, a voice echoed the message. Zedd’aki was sure that all who entered the room would hear. There were several other boards located throughout the Keep. Zedd’aki frowned. Was it his imagination, or did the announcement sound a little sarcastic? He turned and headed back to his room for some quiet time.

He reached his room and dismissed the ward he had set and pushed the door open. He stepped into the small barren room, motioned for the fire to light, walked over to his bed and after removing his worn sandals, he swung his feet up and reclined. He closed his eyes and soon he was dreaming. Horrible dreams of the past.

He was huddled under the parapet of the castle with Ja’tar as huge fireballs roared overhead. Bolts of plasma crackled and raced over the ground looking to devour anything in its path. Ja’tar was shaking having just been hit in the chest by an emaciation spell. Only his skill had saved him and his color had still not returned.

He could hear the sounds of the dying and could smell death. Immense evil demons, grotesque and defiled walked the grounds, devouring everything alive. Lightning crackled as the dark mages fought the Guild. The sky was blood red from the smoke and battle spells. The ear piercing cries of dragons filled the air, but could barely be distinguished over the roar of the explosions that shook the very ground and had ripped gashes deep as a man.

A group of magi stood their ground in the center of the grounds, furiously weaving spells and enchantments. Their hands were a whirl and their mouths chanted as sweat slid down their faces. They worked as a team, some casting guards, some defending, and some attacking. The strain showed on their faces as the battle waged on. They had been at it for hours. They were the last hope of the mage Guild. If they were defeated, the Keep would fall.

Zedd’aki stared into the face of one of the mages, catching his gaze as a thin sliver of silver fire found a way through the protections. His face contorted and his entire body glowed as if on fire before he simply disappeared in an explosion of falling silver sparks. The mage next to him stepped into his place and the battle continued, only now, their numbers were one less.

He didn’t remember getting up and running into the fray. The next thing he recalled was standing arm-in-arm with the remaining defenders as the vilest, evil and sadistic creatures imaginable pressed their attack. He could see the drool and gore dripping from their fanged mouths, even smell their breath. Their dark blackened skin, scaled and deformed, glistened from the blood that dripped still from their recent kills. They were getting so close. There were so many…

Confrontation

He awoke with a start, in a cold sweat, eyes darting to and fro. The visions were still vivid in his mind and his body shook. He sat up and crossed his legs, trying to gain some composure by meditating. After several minutes, his heart started to slow and his breathing became deep and rhythmic. He slowly purged the thoughts of demons, spells and war out of his head.

Zedd’aki returned to the dining room after his brief reprieve of meditation, such as it was. As he entered the room, he was surprised at the turn out. In spite of their small numbers, it seemed as though everyone had heard the message and decided to attend to see what was going on. Zedd’aki thought about how pathetic is was that it always takes the death of a friend to get them all into a room together.

Zedd’aki was still standing in the entry when Ja’tar walked up beside him. He leaned over and mumbled, “I’m surprised. Nearly everyone is here.”

Ja’tar kept walking sitting down at the table in his customary spot. He reached for a small loaf of rye bread and a turkey thigh. The meat was steaming and the smell made his mouth water. Gretta, the senior chef had prepared a handsome feast. She had a knack for knowing when and what to prepare.

He smiled to himself. She had been cooking here at the Keep for almost two hundred years, her life extended by the time she spent here. Ja’tar saw her standing at the entrance to the kitchen and nodded in her direction. She briefly smiled and in a flash, was off to fill plates and attend to the rest of the room.

Zedd’aki joined his friend at the table, “Ceremonial robe’s a bit much don’t you think?”

Ja’tar just nodded, the corner of his mouth barely turned up. They ate in relative silence. The rest of the room, however, was bustling with conversation. Most of it revolved around the death of the watcher.

By now, everyone had heard about the incident, and most had stopped by the library to see for themselves. Tar’ac was well known to the Keep. Even though he was known, he kept little company and had few friends. He was consumed by his work. He would be sorely missed, and then again, he would not. Most of the other Mages had stopped by just to find out whom the Keeper was going to assign the task of watcher. It was not a task for which any would volunteer.

Ja’tar kept glancing over his shoulder in the direction of Dra’kor and his closest friends. They were deep in conversation but, as best he could tell, they were just discussing the happenings of the day. Good, he thought, maybe I have a chance of pulling this off.

After dinner, Ja’tar stood up. Putting his fist to his lips, he cleared his throat. As he did so, the room fell quiet. People adjusted their chairs and stools to face the Keeper.

Ja’tar looked out across the faces, familiar faces, all older than several hundred years. Faces he had lived with and studied with for hundreds of years. Too few were left, only a handful of those from the trials. The cabinet at the end of the room was full of mugs of fallen companions.

Ja’tar tried to think of something profound to say about Tar’ac, but in spite of all the years, he couldn’t latch on to a single memory of significance. A tear came to his eye. For hundreds of years they had worked side by side and still… he knew nothing about his friend. He sighed and fumbled with his robe before he reached down, grabbed his goblet and raised it.

In a hoarse voice he said, “To Tar’ac — may he rest in peace.”

The sound of goblets being clanked together and a series of toasts echoed across the room. One-by-one a series of ‘Aye’s’ came from each set of lips as goblets were held high. Once everyone held their goblets aloft, they all pulled them to their lips and drank as one. The room was eerily quiet.

Ja’tar made a quick series of intricate hand motions and a beautiful gold goblet materialized emblazoned with Tar’ac’s face, crest and name. With the sweep of his arm, it slowly floated across the room to the shelves that held the cups of the many other mages who had passed on and came to rest near the end of the hundredth shelf, each of which held a hundred mugs.

“It is time,” said Ja’tar quietly. The entire room stood and faced the newly conjured mug.

One by one the other mages in the room sent their favorite memories of Tar’ac into the chalice. The images played out in front of everyone, surrounding them, before swirling in a tight vortex and rushing into the mug with a bright-multicolored flash of light. Each made a loud bell like tone that resonated across the room as it entered the vessel after which everyone bowed their head.

Most were memories of the everyday, but a few were very personal and some even humorous, eliciting a number of chuckles from the group. Ja’tar found himself smiling at many of the memories. It always amazed him at how many wonderful memories had faded from his thoughts, but remained clear in others.

The ceremony quickly passed, for they were not so many in numbers any more. As each completed the ritual, they sat down, one by one.

As the others all sat, Ja’tar was left standing alone. All eyes were upon him as they waited for him. Ja’tar conjured up his memories of the young lad during his testing. Ja’tar’s visions of the overconfident lad and the jovial, even trivial manner in which Tar’ac took the test to be a watcher streamed past. Tar’ac even made the grueling test appear as child’s play. It all played out for everyone to witness. He released the memory into the cup and the cup rang out for his and for every memory.

Now it was time to speak. Ja’tar thought he had been well prepared, but now that it came time to address everyone, he was nervous. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. He knew he was not a good speaker. He was glad he had on the long ceremonial robe; at least they wouldn’t be able to see his knees shaking. His hands were clammy and he fiddled with them and finally wiped them on the robe as he began to speak.

“T-t-today, we have lost a dear friend. Tar’ac will be missed. His contributions to the Keep as watcher were immeasurable. He has blessed us for over eleven hundred years. We must make sure that his death has meaning.” Ja’tar fumbled for the right words as his voice quaked. “His work is … was … flawless,” he added at the end, not knowing what else to say.

Ja’tar bowed his head. “I am saddened that he died in this manner … it was unfair that he had no possibility of surviving, for there was nothing he really could have done … to prepare better. He could not have known that a single small demon would be able to destroy so much or breach the orb. I think that given the way that he died, we must address the circumstances.” Ja’tar choked out, emphasizing the word ‘must’.

Ja’tar lifted his gaze and saw the looks of confusion on the faces of those surrounding him. Someone toward the back of the room shouted out, “didn’t he lose his ward?”

Ja’tar leaned over, placed his hands on the table to either side of his plate, and slowly shook his head. “No … no, he didn’t. Losing a ward makes you lose your mind, the orb takes over and the body becomes an empty shell, like Brad’ac upstairs.”

There were some blank stares around the room.

“Babel —” corrected Ja’tar, grimacing at his slip-up.

Nods and smiles formed around the room in recognition of the name.

“As I explained, the watcher just ceases to exist, but rarely is it fatal. Tar’ac’s death is different from that. Whatever killed him … killed him — how can I say this —” Ja’tar pondered for a split second. “… through the orb. Yes! Magically, through the orb,” Ja’tar nodded.

Murmurs filled the room and Ja’tar could see people shifting positions in their seats. He overheard the phase ‘through the orb?’ and ‘can that actually happen?’

Ja’tar looked at his friend Zedd’aki as he continued, “We are pretty sure that Tar’ac was killed by a demon of some notable strength. The exact spell used is not known at this time, but it must be very old or we would know of it.”

“How could that be?” came a question from the back.

“I think he must have been watching close to the source of the spell, or he was observing whomever the spell was directed at. Either way, the spell was strong enough to have lethal force through the orb. It even destroyed the Dragonbone chair, melted the rock on the back wall.”

Dra’kor stopped cleaning his nails and his head quickly snapped up. “Spells cannot go through the orb. The Zylliac prevents it. You must be mistaken.”

Zedd’aki started to stand. Ja’tar put his hand on his friends shoulder and pushed him to his seat. It didn’t stop him from speaking.

“Dra’kor, have you looked at the room?”

“I have, although Ja’tar was quick to clean up all traces of what happened,” Dra’kor accused the Keeper.

Zedd’aki ignored the jab and continued asking Dra’kor, “The melted rock puddle is still there! Did you read the tome, or look into the orb? Replay the scene”

“No, I didn’t.”

Dra’kor had answered nonchalantly as he went back to cleaning his nails.

“Ah! Well, considering that you speak without any knowledge of the event at all, you speak out of ignorance and wishful conjecture. Once again, all bluster and no substance.”

“We aren’t allowed to touch the orbs. You know that,” Dra’kor said.

“Just the same …” Zedd’aki grunted.

Dra’kor put down the small paring knife he was using on his nails and stood up to face Zedd’aki, whose face was already turning red. Dra’kor wasn’t as big as Ja’tar was and not nearly as muscular, but his long black hair, chiseled jaw and trimmed beard made him appear somewhat regal, which he was. He never wore the common white robes of the Keep; he wore the dark blue, gilded robe of his father, a robe of royalty. His father was a King, and not just any King, the king that controlled most of the southern realm known as the Midlands. It was the wealthiest of the five near realms. Dra’kor never let anyone in the Keep forget that he was of noble blood.

While the argument ensued, Ja’tar called over one of the other Mages from a nearby table and whispered in his ear. The Mage nodded and immediately turned around and quickly exited the room. Nobody really paid any attention as Zedd’aki and Dra’kor parried each other.

All that Dra’kor could utter was a pathetic, “Did you?”

Zedd’aki stared right into Dra’kor’s face and whispered. “— Yes. Yes, I did! Moreover, if you had been diligent, had taken the time to investigate, you would not be mouthing off. You would be afraid — very afraid.”

Dra’kor stammered, but managed to grunt, “Ha! Afraid of what, old man?”

“Why, afraid of the demon that’s as big as the Keep,” Zedd’aki spat. “I know I am —”

“Bah!” Dra’kor said, waving him off. “You’re imagining things. I think you have been hitting the tor root again.”

Zedd’aki cringed. Just like Dra’kor to bring up that dark period in his life when he had turned to the tor for comfort. He had not used the root in centuries, but some things are never forgotten.

Chuckles and light laughter filled the room.

Men’ak slowly slid his chair back against the wall, trying not to have it creak or scrape loudly. He didn’t like all this arguing. Nothing ever came of it. As far as he knew, the only thing ever came of arguing was a good lashing. He absently rubbed his fingers across the ridges on his upper shoulder, recalling one of many beatings he had gotten from his father.

His father had been short of temper and had little patience to deal with Men’ak’s ailments and mental slowness. Men’ak bore the brunt of his father’s anger, and in spite of his mother’s attempts to shield him, often found himself on the wrong end of a whip or belt for reasons that were never clear to him. His father’s favorite was the whip he used to motivate the ox team that plowed the fields.

Ja’tar looked into Dra’kor’s eyes in disbelief before scanning the entire assembly. “Didn’t you see the wall, the remains of the chair?”

Not interested in ending the spat, Dra’kor nonchalantly replied, “And so ….”

Other’s stirred and a few nodded their agreement.

“Well, it is clear from the size and placement of the burn marks that the spell came from the orb. Either that or someone in the Keep killed Tar’ac. Either way we have a situation tha —”

Dra’kor interrupted, “Or so you would have us believe …”

Ja’tar spoke up, “What do you believe, Dra’kor? There are only two possibilities, the orb or someone here, unless you think that Tar’ac incinerated himself.”

“Ja’tar. No need to accuse anyone of any wrong doing here…we aren’t your enemies. We —”

“Really?” Ja’tar interrupted, “You’re right … we are not enemies, but you act as if we are! Understand me; it is eminently obvious that death came from the orb. You know it, and I know it. I thought you would be delighted with that. You are forever and a day preaching that we need to be better prepared.”

Dra’kor immediately made a face of disgust. He glanced over his shoulder and spoke to his friends. “Oh, so now you agree with us? All it took was another senseless death among us?”

He nodded and raised his hands out to the side to include a few select friends. There were a few grumbles from the room. Dra’kor moved back to the bench and sat down before turning to face slightly backwards and spoke in a clear hushed tone.

“If my father ran his realm the way you run the Keep, we’d have been stormed by the Norsemen years ago and we’d all be speaking Celt.”

Ja’tar heard the comment and spat back. “Your father is not here and as far as I know, you’ve never had a thing to say in ruling his realm, your brother and his son had that honor.”

Dra’kor growled back, knowing it was true. He was a wizard because as a second son, you had no chance of ruling. Being a mage was his only way to grasp at fame and notoriety.

Men’ak hated confrontation, stood up, walked to the back of the dining room and paced nervously at the rear wall. He was a simple farmer’s son, short, somewhat frail with a scraggly beard that reached to the middle of his chest.

He reached for a slab of meat and knocked over a glass that rolled off the table and exploded in a thousand shards as it hit the stone floor. Dra’kor’s head whipped around and he glowered at the diminutive mage. Men’ak saw his expression and quickly cast his eyes to the floor.

Dra’kor often joked about how much Men’ak ate, because he always seemed to be hungry. Men’ak couldn’t have been much more than eight stones in weight and barely five foot tall, but he consumed twice as much as any other mage in the Keep.

He stood there red-faced holding a hefty slab of roast beef on a fork, prepared for Dra’kor to belittle him in front of everyone. He could tell that Dra’kor was less than amused now, could see it clearly in his eyes. Men’ak had broken his thought and caused the room to lose focus; he had ruined the moment. He winced, knowing he would hear about it later.

Grit motioned harshly for Men’ak to return to the table.

Men’ak shook his head.

Grit glared. Grit could be intimidating; his head was always shaved clean, and clearly displayed the sailor tattoo on the left side, but it was the intensity of his black-eyed glare that made Men’ak act.

Grit mouthed, “Now!”

Men’ak reluctantly decided to join the others, but whispered in Grit’s ear that if it came to fisticuffs, he was running for the halls. Men’ak adjusted his chair adjacent to Grit’s at the long table, but avoided looking him in the face.

Grit was more than a little bit scary; he shaved his entire face, which exposed a deep jagged scar that ran from his eye to his chin. Men’ak just couldn’t understand; why shave off what the gods obviously intended to grow?

Dra’kor had stopped talking mid-sentence, losing his line of reasoning, while he focused on Men’ak. Ja’tar seized the advantage and interrupted.

“I’m just pointing out that you, of all people, should be able to see that there was more at work here than an old man who lowered his guard. The orb doesn’t work that way.” Ja’tar explained loathingly.

One of Dra’kor’s friends, the thin twitchy one called Brag’it yelled out, “So why tell us this now?”

Ja’tar was getting irritated. His hands shook as he pointed a finger in the direction of To’paz’s realm. “B-b-because whatever did this is still out there, we don’t know where and I believe we need to hold a Closing to be sure it doesn’t kill more of us.”

Dra’kor yelled out as he jumped to his feet. “A Closing? Are you mad?”

Someone in the back of the room blurted out, “Closings are too dangerous. It’s been thousands of years …”

“Not as dangerous as having a beast with the kind of power as this roaming the realms,” countered Ja’tar.

Someone to the side asked, “Can we have a partial closing? Can that be done?”

Rua’tor stood and replied to the group, “As Floormaster, I am not aware of a partial Closing.”

Ja’tar responded, “No, Rua’tor is right, it’s either a full Closing or we rely on the Querd totems. Those are the only choices we have.”

“But why?” someone yelled.

Ja’tar turned red in the face.

“To make sure whatever did this cannot harm others. Can’t you see…?”

Dra’kor mocked Ja’tar, “And what makes you think that whatever did this is still around, waiting for you and your Closing?”

Ja’tar blurted, “The totems should have locked down the realm. The demon should be there. I know it, and you know it. Magic of that size should have triggered the wards near instantaneously. The demon should be trapped … no escape. But —”

“Therefore, the situation is handled. No reason to disrupt everyone for a Closing,” nodded Dra’kor, as he spoke with smug look on his face.

“— But. This demon’s magic is different, old, very old magic. I do not know if the wards and totems will work,” Ja’tar blurted out. “If it doesn’t hold, I’m afraid …”

“We can always wait and see,” Dra’kor calmly stated. “You might be making a big issue out of nothing.”

“So we bury our heads in the sand and ignore the problem? And what …? What happens when the wards dissolve in a few years? We lose more lives?”

Dra’kor maintained his calm demeanor.

“We still have a few years. We can afford to study the situation.”

Ja’tar’s face turned red and the vein in his neck pulsed. He slammed his fists to the table. “I will have a Closing, with or without you ….”

The room went silent.

Ja’tar yelled, his temper flaring, “I don’t need your permission.”

Dra’kor lowered his head hiding his smirk and softly said, “So you dismiss us, just like that. If you think you can get nine to help you … we will not stand in your way … oh, mighty one.”

Dra’kor stood up, bowed deeply, and started to backup towards the door while holding his bow.

Zedd’aki jumped up and shouted, “Shut up Dra’kor. The realm that was shut down was where To’paz was the traveler. Show some respect. This isn’t easy for Ja’tar. Now is no time for your venomous bluster.”

Dra’kor, deep in his acrimonious bow stopped dead in his tracks and looked up. He winced and his face showed his astonishment. He had not deduced that Ja’tar’s sister had been silenced, probably killed. He knew what it meant to have the totems shut down a realm. He briefly swallowed his pride, ran his hands over his tightly trimmed beard, turned to Ja’tar, and expressed his condolences.

“I’m truly sorry Ja’tar. I … didn’t know. Your sister was … well liked around the Keep. She was an amazing woman.”

In spite of their differences, Dra’kor still respected the man. He actually liked and respected Ja’tar’s sister. He just didn’t agree with where the Keep had been headed over the years. The horror stories of the old days rang hollow in his ears. He had no memories of those times. Studying the battles of Ror and events of days past was far different than experiencing them.

By the time he had come to the Keep for training, everything had pretty much returned to normal. All that was ever spoken of the old times were bard tales. Songs of the days of Ror were still sung around fires to scare small children.

Ja’tar’s eyes welled up. He could see the shock in faces around the room. He saw tears and heard gasps. He had thought that everyone had already known about his sister. It was apparent that no one else had known that it had been his sister’s realm that was attacked.

The mage that Ja’tar had sent out reentered the room, carrying a small box, which he sat on the table in front of Ja’tar. Ja’tar thanked him and opened the box, lifting out the silk covered orb. “I want you all to see,” was all he said, as he set the orb onto the table in front of his chair.

Ja’tar carefully pushed the orb to the center of the table and removed the silk covering. The orb began singing, but at that distance, couldn’t really reach the minds of those in the room, so was quite safe. Ja’tar closed his eyes and chanted before intricately weaving a spell over the orb with his hands as the other magi looked on.

There was a loud thunderclap and a bright flash of light. Ja’tar was picked up and thrown across the room, landing painfully half on and half off the table, knocking chairs caddywompus.

Many of the wizards watching the demonstration jumped to their feet and wove powerful spells; their extended hands glowed with strong magic. Some stood back-to-back, preparing for battle. They scanned the room with temporarily blinded eyes, trying to determine where the attack came from. Dra’kor instinctively ducked under the table.

Rua’tor had jumped to his feet and screamed out, “Ja’tar!”

Rua’tor stared down as Ja’tar’s lifeless body lay awkwardly on the cold marble floor. Rua’tor was pushing his way to the front from the far side of the room. He reached Ja’tar before Zedd’aki and gently tried to stir him by shaking his shoulder.

Dra’kor looked around and took the distraction as an opportunity to crawl out from under the table. He looked around, making sure that no one was looking in his direction as he slid up into his seat and extended a hand that held a repulse spell. He smirked to himself. Nobody had seen him cower, and none was the wiser.

The blast had knocked the wind out of Ja’tar and for a few seconds he laid on the floor, face down, dead still. After determining that he still lived, the mage got to his knees and gave his head a bit of time to clear, waiting for the double vision to go away and his head to stop pounding.

“He’s alive!” shouted Rua’tor. “I knew he’d be okay.”

Ja’tar slowly stood with a grunt and staggered to the side. His head was reeling, but he steadied himself, brushed off and muttered to himself, “What a fool. I certainly didn’t expect that. I forgot to set my bloody wards ….”

Zedd’aki rushed to his aid. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I think,” Ja’tar said, as he looked into his friend’s concerned face. “I just didn’t expect the orb to fight back when I tried to send the viewing, and I forgot my wards.”

“Forgot your wards?”

“I know … stupid, huh?”

“Very.”

“I’ve been distracted ….”

“I know, but still — forgetting your wards?”

Ja’tar grunted. Zedd’aki’s eyes went wide.

“Ja’tar, your head is bleeding.”

“Where?”

Zedd’aki motioned to the left side.

Ja’tar reached up and brought down a hand that had a streak of crimson on it.

“I’ll heal you,” Zedd’aki said, reaching for the wound.

He pushed Zedd’aki’s hand away. “I can take care of it.”

Ja’tar cast his own spell, using his hands to form the necessary runes.

Zedd’aki watched as the deep gash in Ja’tar’s forehead closed, scabbed and healed over.

“So, what the Ten was that?” someone to the side yelled out.

Ja’tar shook his head, a little unsure. “Orrrr …” He cleared his throat, “Orb … I think.”

“The orb did that? Why?” Dra’kor asked. “I thought you said this was going to be safe?”

Zedd’aki harrumphed.

Ja’tar shrugged, “Viewings are safe. Maybe it was trying to protect me. My wards must not have been properly formed. Could have been some residual energy trapped. That’s what it probably was, just a discharge.”

Zedd’aki raised a brow and mumbled, “I didn’t know an orb could do that.”

“Neither did I,” groaned Ja’tar, as he was still feeling the effects of the rejection.

“What do we do?”

Ja’tar stood straight, “I think I’ll try again —”

Zedd’aki nodded.

Ja’tar faced the rest of the crowd. “I’m going to try again. The orb apparently didn’t want me to do a viewing. No harm, it was a simple discharge. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

He rolled up his sleeves and began chanting, this time from a distance, taking his time and setting his wards first. A few of the other magi in the room still held their spells at the ready, not trusting the reassuring message that Ja’tar had delivered.

A silver blue mist slowly rose above the orb until it was several feet high. It lifted high above the tables. The mist slowly began to swirl and as it sped, it became increasingly transparent, showing the images collected earlier that day. All eyes were glued to the scene that was playing out before them. As the image concluded, gasps of horror came from the room. At the end, the mist collapsed and spread out along the floor before dissipating, sinking into cracks and sliding out of the room.

The room was dead quiet; there wasn’t a single dry eye in the place. Nobody asked any questions and few would meet Ja’tar’s gaze.

“I want a Closing,” said Ja’tar softly, as he covered the orb with the silk towel and placed it back into the small-carved box.

“I fear that the demons have gotten stronger while the Guild has had us hiding. I’m afraid that Dra’kor is right … although I don’t agree with everything he thinks we should do. I do believe we need to take this seriously.”

Dra’kor nodded his agreement, feeling as though he had been vindicated, but knowing he had been wrong about Ja’tar, very wrong. He thought about what Ja’tar’s sister had gone through and a lump formed in his throat. Nobody should have to go through that. Nobody!

Ja’tar gazed over the small group. He realized he had nothing left to say. There was an awkward silence between him and the rest, neither knowing what to do next.

“I guess we can all go back to our daily responsibilities. I’ll let everyone know when we have a better plan. It will be soon, I promise,” Ja’tar feigned a smile. “We can all discuss it before we act.”

Several mages nodded and there were small groups that split off and mumbled between themselves, although what was being discussed was not loud enough for Ja’tar to hear.

The group started to break up, heading in different directions. As Dra’kor walked toward the door, Ja’tar grabbed him by the arm.

“Dra’kor, can you stay a bit? I’d like to talk to you and a few of your friends about a Keep matter that is of the utmost urgency.”

Dra’kor nodded to his closest friends, and they gathered around the Keeper as the room cleared. The only two that stayed were Grit and Men’ak. Men’ak pushed his blond curly hair back from his face, as he tried to peer around Grit, but Grit stood tall and placed himself just behind Dra’kor to show support, completely blocking Men’ak’s view.

Grit was the eldest son of a proud sailor, and was muscular with thick strong hands and above average height. He had very wide shoulders and a strong back from years of work on the docks hoisting barrels of molasses, rum and salt pork. He had worked the docks with his father for almost a decade before his gift started materializing, causing all kinds of havoc.

His well-traveled father had heard of the yearly testing and journeyed with Grit to the very next event. Grit was almost immediately asked to load himself into the Accepted’s wagon and told to prepare to make his way to the Keep. His father was paid a handsome amount for one as skilled as his son, which assured him a comfortable living.

Grit made a better wall than most. Men’ak thought about pushing his way in, but decided against it. Grit would have just ignored him, being oblivious to the small man, shooing him off like an irritating fly.

Ja’tar caught Grit staring and glared back. Grit’s eyes were very intense and he often used that to his own benefit. Ja’tar was well aware of the games Grit played. Grit softened his gaze and ran his hand over his shaved head. Even though he was fiercely loyal to Dra’kor, he didn’t want any part in irritating the old man. Ja’tar had a reputation —

“I guess we can spare a few minutes.” Dra’kor said, looking to his friends.

Grit nodded. Men’ak didn’t say anything and just looked on.

“Good. This shouldn’t take long,” Ja’tar said, with a nod as he waited for the rest of the magi to get out of eavesdropping distance.

Dra’kor impatiently asked, with more than a little condemnation in his voice, “Can we get through this quickly? I need to get back to my work and studies.”

“Me too, added Grit.

“Ah, Dra’kor, I think that sorting and categorizing spells and their derivatives can wait, as can Grit’s assembling of the notes from the realms,” Ja’tar said.

“You are the one always complaining that we are behind,” Grit said. “I have rooms of notes to get to. I can’t even tell which are new and which are old.”

Dra’kor added, “I’m still working on the spells from eight-hundred years ago. Stacks and stacks of these are spread across five rooms. I can barely wrap my head around the mountain of work.”

“True, but I will make an exception for this,” Ja’tar replied with a smile, “Since we are several centuries behind already, I’m not sure another hour or two will make that much difference. Besides, I think you may actually be interested in what I have to say.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Dra’kor shot back, failing to make eye contact. “Nothing personal, but we will never see eye-to-eye when it comes to matters of the Keep. The best we can do is to agree to disagree.”

“Dra’kor, there is no reason for us to not be civil about —” Ja’tar said, a bit more harshly than he intended.

“We’ll see —” Dra’kor uttered under his breath. “You seem to ignore all of our requests for any change.”

“You forget that I am under orders from the Guild. I uphold their wishes, not mine! I do not have much leeway, even as the Keeper. As a royal, you should understand that choices are not always available.”

Dra’kor grunted.

Men’ak took a couple steps backwards as the two magi started to banter. They stood face to face and angrily ‘discussed’ the whole matter as if he and Grit weren’t around. Men’ak could see their hands glowing as they both fought to control their anger.

He unconsciously rubbed his shoulders, feeling the scars. Men’ak’s knees quaked, as he vividly recalled his nose being broken several times from when he had argued with his Pa, and he still bore the lash marks of whippings he had received as a result. There was no talking back in his father’s house. It wasn’t stood for, period!

Grit looked over at his friend, noticing his jaw quivering and slapped him hard on the shoulder, snapping him out of whatever anxiousness he may have felt.

“It’ll be all right. Just let them have their words —”

“B-b-but?”

“— Just let it go,” Grit said.

“I-I-I can’t stand the yelling …” he moaned.

“I know, Men’ak,” Grit squeezed his shoulder. “They’re just saying stuff that needs saying, that’s all it is. Let them get it off their chests. That’s just what men need to do sometimes.”

Men’ak swallowed hard and turned his face away, trying to block out the harsh words.

Men’ak had been indentured to the magi during the decade-long drought that nearly starved out the entire population of the Lowlands. The Withering took place as the earth tried to heal itself in the centuries after Ror. Only the largest of trees, with the deepest of roots, survived. Grit even recalled the smaller streams had gone dry and even a few lakes turned into cracked mud.

Their small farm had been ailing more than most, and with eight mouths to feed, his father had run out of options. He had seen a sign in town that the Keep was looking for servants and was willing to pay well. His father had negotiated a ten-year contract. He supposed he should have been relieved that his father hadn’t sold him outright.

Being indentured was just all right with him. He could still picture his Ma’s face as she struggled against his Pa when he handed him over to Zedd’aki. The pain in her face still haunted him. He had tried to visit once, when his first decade of service had passed, but she had already passed away.

Regardless of how he had gotten here, anything was better than where he came from, at least in the Keep he had enough to eat, and they always had heat. Most of the people there had treated him fairly, and he never had to feel the keen edge of the whip across his back again. For that, he would always be grateful. He had ended up growing out of the ailments and eventually showed an aptitude for magic, so the wizards trained him and welcomed him into their ranks after several decades of service.

“So get on with it already. We need to go!” Dra’kor said.

Ja’tar closed his eyes and fought hard to push down his anger. He patiently waited for the entire room to clear before he spoke, “I have a proposal for you and your friends … Walk with me.”

Ja’tar swept his arm in the direction he wished the group to go.

“I will try to be brief.”

Perhaps a Quest

The group hurriedly exited the banquet room and headed into the main hall. Ja’tar led, followed by Dra’kor, Zedd’aki and Dra’kor’s two best friends Men’ak and Grit. As they quickly walked down the hall, Ja’tar began to plead his case.

“I know we’ve had our differences in the past, Dra’kor. Agreed?” Ja’tar stated, nodding in Dra’kor’s direction.

“Let’s say that we disagree on Keep business,” said Dra’kor, returning the nod, and making it clear that it was nothing personal.

“Guild business,” Ja’tar corrected.

“They’re one and the same as far as I’m concerned,” Dra’kor venomously replied.

Ja’tar caught his eye as he spoke, “Look. I’m not sure we will ever completely see eye to eye, but we both have common concerns. Right now, we both realize that the Keep is in danger and we both believe we need to act.”

Dra’kor was nodding as he looked back over his shoulder at his two friends. He was sure that his conversation with Ja’tar was not loud enough for them to hear. Perhaps it was better …

“You know how I feel about the role of the magi in the realms …,” Dra’kor said, letting his voice trail off.

Ja’tar had to bite his tongue to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Yes, I do. You have been profoundly clear in that matter. Nevertheless, you must understand that even I have to bow to those who are the Guild. I cannot say in all honesty that I agree with all of their decisions or judgments, but as Keeper, I am to uphold those writs as the law, besides—the consequences of defying the Guild are either assassination by the Zola’far, exile or stilling. None of those options seem worth invoking without the cause being great.”

Dra’kor was amazed at the restraint that Ja’tar was exhibiting. That solitary fact let him read how serious this issue was to the old man. He decided that he should let him speak and not try to antagonize him any further. There would be time for the barbs later.

“Dra’kor, I’m asking you to set aside our differences and work with me on this. There is much at risk.”

“Go on …” Dra’kor put forward rather unenthusiastically.

“I want you to …,” Ja’tar bit back his response, stopped and cleared his throat before continuing. “— I really could use your help and the help of your friends with a delicate matter.”

His curiosity perked, Dra’kor raised his brow and responded, “Our help? With what?”

“I’m getting to that,” Ja’tar said, motioning with his hand for Dra’kor to calm down. “Listen. We, the Keep, have a problem, a serious problem. I don’t think I can emphasize enough how dire this situation is. We — I fear that something horrible is going on in the realms and unfortunately we are blind.”

“Seriously, aren’t you being a little melodramatic?” Dra’kor jested light-heartedly.

Ja’tar’s face was reddening and his voice was getting louder as he talked. “By the Ten, Dra’kor! We have no watcher and even if we did, I’m not sure it is safe enough to risk using the orbs until we sort this out.”

“You’re serious!” Dra’kor blurted out. “Haven’t we had these mishaps in the past? They happen like clockwork —”

“Yes they have, but this is different.” Ja’tar shouted so emphatically that spittle sprayed from his lips.

“Why, because your sister’s realm was involved?” Dra’kor shot back, sorry that the words came out by the time he finished saying them.

Ja’tar looked up, deeply saddened. “No, not because of my sister, because of the way that the watcher was killed. That demon —”

“I’m sorry, I was wrong in accusing you of that ….”

“Forgiven,” answered Ja’tar curtly. “Listen, of course I’m serious, dead serious. Do you really think I would waste my time if I wasn’t?”

Ja’tar’s passion caught Dra’kor by surprise. Cautiously Dra’kor replied, “No, I suppose not. So, how do I, we, fit into this?”

Ja’tar sensed his uneasiness and toned down the drama in his voice. “We need to find out what we face.”

Dra’kor nodded. So far, he followed the old man, even if he didn’t believe the entire realm was on a precipice headed for destruction, “If we face grave danger, I agree, but what can we do? We have little experience in these matters.”

Ja’tar smiled; Dra’kor had taken the bait.

“What I’m thinking is that we should send a small party out into the nearby realms to do some snooping around.”

The shock showed in Dra’kor’s face as he realized that Ja’tar meant them. “You mean to send us on a … quest?”

“Perhaps a quest,” Ja’tar agreed. “I guess you could call it that. Anyway, that’s what I’m thinking. I think it wouldn’t be high profile, more of — on the sly. You know, get a feeling for the state of the realms.”

“A quest,” Dra’kor said, feeling the weight of the words.

“But I don’t think we should call it a quest. That conjures up images of knights on horseback. I’m thinking more of a walk-about. And the Guild must not know or ever find out.”

“You’re not going to get the outing sanctioned?” said Dra’kor, in total surprise.

“There is no time. It could take years …,” Ja’tar said, expressing his own frustration with the Guild. “You yourself know how slowly things go with the Guild. By the Ten, they’d probably nix the entire plan anyway.”

“I hear that,” Dra’kor echoed.

“So are you willing to do this?”

“Why don’t you do it? You’re more qualified than we are. You and Zedd’aki should do it.”

“That’s a fair question. I feel that I would draw too much suspicion if I left the Keep for a couple weeks. I’d be missed — you and your friends stick to yourselves — mostly. Most won’t question if you miss a few dinners.”

“I grant you your point.”

“Besides, I need to contact the Guild, and nobody else can do that. I can cover for you if someone starts asking questions, make up a story about you doing a research project in one of the unused wings. I could also glamour someone if they start asking too many questions.”

“— Glamour? That’s a violation of the rules — it’s the fourth sworn rule of fealty to the Wizard Creed.”

“I know, but if it means we complete our quest?” Ja’tar shrugged.

“I follow your reasoning,” said Dra’kor quietly. “But I’m not sure I fully agree.”

“I don’t have much choice. We need to do what needs to be done.”

“Surely there is another way?”

“I don’t see how. We don’t have the luxury of time here. I think our window of opportunity is small. The demons have showed their cards.”

Dra’kor hated agreeing, but he knew that Ja’tar was right.

“So will you do it?”

“How? When?” stammered Dra’kor, not able to verbalize the myriad questions that raced into his head.

Ja’tar stopped in front of a rather massive unremarkable door.

“I’m coming to that.”

He raised his hand with the Keeper’s ring up to the door. It fit perfectly in the small gold slot and made a soft click as it slid into place. He mumbled quietly to himself and the tumblers in the lock ground open. As the door released, dust and dirt fell from the exterior seal as fresh air rushed into the room.

Ja’tar pushed hard on the door using his shoulder. The hinges complained loudly as the metal scraped from the weight of the door as it creaked and moaned against his effort. He motioned the small group into the dark room.

Grit let out a loud sneeze, followed by a coy, “Sorry —,” as he wiped his nose on his sleeve, “— couldn’t hold that in!”

He uttered a rude comment to Men’ak as he stood holding the door with his other hand. Men’ak gave him a look, shook his head and walked past him into the room.

With a wave of Ja’tar’s hand, the rooms orbs, buried behind elaborate crown molding, began to glow dimly. As their eyes adjusted to the low light, the exquisite room revealed that it was not terribly spacious, and held no windows or other doors. The ceiling was domed and finely detailed, made of blood red marble with polished brass filigree laid out in intricate designs of the ancients. Tall stone colonnades dotted the exterior walls and helped to support the lofty ceiling. The floors were made of exotic woods, all hand laid in intricate knot weaves. On the floor, directions of the world, north, south, east and west were delicately inlaid. The exquisite inlays were made of abalone, brass and silver with designs that paid homage to the ancient lore that described the rulers of the winds as mischievous sprites.

Ja’tar moved quickly to the front center of the plinth, quickly motioned his hand in a small intricate pattern and whispered a few words. As he finished, the layers of dust and dirt slowly dissolved.

He cursed himself for being overly busy and not looking in on the room more often. He hoped the others didn’t notice the subtle spell he cast to clear out the years of neglect. He had taken extra care to hide it under the billowing sleeves of his robe.

He looked over at Zedd’aki who gave him a knowing look and was hiding a snicker inside his tangled beard. He almost had to grin back. Damn! He thought to himself. Nothing escapes his notice; even the most restrained and finessed of spells. The room still smelled dank and musty from the stale air that had been locked away for decades, but already the fresh air was clearing the odors.

In the center of the room was a massive, waist-high, pedestal. Rather impressive at about four swords wide, it almost filled the room and left but a span of arms around the perimeter in which to stand or walk. It was made of a single monolith of polished black obsidian from the Three Gates of the Underworlds and was inlayed with gold writing of the elves. Ja’tar used to remember the name of the specific gate that it came from, but couldn’t bring it to mind. It was significant, but he just couldn’t recall what it was called …

Ja’tar admired the craftsmanship as he walked to the table, letting his hand glide over the perfectly smooth surface. Praying that he could recall the spells, he hesitantly let his hand come to rest upon the markings. He lazily walked around the table, brushing his hand over the glyphs in a seemingly random order. As his hand touched the glyphs, his fingers whirled in intricate designs, unlocking the symbols’ magic. He sighed in relief that the spells came to him, although a few he had to repeat a couple times to get them correct.

One by one, the writing illuminated, glowing a dull orange and flickering, but clearly visible against the pure black granite top. Low melodic tones, barely perceptible, played in harmonic concert as the magic began to take effect. As it did, a shimmering image began to appear in the center of the table, unperceivable at first. It slowly expanded to the edges and grew from the base up until it coalesced and focused.

Before them was a vision of the realms. The mountains clearly laid out, rivers and all manner of detail. There were more than a few gasps from around the room, for none besides the old man himself had ever been witness to this event. Only travelers and the Keeper had entered this place since Ror.

Ja’tar cleared his throat, “I give you the realms —”

A low whistle escaped Dra’kor’s lips as he put his hands on either side of the dais, leaned over and gazed intently, for he, like many others, had not wandered far from the Keep. He never imagined the realms were so big.

“Remarkable,” was all he could muster.

“Now mind you, this doesn’t show all of the Realms at once, the area is just too big.”

Grit was clearly astonished and couldn’t help uttering, “It doesn’t? I had no idea there was so much land …” The smile on his face reached from ear to ear.

Ja’tar grinned back, he couldn’t help it, it always tickled him to no end when magic amazed.

Ja’tar slowly circled the table and again put his hands on several symbols. “Here, let me show you.” The view shifted north, and then moved east. The symbols on the floor glowed as the image shifted.

Ja’tar had a certain location in mind. The shifting lasted for several heartbeats as the landscape blurred past. Finally, the image settled on an area and Ja’tar made the image larger. Slowly, the others realized they were looking at the location of the Keep, although it was small, and was like viewing a static model of the surrounding area.

The Keep was clearly visible, but it seemed different to Dra’kor. “This looks … not right to me …”

“Here —!” he pointed. “It’s a little different from how I picture this place …”

Ja’tar was surprised at his observation and nodded approvingly. “It is. This view is exceptionally old, back from just after Ror I believe.”

“Bloody right! It looks just like the painting on the wall outside the library,” commented Grit excitedly, looking back at Men’ak and smiling.

“Exactly! Well done —,” Zedd’aki added.

“Notice how the whole north wing is missing and the east wing hasn’t yet been completed.” Ja’tar pointed out on the illusion.

Men’ak blurted as he leaned in for a better look, “— It still has the parapet!”

“Yes, see. Nearly all of the outside parapet was destroyed in the last battles and has never been rebuilt.”

Ja’tar’s voice was a bit quiet and very sad as he continued. “Most of the villages are not shown on the map, because they were destroyed in the earlier battles. The larger castles, a few towns, some main roads are shown.”

“The map was made long, long ago and has not been completely updated in a dreadfully long time. It’s … one of the many things we no longer have the time or manpower to maintain. But it will suffice for our purpose.”

The others all nodded solemnly, knowing the truth of the matter.

Ja’tar continued the geography lesson. “The Havenhold Keep is surrounded by five neighboring realms, Stonegate, the Lowlands, Five Peaks, Three Rivers and the Woodlands.” Ja’tar pointed one by one to the nearby realms, causing them to grow up out of the table as he called them out.

“Amazing,” Grit said. “Can you go back to Three Rivers? I thought I saw a city there.”

“I can, hold on a second —,” he said. “I’ll find the city.”

Ja’tar maneuvered the display over to the city and zoomed in, letting the image grow out of the dais.

Grit and Dra’kor leaned in. “Would you look at the size of that city!”

“It’s huge!” Men’ak said.

The city looked to be a thousand paces built in the shape of a hexagon. Buildings of every shape and size stretched to the sky. Wide stone roads led into the city, wide enough for several wagons. A gigantic stone wall ten times the height of a man surrounded the entire city and six fortified gates were arranged to allow people and merchandise in and out. At the points of the hexagon, tall towers reached skyward. Each was different; some had suspended courtyards, some massive open windows; some had no windows at all and were completely stark.

Ornate, curved and sculpted, the stone structures were polished and highly detailed. Throughout the town, there were towers and spires that climbed to the clouds, arched bridges that stretched over parts of the city, spanning between buildings. Large crystal, polished metal and stone sculptures of angels, beasts and demons decorated the buildings. A radiant pool, with waterfalls and fountains was in the center square. The centerpiece of the pool was an enormous crystal flower that must have been thirty foot across and almost as high. It was obvious that the city had been built using magic. It was majestic beyond belief.

“Look at all the tall buildings, the towers. It looks like it’s all made of marble,” Dra’kor observed. “What’s that in the center?”

“I bet a thousand people could live there,” Grit said, with a grin, “— maybe two!”

Ja’tar smiled, “That building is the trade center. Merchants come from all over to sell their wares there. This is one of the five great cities that the Ten built.”

Men’ak and Dra’kor nodded. Ja’tar let the display zoom back out until the only sections that were shown were those adjacent to the Keep. The outside borders of the nearest realms were blurred and well out of view, but for Ja’tar’s expounding point, the roads, rivers and valleys that linked these five realms to the Keep was what he most wanted to show anyway. The rest could be discovered and explored later, when time permitted.

Men’ak pointed. “It looks like there used to be a bridge there.”

Ja’tar nodded, “It was destroyed during the early battles of Ror. I’m sure they built another to take its place.”

“I hope so, the falls look — treacherous.”

Ja’tar continued, “These were the first realms to join us in our battle against Warvyn. We should investigate them first.”

Grit shrugged his shoulders. “Warvyn …?”

Ja’tar looked up from the map, and paused, trying to decide how much he was willing to say.

“Warvyn is a powerful demon from deep in the lower planes, Darkhalla to be exact. The dark magi made a pact with the demon to deliver mage souls in exchange for knowledge and their help. The demon’s first attack was here in the Keep, in the Ceremonial Room.”

Dra’kor was irritated. “How come we never heard of this before?”

Ja’tar answered, “We don’t speak of Warvyn because the horror it inflicted on the Keep was so heinous, many of us still have nightmares of those days. Over half the Keep was destroyed and we lost nearly a thousand magi in the thirty year battle.”

“Were you there?” Men’ak asked.

Ja’tar looked to Zedd’aki for some support. He really didn’t feel like further discussing those sad events. “I was …”

Zedd’aki grunted his agreement, “Can we continue with the map?”

Ja’tar looked to Dra’kor and the others. They reluctantly nodded, so Ja’tar stepped around to the far side of the map.

“So, as I was saying, we should visit these first. Stonegate is where the City of the Guild is located. I would shy away from getting too close. You can never tell where you might find Guild members and they can easily spot a Mage.”

Grit grinned in amazement as he ventured closer. “Who created this beautiful tool?”

“It was a gift from the Elf Queen Zerra when the Tofar Pact between the races was made during the age of Ror. As I recall, her entire clan was less than two hundred warriors, but they were adept at hiding and finding, so she volunteered those skills to the Guild in lieu of them going to battle. Besides, there was only so much damage a three-foot tall elf could inflict on a demon. Especially without strong magic, no matter how much prowess they had with a blade. In those days, this was the war room. The battles were planned here.”

“Here? The Ten were all in this room at one time …,” Men’ak stammered out while looking over his shoulder as if they would jump out of the walls.

Ja’tar nodded, “They all practically lived in this room when not in the battles themselves. The Elf King Shar’ran and the Dwarf King Ironfist were also living here in those times.”

“If these walls could talk —” Grit mumbled in awe, shaking his head.

“Does the map show the location of the travelers?” Dra’kor asked.

“— No, there weren’t any travelers in those times and they were never added. Sadly, it is now but a static view of the realms. A glorified map, but still very useful. But in the day …,” reminisced Ja’tar.

“Back to the task at hand … I think we should begin here at Five Peaks,” Ja’tar pointed at the map. “We should check this nearby neighbor first.”

“Best to know if death is on our doorstep or not,” Zedd’aki commented wryly.

Grit eerily grabbed Men’ak from the behind. “Death … whoooooa!” Zedd’aki rolled his eyes; he had hoped the boys were going to take this a bit more seriously.

Men’ak startled, “Mm-m-makes sense.” Men’ak gave Grit a big shove into the wall. “Ass —!”

Grit just grinned back like an idiot. Even Zedd’aki had to let a small chortle escape his lips.

“Huh!” Ja’tar’s head shot up. He was confused, not understanding why everyone had big grins on their faces. He had forgotten something very important and been trying to recall it and had not been paying attention to the others and the joke slipped past him unnoticed.

He had a confused look on his face for a second and forgot about it. Zedd’aki shook his head. His friend was getting old!

Ja’tar brightened as he remembered. He walked over to the far side of the table and waved his hand over another set of glyphs. Small red towers appeared on the map. “And these … are the Querd totems that protect the realms from rogue magic.”

“So, these are the famous portals of the rogue,” Dra’kor mused, leaning over the map. “I had wondered if they still existed.”

“Oh, they exist alright!” Zedd’aki muttered.

Ja’tar corrected, “The totems are not one and the same with the portals, although many of the portals are adjacent to the totems. The totems control the magic flow in the realm and the portals can transport you from place to place.”

Men’ak and Grit both nodded their understanding.

Ja’tar ran his finger between several totems. “These towers connect to each other to form the border shields and a grid of sorts that can lock out magic in a realm. In the larger realms, a portion of the realm can be cordoned off.”

“What’s most important is that they are also the locations of most of the travel portals. You should be able to move around fairly quickly using them. I will need to teach you how and give you the keys you will need to activate the gates.”

“How do they work?” asked Grit.

“Quite simple really,” Ja’tar answered, “You have a key and you need to know the location of where you are going. You enter the location using the glyphs and next, insert the key prior to walking through the portal.”

“Well, that isn’t quite right,” Zedd’aki coughed under his breath.

Ja’tar heard him and decided to elaborate, albeit a bit put out. “It’s a little different, because you are walking a shortcut through time between two places, not teleporting. It’s difficult to explain. It’s as if you’re moving faster than everyone else in the world, although to you, it seems like normal time. Everything seems to stand still.”

“That’s it?” Dra’kor said, not believing it could be as simple as that. “So you look like you disappear because you are moving fast compared to everyone else in the world.”

“Well, that’s mostly it, but the path is fixed, you cannot wander wherever you desire. Some portals only have paths to certain locations; and those are more like sliding down a slippery slope. You just step and glide. Those always made me a bit nauseous. Anyway, the point is, the portals can be difficult to find. The Ten hid them in plain sight, meaning they don’t exactly look like totems or portals.”

“Eh? I don’t get what you mean,” Grit queried.

Ja’tar hadn’t expected to have to explain everything in detail. He had to remember that many of the things he took for granted, were unknown to most of the Keep, even Zedd’aki.

“Well, they can look like a couple big rock outcroppings, or a large copse of ancient trees, a cave. They can be nearly anything. The one nearest the Keep is inside a cave. The cave contains the ruins of a sacrificial altar. That is the portal.”

Dra’kor, obviously irritated, pondered out loud, “Why? What’s the point of the subterfuge?”

Ja’tar broke out into a loud laugh at Dra’kor’s expense,

“Well now Dra’kor, we didn’t want people materializing in the middle of wherever. It really spooks the commoners. Besides, it allowed us to move around with the illusion of being in many places at the same time.”

“I suppose …,” mumbled Dra’kor, seeing the benefit in the illusion. As a matter of fact, he got the joke, albeit at his own expense, and could imagine the Ten popping up in the middle of a small village, scaring the wits out of nearby townsfolk.

“Poof!” said Men’ak, wiggling his fingers in front of Dra’kor’s face.

“Ha … Ha …” he muttered back insincerely. Grit slapped him on the shoulder and gave him a big wide, gap-toothed grin.

Ja’tar continued, “So basically, that’s it. If the destination isn’t blocked by the totems and the realm you are in isn’t cut off, that’s all there is to it!”

“What if it is blocked?” Dra’kor asked.

“Ahhh! If it is a direct portal, you won’t be going anywhere, but if it is one of the general, you won’t be able to exit and will have to walk to the next portal, or return back.”

Zedd’aki quickly added, “Otherwise … you are either going nowhere, or just walking across the threshold into the next realm.”

Ja’tar’s voice got very quiet as he continued, “Right! If you cannot leave through a general portal, you have far more pressing problems at any rate.”

Ja’tar emphasized, running his hands through his hair, “It means you are cut off, and you don’t have much time to make your peace with your maker. Most likely, you’d already know because of the ailing.”

Dra’kor’s head shot up, “What are you saying —?”

Zedd’aki answered quickly, “It’s like this. If you are in a realm when it is cut off, you have no tie to the magic of the Zylliac. The totems will not let you leave and you only have as much time as you have stored magic. At the moment of closing, your stomach would heave and your head would ache. You’d know —”

“Can’t leave ever?” Grit whispered so quietly, no one heard him.

“No magic …,” someone muttered under his breath.

Ja’tar’s voice cracked and trembled as he fought back the tears and had to grab the wall to steady himself. “It is said to be very unpleasant. Being cut off, that is … is what happened to — To’paz.”

Zedd’aki quickly stepped to his side and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder to console him, “We can do this later if you wish?”

Ja’tar waved him off, bent over placing his hands on his knees, and took a few deep breaths, “I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.”

Dra’kor realized his question was stupid from the second it left his lips and he cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. He hadn’t intended to throw salt in Ja’tar’s wound. He unconsciously wrung his hands. Dra’kor did wonder how they enslaved the Zylliac using magic when the Zylliac was the magic. But conversely, the Ten were by all accounts very strong. Maybe there was some merit to what Ja’tar had said about old magic …

Inside, he knew what happened when a realm was cut off, but in his lust for adventure, the fact that he would be in a place where it could happen to him had somehow been forgotten. The stark reality that his life would be at risk raised a lump in his throat. He was second-guessing himself as to whether or not he really wanted to be involved as much as he had bragged that he did.

Dra’kor ran a hand through his hair and his voice trembled as he apologized, “Ja’tar, I’m so sorry. I knew the answer to that …”

Ja’tar looked up, brushing away the painful memories. He realized that Dra’kor was struggling internally with the reality of the situation and hadn’t meant anything by the comment. Still, it hurt.

Ja’tar looked up into Dra’kor’s eyes and could see the conflict. It is one thing to talk and spout off about how you would change the world, but it is entirely different when someone hands you the opportunity and you have to risk your life in order to keep your word and walk the walk.

Ja’tar smiled to himself. Dra’kor was being forced to grow up and reconsider his convictions. Coming to terms with how deep your convictions are, now that was indeed a valuable lesson.

“One last thing before I forget. It is possible to control access to the realms by using the portals. They can be managed so that all magic users need to enter and exit the realms only through the portals. I don’t know if Curators of the realms still remember that they can control access this way, or not … but they used to place sentries at the portals to track the mages and other magic users who came and went.”

“Sounds like they didn’t trust us …,” Men’ak muttered.

“They didn’t, and for damn good reason …,” shot back Zedd’aki, spittle spraying from his lips.

The three friends exchanged glances with each other. Zedd’aki wasn’t usually so emotional.

“Sorry. That came out a bit heavier than I meant it. It’s just —” Zedd’aki’s voice faded and his eyes dropped to the floor.

“No offense taken. We all know the ugly truth of why,” Ja’tar consoled his friend.

“So, we’ve seen all this,” Dra’kor said, with the wave of his hand, “and yet we have no idea what you want.”

“I’m getting to tha —” Ja’tar tried to say.

“I assume you have a plan …,” Dra’kor asked abruptly, his impatience showing as he cut Ja’tar off.

Ja’tar had been thinking on his feet. He was making things up as he went along and had cobbled together a fair idea of what he wanted done. He wasn’t sure it was the right thing, but for now, it would suffice.

Zedd’aki scowled and turned to face Ja’tar, for he was anxious to hear the plan too.

“I do. Here is what I am thinking so far. I really need you and your friends to go out into the realms and be watchful. Just do a walk-about and keep an eye out for things that seem out of place.”

Dra’kor heard what was being said, and asked the rather obvious question, “How can we know what is out of place when we have never been out in the real world?”

Ja’tar had anticipated the question.

“Why, you will have to use common sense,” he said with a wry smile.

Grit scratched his head, “But —”

Ja’tar cut Grit off, “Look. Most of the realms are mundane. I’m sure you’ll recognize misplaced magic if you see it.”

Grit nodded absently.

“What do we do if … if … we find something?” mumbled Men’ak.

“Well, if it’s dark magic, or if there are any unusual events going on that seem dangerous, you need to get out fast and return to the Keep.”

“Ja’tar’s right. I’m sure you’ll recognize danger. It will most likely be something that’s … noteworthy,” added Zedd’aki, giving Ja’tar a sideways glance.

“No heroics!” Ja’tar explained in a rather animated way making sure he emphasized that they were not to put themselves in harm’s way.

Zedd’aki nodded his agreement, “Seriously. It may be that the realms are shut and you will not even be able to enter, so you may only get to walk to the borders.”

The three friends looked a bit confused, so Ja’tar added, “Any irregular use of magic would likely have triggered the totems, like being attacked.”

“Ah,” Men’ak caught their drift.

“And … trying to enter a closed realm is a bit like pushing against a strong wind,” Dra’kor piped in, showing off his book learning. “Except that the closer you get to entering the realm, the harder the magic pushes you back. Right? But, it’s not harmful —?”

“It can throw you back rather hard!” Zedd’aki added, speaking from personal experience.

Ja’tar snorted. He remembered a very specific time Zedd’aki got tossed.

Zedd’aki heard Ja’tar’s snort and shot him a sideways glace, narrowing his eyes. Ja’tar grinned back.

Men’ak scratched his head. “I guess … we could do that. It’ll just be like a long walk … for nothing.”

“Not exactly for nothing,” Ja’tar uttered nodding his head and raising his brows.

“— But if we can’t get into any of the realms,” shrugged Grit.

“In that case, we would have our answer sooner rather than later and we can plan our next step. Honestly, I really do not know what to expect, but I fear the worst.”

“I suppose,” Dra’kor grumbled.

“With magic, there is always the unexplained and unexpected,” Zedd’aki added sardonically, emphasizing the unexpected.

Dra’kor and Men’ak nodded their agreement. Grit just had a vacant look on his face, like someone who just realized he had been tricked into something he was not ready to deal with.

Grit looked at Dra’kor as if he wanted him to say something, or to tell him it would be okay. All he got was a very serious Dra’kor. That scared him. Dra’kor was always flippant and this novel introspective rendition of his old friend did not sit well with him. He felt absolutely out of control and he hated it. He wondered what had they gotten themselves into.

Ja’tar continued explaining the quest in detail, “We’ll provide you with clothes akin to what the farmers wear. We have coin. Hopefully, you will blend right in with the locals. When you talk — try to use the old tongue. You should be able to pick up the local dialect quickly, there are not too many linguistic differences for the nearby realms, accent mostly.”

“Can we get some time with some of the housekeeping staff?” Grit asked. “They may be able to give us some pointers on how to act …”

Zedd’aki was surprised at the suggestion and nodded enthusiastically, “That is a great idea, Grit.”

Ja’tar nodded his agreement and added, “I suggest that you give yourselves a while to get used to an area when you get there and spend a few days observing and listening. After that, talk to the people, engage them in conversation.”

Men’ak scratched his head. “About what?”

“I don’t know —” retorted Ja’tar, getting a bit frustrated. “— ask about recent deaths, disappearances, crop failures, droughts, blights, that sort of thing. Keep your eyes and ears open, more listening than talking.”

“So basically you want us to eavesdrop in on conversations?”

“Not exactly, Grit. Just … let them talk, buy them an ale or two — if need be, it loosens the tongue. Stay inconspicuous, and remember to complain a bit about the kings and tax collectors. Be agreeable … if you can.”

Dra’kor shot him a very nasty glance, knowing the comment was a dig directed specifically at him. Yet, he couldn’t deny his demeanor.

Zedd’aki added his two cents worth, “Best to keep the fact that you are mages secret if you can.”

Dra’kor sarcastically retorted, “Okay, I get it already. Be secretive! Be … nice!”

“Oh, and be careful of the stories you tell. If you fabricate a family or a life in one of the other realms, keep it simple and somewhat vague. Many locals have family throughout the area and are bound to trade with specific villages. You don’t want to have to answer questions about things you really don’t know. Remember we are not as well thought of as we used to be,” Zedd’aki added.

Grit nodded his agreement. He had not thought about the fact that towns’ people would know others in far off realms and perhaps even have news from tinkers or bards who traveled. There was going to be lots of thinking. He wasn’t sure he liked that.

“It’s a lot to think about …,” added Men’ak, echoing Grit’s private concerns.

Ja’tar pursed his lips. “Indeed.”

Grit’s face filled with worry. “What if we err and reveal ourselves?”

Zedd’aki smiled, “A single slip of the tongue probably won’t do much damage. Remember, they are not expecting magi. Just act as if it is a joke and correct yourself.”

“Ja’tar, how do we get from village to village? I assume we are walking …”

Ja’tar paused for a bit and nodded, “That would be best I suppose. Remember Dra’kor, most peasants walk, only a few have horses.”

“I hate walking,” whined Men’ak.

“— But you could do it,” said Dra’kor forcefully.

“I suppose I could, for the cause.” Men’ak ceded.

Ja’tar smiled and pointed at the map. “I would suggest that you stick to the main roads and trails. Even if there is nothing to fear, highwaymen and thieves are always about looking to loosen money from those who travel alone. Nevertheless, the three of you together should be all right. Town folk should be able to tell you whether safe passage is to be expected. You could travel with a group if you wish.”

Dra’kor spoke up, “Thieves would be very sorry if they attacked us. They would pay dearly.”

Ja’tar grinned to himself, Dra’kor had replied exactly as he expected.

“I don’t fear so much for you, but the word would be out that there are magi mucking about. That would put everyone on the alert for strangers. Our ability to garner the truth … would be severely hampered. We cannot afford that, so best to just be … insignificant.”

Dra’kor’s frustration showed. He had reached the point that he turned toward the door and slammed his fist on the solid oak mass. “You mean you want us to remain under cloak, and hide who we are? What’s the point?” He had imagined this to be a grand way to get some validation of their worth from the locals and not being able to show off magic put a cloud over his enthusiasm.

“For now, I believe it is best,” Ja’tar nodded looking each Dra’kor, Grit and Men’ak in the eye.

“People are more likely to open up about things when they are not amongst strangers. They have not dealt with magi in a long, long time. They know us not. The stories of our arrogance are still wildly known and the bards still celebrate our demise in song and story.

“Remember, right or wrong, we are still feared and loathed. It will be far harder for you to try to blend in, but I think you will get more quality information if you do. Besides, what we absolutely do not want now is panic or confrontation.”

Dra’kor listened as he rubbed his fist. He had not meant to hit the oak as hard as he did. He felt a bit foolish for letting his temper get the better of him.

“I suppose you are right. We can do that … I guess it would be best at this time not to draw too much attention to ourselves. We don’t really know what is going on anyway,” reasoned Dra’kor.

“Think of how you would react if you were in their shoes,” Zedd’aki added. “Remember, their last memories of magi were during Ror, the bards sing of Duvall floating on air through the realms with her hair whirling, eyes aglow and hands crackling with lightning that reached to the heavens. She laid most of the realm to waste trying to root out the evil that had infiltrated. She didn’t care about collateral damage.”

“I cannot imagine, so I guess we can take your word for that and do as you say,” said Dra’kor in resignation, as a chill ran down his spine. “For now—”

Ja’tar slapped him hard across his back. “Of course you can, Dra’kor. I have confidence in you. We can work on establishing our relationships with the realms, but we need good cause to show ourselves. We will pick times and events to suit our needs, to maximize their effects to our benefit. We need to prove our worth. I have a feeling they will need us, as much as we will need them if things come to pass.”

“But, we are intending on re-engaging the realms?”

Dra’kor leaned forward, expecting a specific answer.

Ja’tar knew he was being tested and thought about it for a few seconds. This was a big change in policy and he was acting on his own accord, without the blessings of the Guild. Even though he held a very high position, he wasn’t sure he could say with certainty that it would be allowed.

“I believe we need to get more involved,” Ja’tar agreed. “However, I am not the only member of the Guild who has a say. You know that.”

He shook his finger at Dra’kor. “I can plead our case, and if I have stories and events to support our point of view, I am likely to be more effective.

“Whatever comes of this, I believe we will at least be able to engage the elves, gnomes and perhaps the dwarves.”

“The point is we are going to start, right?” asked Dra’kor before adding on, “— We are going to act like magi and try to better the world.”

“I think we should. Will the Guild allow it? That is the question isn’t it?” shrugged Ja’tar. “I believe we have to construct a very strong case for reestablishing our role in the realms. Maybe the pendulum has swung far too far to the left. In hindsight, I’m afraid we have brought this situation on ourselves. But, if this crisis proves to be as dire as I predict, we will have no problem getting the votes from the Guild that we need.”

Dra’kor wasn’t entirely happy with the answer, but he understood the truth of the situation. He also valued the fact that Ja’tar was being upfront with him and not trying to twist him into doing something with an agenda. Besides, he was yearning to get out into the world. He was very excited about the possibility of travel, no matter what the reason or the consequences.

His own admission surprised him. He realized that his desire to explore and learn far out-stripped his fear. Of course, it was easy to say that now. He wondered how he would react the first time he came face to face with his fears and nightmares. It was always far easier to act the tough and fearless explorer when safe in the bowels of Havenhold, but out in the real world?

“Are you interested?” asked Ja’tar directly.

Grit was the first to speak up, “Aye, I am … I guess …”

Dra’kor gave him an irritated look.

“— that is, if it’s acceptable with Dra’kor …,” he stammered.

“I would have to say that we are willing to do this for you, but I think we need some time to think about it. I still have many questions,” Dra’kor said.

“But …,” grumbled Men’ak.

“Yes,” Dra’kor asked, turning toward him.

“Nothing,” Men’ak groaned, casting his eyes down.

He didn’t want Ja’tar to know how eager he was to get out of the Keep. An adventure, by the Ten! He had to keep himself from breaking out into a shit-eating grin. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ventured outside farther than earshot of the walls of Havenhold. He could feel his adrenaline building.

Ja’tar knew that Dra’kor wanted to accept. He could see it in his eyes. He gained a bit of admiration for the man in the fact that he hadn’t jumped in with both feet. He recognized the gamesmanship of his request.

“Of course, why don’t you three talk it over and come to me tomorrow with your questions. I’ll give you until tomorrow night to give me an answer. After that, I will look elsewhere. Oh, and gentlemen—let’s keep this to ourselves for now. If you accept, we will fabricate a cover story and present it to the house at dinner. I don’t want to worry the others unnecessarily.”

Dra’kor nodded and looked at his two friends. Grit and Men’ak both nodded in turn. Dra’kor looked out over the landscape shown before him. He could almost feel the dirt beneath his feet and the wind in his hair. He wasn’t sure what was in store for them, but he knew damn well it would be different from anything else he had experienced. He was bored to tears of study. He yearned to get out and see the world, regardless of the circumstance. He also realized that he would not likely get another opportunity like this again for a long time.

“You can go now and discuss. Zedd’aki and I will stay here and prepare some maps and research the lay of the land a bit more,” Ja’tar said. “However, you are free to stay and watch if you desire. I’m just afraid you’ll be bored with the humdrum of it all ….”

“I’d like to sta —” Grit started to say, but was cut off by Dra’kor who grabbed his sleeve and yanked him toward the door.

“We’ll go and discuss your generous offer,” Dra’kor said, over the top of Grit. He motioned for his friends to join him as he headed for the door.

As the door closed behind the three men with a resounding thud, Zedd’aki nodded at Ja’tar and whispered, “Nicely played old man, nicely played! But it would have been better if you told me your plan before you pulled the boys in!”

Ja’tar sighed, “Sorry, I didn’t have time.”

“You think they’re right for the job?”

“Doesn’t matter I suppose, but I fear that we need them more than we would like.”

Zedd’aki’s eyebrows rose. “What do you think they will find?”

“I fear … I fear that they will find horrors and sights that are enough to make a grown man cower. I hope and pray that they will return in one piece —”

Zedd’aki winced at the reply. “Do you really think that this is spinning out of control?”

“I fear that the demons have risen, maybe worse, that a dark mage is behind all of this. I fear for the realms and for our very survival. I must parlay with the elves soon,” lamented Ja’tar. “Will you join me? I could use the support.”

Zedd’aki nodded, “Of course my friend, when shall we meet?”

“How about tomorrow —?”

“— Done!” Zedd’aki replied. They both leaned over the table and began to dig into the scene before them. “I’ll try to map out the roads.”

Ja’tar nodded, as he maneuvered the map into place, “Let’s start with Five Peaks.”

“What if the high pass is still snowed in?”

“I guess it could be this time of year. All right — let’s do Three Rivers as an alternate.”

Zedd’aki nodded.

They had plenty of work to do and very little time to accomplish their responsibilities. Ja’tar pondered the atlas. He was out of form. It was going to be excruciatingly slow going for the next few hours as he strained to recall all the finesse of the symbols. For now, he fumbled his way through the magic to control the map, often getting results that didn’t quench his needs.

Outside in the hall, the three friends began their trek back to the dining room. The halls were dark now, with only a bit of moonlight lighting the way through stained glass windows that emptied into the courtyard below. It was a clear night, nary a cloud in the sky. Their shadows marched down the hall as they passed the giant multistory columns that lined the outside hall.”

Men’ak’s face was filled with confusion. “Do you think Ja’tar is serious about this quest he wants to send us on?”

“I’m not sure,” Dra’kor shook his head. “I’d like to believe he is. He seems … sincere, and the need does seem to be great.”

“Is he trying to get us out of the way?” inquired Men’ak, hoping he was wrong.

“Seems to be too elaborate for a ruse …,” Grit stated not knowing what everyone was thinking. “Given the events of the day … I mean.”

“I’d say it’s improbable, but I suppose it’s possible, the old man is more clever than he seems. But either way, it gets us out of the Keep for a while,” Dra’kor said, with a smile.

“Aye, there is that!” Grit smiled back.

Dra’kor grinned. “Can you imagine it?”

“What if it isn’t a ruse —?” Men’ak inquired. “What if the whole lot the old man says is true? Our necks could be on the line this time. This isn’t just bluster and talking. If he’s right, this could be very perilous.”

“Damn the Ten!” muttered Grit under his breath. “I didn’t think about that.”

“What if … if it is as he says and the entire Keep, and the realms, are in peril. If all halla breaks loose …,” Men’ak uttered with trepidation in his voice. “We could make an immense difference.”

“Aye!” nodded Dra’kor somberly. “It would be satisfying to have value. I surmise that is what’s at the core of what chafes me now. I feel we have no value.”

“We could be at the center of this and at least have some control over our destiny. Maybe …,” Grit offered.

“If we turn him down, all the talk has just been talk and we will lose all respect within the Keep. Our bluff has been called,” Dra’kor concluded, wondering if the old man had planned it that way. He realized the irony of the entire situation. Trapped like a rat!

Grit stared into the eyes of his fellow conspirators. “Do you believe we are prepared for this?”

“As ready as any …,” Men’ak nonchalantly commented, although the tone of his voice suggested that he didn’t believe it to be so.

Men’ak knew that there was an enormous difference between him and his friends, and Ja’tar’s old colleagues. They had fought in the battle of Ror and survived — they understood genuine peril and witnessed heart-stopping battle. It was an entirely different thing to fling water balls and static charges at someone when you knew it was practice. Men’ak wasn’t sure how he would react to seeing blood-lust in some demons eyes as it was casting Demon’s Fire at him.

“Isn’t this what we’ve been asking for all along?” Grit asked, because he was still a smidgen foggy on how they had been out-maneuvered. At least he felt that they had been outplayed.

“I suppose. Still, I suffer that we have been playing a game of Chessman and been forced to castle,” smiled Dra’kor, because he recognized that Ja’tar had played them right into his hand.

“It is as it is I suppose …,” Grit sighed in abject resignation.

“We should have time to brush up on our spells.” Dra’kor added being uncharacteristically optimistic. “Before we go …”

“We know so little,” Men’ak muttered, shaking his drooped head. “A thousand arcane useless spells of very little benefit,” he said as his voice trailed off.

“Aye, stupid, useless spells,” Grit nodded.

“Well, we shouldn’t need them if we stick to the plan,” Dra’kor reasoned, trying to brighten the mood.

Grit knew full well that nothing ever goes per the plan and things are always more dire than expected. “Plans are bound to change.”

“Still, I’d feel better if I knew I could annihilate something if the need should present itself,” Men’ak added.

“I think that Ja’tar would aid us if we asked. He did survive Ror,” Dra’kor piped up. “He’s the last you know … the last of the Fallen.”

Men’ak’s head cocked to one side. “The Fallen?”

“I heard it was from a bard’s song,” Dra’kor said. “The song says that they were like gods once and have fallen from grace. But I believe there is much more to the story.”

“Always is,” grumbled Grit.

Dra’kor nodded, “The last mage to ascend and become a god.”

“A god?” stammered Men’ak. “You’re kidding right?”

“Uh-hmm … no, it’s true. But I heard the Guild ordered him back before the ascension was complete,” Dra’kor said, shaking his head.

“No way! The Guild did that?” Grit whistled. “That’s power —”

“Why?”

“No one knows for sure, or at least talks about it. Rumor is the Guild didn’t want him to go. They wanted him to take over the Keep after his father was asked to ascend.”

Grit could not believe his ears. “They can do that?”

“Guess so — he’s here ain’t he?” Dra’kor spat.

“I would be infuriated!” Men’ak swore. “By the Ten!”

“I heard he was … and that ain’t all. I heard that you have to be beckoned by the gods themselves. He was the last one; the gods took the Guild’s move as an insult and haven’t talked to magi since.”

Men’ak whistled, “I never knew —”

“What about Zedd’aki? Wasn’t he there?” Grit asked.

“Only at the end, at least that’s what I heard,” Dra’kor replied. “Ja’tar is — the last of the Fallen.”

“I guess that counts for something, even if it was millennia ago. They say he was amongst the best, maybe even the best. Unfortunately, there isn’t much written of those battles, but everyone I’ve talked to said it was horrible beyond belief …” Men’ak said, with deep respect in his voice.

“Horrible,” Grit quietly echoed.

They had reached the main hall and turned into the dining room. Time had passed and it was very late. They were the only people in the room. The entire Keep was dead still. They sat down at a table at the far end and lit a single small lamp.

Grit wandered over to the pantry looking for a midnight snack. Gretta almost always left delectable goodies out for the mages to munch on late at night. Magi weren’t known for keeping to schedules and were often up late at night following a hunch or tracking down the origins of a spell.

He found some meat pies and brought a stack back to the table. They were a little cool, so he cast a small warming spell and before long, the pies were piping hot. He grabbed one and threw one to Men’ak who caught it and juggled it to cool it down.

“How do you feel about having to maintain a guise of commoners?” Grit asked Dra’kor, just before he took a big bite of hot pie. “That’s just got to rub you the wrong way. I know it does me!”

“What do you think? I’m surprised you even need to ask the question. How long have you known me?”

“Well?”

“I’m not happy with it. But — I have to admit that Ja’tar’s reasoning for it is sound.”

“Aye mate, ye wanna be out on a walkabout?” Grit said in his best sailor accent.

Dra’kor rolled his eyes, “If this isn’t a ruse, there will be plenty of opportunity in the near future. We can certainly wait a few more weeks or months.”

Grit sat nervously fidgeting. “I’m a bit concerned about the totems and being cut off. After Ja’tar mentioned it, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I guess I had pushed it out of my mind somehow — as if it only happens to travelers.”

Men’ak incoherently piped up, his mouth full of pie. “Me too, gives me the willies.”

“— I have to say, with all the whining I do about living forever and being bored to tears, I find myself worried that my life would be cut short,” Dra’kor said, echoing their thoughts.

“Me too …,” sighed Men’ak, finding it hard to swallow.

“Can’t you say anything besides me too?” Dra’kor teased.

Men’ak shrugged and stuffed another pie into his mouth.

Grit belched loudly and grabbed a second pie. “What can we do?”

“Excuse yourself …,” Men’ak moaned.

Grit blushed and suppressed anther burp, “Seriously though, I don’t see that there is anything we can do about it.”

Men’ak nodded, “What is, is!”

Dra’kor closed his eyes and echoed weakly, “What is, is —”

“I suppose we could at least store up enough magic to get us through a few ten or twenty years should we get cut off. If we used the magic just to keep from aging, we might be able to stretch it for a normal lifetime,” Men’ak added his opinion and offered a bit of hope from the studying he had done.

“Is that possible?” Grit asked, rather surprised.

“I suppose it is possible to store magic,” Dra’kor said. “I wonder if Ja’tar has thought about it?”

“That’s what I’ve read, Men’ak added. “It really isn’t done much because the realms have been pretty quiet these past centuries, but I’ve read that in the old days, many of the travelers prepared this way so they could tie up loose ends and see to the realms after a cataclysm.”

Dra’kor raised his gaze, staring at Men’ak..

“I wonder if To’paz was prepared.”

Grit looked at Men’ak and confusion showed on his face.

“My guess is he thinks the demon destroyed everything, including To’paz.” Men’ak mumbled, thinking of what he would do in that situation. “Still, being vaporized by a demon is better than being cut off … or so I hear.”

“Hard way to go …,” Grit said. “— but at least its quick ….”

Men’ak nodded his agreement.

Dra’kor said, “Not as hard as being cut off from magic … at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“I heard that too,” Grit said.

“We should definitely prepare as if we will be caught. Ja’tar thinks we should expect the worst. That’s probably prudent planning,” Dra’kor added. “You should be in charge of that since you seem to know the most about it.”

Men’ak nodded. “I’ll dig into it.”

“I fear the demons more than dying,” whispered Grit. “I hear they can take over your soul and force you to do their bidding eternally. I read once that they captured mages and forced them to do hideous things and that you know you are doing them but cannot resist. I wouldn’t want to live like that.”

Grit shuddered, imagining the horrors.

For a few minutes, the air hung heavy. The three friends contemplated what might ensue, each imagining in vivid detail how they would like to react in the circumstance of being captured. Certainly none wanted to be used as a tool to harm those they cared about, because even though they had their differences, the wizards of the Keep were family. Squabble, as they may, like small children, they knew that any mage in the Keep would quickly come to aid of a fellow mage.

“We must make a pact that we won’t allow any of us to be captured … by demons,” said Men’ak, “— if the need be, we must end each other’s life to prevent our powers from being used against the Keep, or each other.”

“Agreed.” they all stated together.

“H-h-how do we know when to —?” stammered Grit.

“We’ll know,” was all Dra’kor said, cutting him off.

Grit looked back and forth at his two friends. “Well, are we really going to do this? Are we really leaving the Keep and venturing out into the world?”

“I think we have to. Now is our time.” Dra’kor emphasized.

“It’s our time ….” he repeated, his voice trailing off.

Suddenly, reality set in. They just sat quietly at the table, numb as winter-toes, as the daunting task that was before them hung over their heads and weighed heavy on their hearts.

Grit swore that he could hear both Dra’kor’s and Men’ak’s hearts beat. He looked at his friends; both of their eyes were cast down, and he knew exactly what they thought. Bloody halla!

Dra’kor finally reached across the table, grabbed one of the pies from the plate and nibbled around the edges.

They knew that what they were about to tackle was most likely going to be far more dangerous and difficult than they imagined. After all, how could they even conceive what they might run into in the realms? Their imaginations ran wild with stories they had heard and studies. None of them had even walked the world, at least, not in eight hundred plus years. Men’ak could hardly even remember where he had grown up; let alone recall what it was like. They had lived a sheltered and isolated existence.

Men’ak was sure they were as good as dead, but was afraid to speak up. He knew he would be ridiculed and probably chastised by Dra’kor if he didn’t willfully participate. Truth was, he wanted to pull his weight, but damn, he was scared. Dra’kor had been patient with him over the years, but there was only so much patience a man could have. He knew Dra’kor well enough to know that this adventure was not negotiable. He swallowed hard, and turned to look into Grit’s eyes. Those black orbs spoke volumes. Grit was as worried as he was, and that was saying something! Bloody hell, he thought. Ticks and slugs in their beds, they were heading for disaster.

And for once, they all understood the weight of responsibility.

Off in the opposite corner of the same room under a long table sat a small halfling, listening in on the conversation. Tax sat quietly, his legs drawn up tight to his chest. He nodded to himself as his ears twitched. The debt was about to be paid. At long last, the ‘Time of Reckoning’ had come. He sat very, very quietly. He couldn’t wait to tell the others later tonight.

The Mage’ses had better be worryin’, he thought to himself shaking a crooked finger in their direction. You have been foolishes and careless with your gifts —

He had seen what had become of Tar’ac. He knew what was coming. He shuddered and clung hard to the table’s support post. Only one creature had that kind of power and he only knew of a single demon that had enough power to force that creature to do his bidding. They would need their strength, yes they would. The prophecy wasn’t clear at this point, but what was written was enough to make a grown man cry.

Tax sat grinning.

Naan

It had been a pleasant day in the mountain town of Balder nestled in a sheltered valley near the border of Naan. The sun was just starting to set after a fine late fall day and only a light grey haze was in the air from the chimney smoke, which was settling among the evergreen trees. It shrouded the small valley in a pine scent as the smoky tendrils wove their way up the valley.

To’paz nodded to a farmer working his wagon down the well-rutted road. The old plow horse plodded along, oblivious to the farmer’s sense of urgency or his whip.

It was getting cool quickly now as the heat from the day dissipated and the crickets and frogs were already singing their evening songs. The days were getting shorter. Summer was gone and soon fall would be turning to winter. To’paz pulled her shawl tight around her small frame.

A gentle breeze made the changing aspen leaves rustle and every now and then, one would give up and drop, slowly fluttering to the dirt where it would rest and eventually become part of the soil again. That was the way is was in the world, each living thing had its time and returned to the earth, except for wizards.

To’paz liked winter. Oh, sure, it was mostly bleak, and she didn’t like having to stay inside all the time, but the demons didn’t like the icy cold winter and they tended to stay deep in their mountain lairs. As she saw it, anything that kept demons and dark mages at bay was a bonus. Besides, it gave her time to knit and lace.

Of course, the seasons were backwards here, it was early spring at the Keep, her home, far to the north across the I’jean Sea. Here, winter was yet to come. It was confusing, but as long as you didn’t travel back and forth, you got used to it.

She often wished that winter lasted longer here, two short months hardly seemed sufficient. Back home at the Keep, winter lasted a full half-year. Here, winter was short. However, that being said, it hit hard, with biting-cold, windswept storms and snow measured in feet. Once it settled in, you were not going anywhere until it decided to leave.

To’paz walked slowly down the deeply rutted dirt street, carefully avoiding the fresh horse droppings. She moved out of the way of farmers coming in from the fields in their carts after a hard day’s work harvesting the fruits of their labor. The carts stacked high with hay and fruit twisted and creaked as they carried their heavy loads. She could smell the juicy ripe apples as the cart slowly passed.

She was returning from one of her last foraging trips of the season to the high mountain meadows and upper forests. She was taking advantage of the mild weather to have a last chance at gathering the plethora of herbs, leaves, roots, mushrooms and bugs she used as the local medicine woman. Her basket was chock full and weighed heavily on her left arm.

To’paz was very well known and respected as a great healer and people traveled for many days to have their sick treated by her remedies.

They came with almost every imaginable affliction, some of which were well beyond her ability to treat, but at least, she could offer up some herbs and potions to take away or dull the pain. For this, they were always grateful. It didn’t hurt that she could tweak the recipe using her gift when needed.

She had been extremely careful in setting up her trade and had worked diligently to earn her reputation. It had taken her years after her arrival to gain the trust of the locals. She finally settled on a profession that she could use to blend in while she oversaw the realm for the Guild. She had spent the last six hundred years trying to master her craft in her spare time, as if that were even possible! Managing the realm required far more time than she had thought it would. She sighed heavily; it seemed that there was always something that required her attention.

The worst part of being a traveler was having to move every few years. Since she didn’t age, she was forced to relocate around the realm every ten to fifteen years. It was inconvenient. When she had moved back to Balder, she had bumped into Nelly Krachet who was now well over sixty years old. To’paz had not recognized her and had been startled when the poor woman’s jaw dropped to the ground when they met and she had called her by name. Nelly had aged and was now frail, mostly gray and had well worn wrinkles about her eyes and jaw. She had been suspicion of To’paz and grumbled incessantly that she looked the spitting image as she had those forty-plus years ago.

She had missed Nelly, who had been one of her best friends, but couldn’t renew the friendship, lest her secret be revealed. She did let her talk about her mother and they shared tea and laughter many times before she passed away. Eventually, she convinced the woman that she had been named after her mother and was the daughter of her friend from years ago.

To’paz promised to write to her mother about Nelly and held her hand, weeping as she died. It had been a stark reminder that she needed to be more careful. Although few of the Naan residents made it to sixty, she discovered that some do, and that forced her to change her plans, vowing never to return to an area until at least eighty years had passed.

She looked up at the trees and noticed that they looked a little worse for wear this year than in the past, a bad early frost had done some damage and some sort of blight had gained a foothold in late summer causing the leaves to mottle. She would keep an eye on the trees over winter and fix them in the spring if the need arose.

She hadn’t really planned on doing anything special after her foraging; mostly she was just in the mood to wander so she slowly walked toward the small town enjoying the crisp air, colorful leaves and the smell of fall.

It wasn’t safe for a lady to wander too far as night approached. Although she was well equipped to handle whatever might happen, doing so would bring about questions and rumors she would just as soon avoid. When the path forked, she took the path to the local village instead of the one toward the next town Cratchet’s Hollow.

Walking helped her think and it helped center her. She could feel the magic of the earth and hear the voice of the trees. When she walked, she could tune out all the distractions that the day had presented and lose herself in nature. She could talk to the Mother and hear all she had to offer.

She noticed a gray squirrel chattering as it skittered on a tree branch, struggling to get another nut stored in its leaf nest before winter. By casual observation, everything seemed normal, and all seemed calm. Truth be told, that was very inaccurate as far as she was concerned. Things were not in balance and the forest knew it; the Mother knew too. The forest critters knew. Moreover she could hear their guarded whispers…look out…what was that? Is it safe to come out?

She was pondering how the situation had gotten this chaotic. She thought she had successfully orchestrated order after the insurgency of the dark magi and had them well in hand. Now of course she didn’t mean ‘dark magi’ in the sense of ancient dark magi that caused the collapse of the realms, forced the Great Separation and culminated with the final battle at Ror. Oh, no, her magi were weak meddling spell charlatans, thank you very much. Self-interested cretins, doing everything in their power to cheat, rob and or take advantage of the hard working people of Naan. Every time she grasped what to do, things changed and blindsided her. Damn this dark magic. Damn this realm! She thought to herself.

She was most worried about her battle the previous day with a demon lord. At least she thought it was a demon lord, all gaudy, dressed up in gold, jewels and spun metal armor. By the Ten, they thought highly of themselves!

The gods know she hadn’t seen or fought a demon lord for centuries, she wondered why now. It seemed to be directed at her, of all the damn things. It made no sense at all as far as she was concerned. Demon lords just didn’t go out looking for a fight. She scowled. They had a huge self-preservation instinct and knew that taking on a Second Order Mage was suicide.

She had nearly perished trying to bring down the winged dark one when he out-foxed her and managed to let off a nearly fatal spell. Had the demon’s ball of Hell Fire been more accurately thrown, she could well be a charred heap in the boulder field where they did battle. Still, she had survived, although she believed they had come dangerously close to cutting off magic to the realm! She swore. She really needed more time to keep up her skills.

They played a deadly game of cat and mouse, using spells carefully woven and skillfully executed that just threaded the needle of what was permissible. She recognized that the demons were upping their game. Each attack came so much closer to destroying them all. None of it made sense, but then again, one had to be a few fingers short of a full hand to try to make sense of demons anyway.

She didn’t mind the risk. Not that she had a death wish or anything, but she knew the dangers involved when she volunteered to be a traveler. What she hadn’t counted on was all the death that seemed to follow her.

This time nearly an entire small village had been murdered. She had heard their screams with her gift, but by the time she arrived at the location of the town, all she saw was the burnt and charred remains of the terrorized citizens who never stood a chance against the demon. Each fell where they stood with a single small black hole burnt into their foreheads and the back of their skulls. The demon had perfectly executed a spider spell, a hideous spell cast out from the demon in multi directions simultaneously. It threaded its way from body to body, boring holes in each person, collecting the souls as it went. Few had survived, only a couple who were out hunting and some children who were out gathering berries when the attack happened. She shook her head in sadness.

She didn’t always have the sight to see things in advance, although she had been able to see people’s futures since she was nine. It was more difficult when you were scanning for random noise mixed in with all the dreams and desires that clouded the air. Whether she could pick out the nits from the hair sadly depended too much on the skill level of the foe she faced. Many of the lesser demons projected their plans and gloated over their impending victory often enough and loud enough that she could see the event long before it happened.

This one did not. However, he couldn’t mask his blood lust to feed when tempted with the carnage his spell caused. Unfortunately, she had been too late to prevent the destruction of the village, but in the end, she had sent the demon back to the underworld. She should take solace in the fact that had she not succeeded, things could be a whole lot worse. There seemed to be a never-ending number of demons wandering the realm these days. She yanked on her Dzomat braid that dangled at the side of her face. She fiddled with the two cerulean beads, twirling them between her fingers.

She contemplated the undeniable fact that attacks were more frequent and the competence of the evil lords was improving. They were getting to be more formidable each and every year. She feared that soon, they would be too much for her to handle on her own, at least not without a high probability of the realm being closed.

She would report this to the watcher when he came to audit her. She had a lot of explaining to do when they met. She needed help and she really had nowhere else to turn but the Guild. At this time, the local mages had not proved to be competent enough to help her eradicate the threat. There was this one named Merl, but he was hesitant to deal with demons — that left her on her own. Without any help, the best she could do was attempt to mitigate the damage.

She spotted a nice cluster of dark brown wrinkled morel mushrooms under a tree along the path and stopped to pick them. She bent over, plucking them cleanly at the base of the stems and placed them one by one into her basket along with the other herbs and flowers. She would dry them once she got home. Then in the winter, she could have mushrooms in her stew. That would be a treat. She stood up and brushed the leaves and dirt from her dress before she continued toward town.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she wanted to go home. She missed the Keep, her friends, and most of all, her brother and father. She wondered why she hadn’t been audited; it seemed that it had been a very long time, hundreds of years even. She expected to be audited every twenty-five years. The Guild was supposed to use the audit to understand the individual realm’s needs and to provide assistance and support. This was especially urgent when it came to maintaining the realm’s order.

She had been living on the other side of the realm in Pharsis at the time of the last review. What had it been, two-fifty, three hundred years ago? She couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t contacted her in so long. So much had happened since those days. So much bloody killing and useless destruction! The lack of contact had her worried. She wondered if they had forgotten about her, after all she was beyond the edge of the Wild.

She looked up, sensing a familiar feeling. Speak of the demon! The watcher was here. She could feel the contact. It’s about time, she thought to herself, placing her empty hand on her hip. She would have to give him a piece of her mind when she had the chance.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the sky to the north lit up white and a deafening thunderclap forced her to cover her ears. Just as she felt safe enough to let go of her ears, the pain hit. It jabbed at her like a white-hot knife as she fell to the ground, spilling her basket’s contents as she lost grip of its handle. Her knees hit first, she rolled to her back and the convulsions began, each worse than the previous.

She was only vaguely aware that she was drawing a crowd. The farmers and merchants watched her as she writhed in pain, they walked around her, and some walked practically right over her. All of them stared, but none stopped to help. Damn this place.

Another spasm hit her and her eyes rolled back in her head. To the outside world, it appeared as if she were touched and having a seizure. She choked as she foamed at the mouth. Her body’s spasms finally started to subside. Slowly the pain was easing and she was regaining consciousness and control of her body. She was vaguely aware of a shadow next to her. She was disorientated and wasn’t sure where she was.

“My Lady? My Lady … are you all right?” asked a man wearing ragged baggy pants.

At first, she couldn’t distinguish the words, but she gradually became aware that there was a man kneeling beside her, shaking her shoulder. She took her first deep breath and almost retched. She could smell the sour ale on his breath and his clothes reeked from his failure to wash either them or himself in a long time.

She fully opened her eyes and stared into a shaggy, unkempt face. Everything was blurry and her stomach yearned for her equilibrium to return. Unable to regain her balance, she rolled over and emptied the contents of her stomach. Her eyes were slow to focus and although her head throbbed, she was starting to feel a bit better. The man was young, perhaps in his twenties, but he looked old and weary. She guessed that he was either vagrant or a street rat. She tried to force a smile as her lips quivered.

“You sure gave us a scare! What with your shaking and twitching like that, we thought the devil had you. I seen people like that before, all curled up, tongue a wagging and spitting up.”

The man looked at To’paz. She knew he was actually concerned and trying to help. She was grateful for that. It was uncommon these days for anyone to help anybody, regardless of the circumstances unless they knew you very well. Even though she had lived in this village for nearly a full lifetime, they still treated her as an outsider; after all, she wasn’t born in town.

She struggled trying to sit up, but she was very weak and her arms gave out on her when she tried to push herself erect. The man put his hand under her arm and helped get her into a sitting position.

“Here, let me help you move to the side out of the mess”

To’paz just grunted her response. The man half pulled, half pushed her across the road out of the mess her stomach had left. He kicked some dirt over it.

“You want me to get somebody? Your folks?” he asked sheepishly, still concerned as he finished covering up her mess.

She shook her head no. That was a mistake. “Oh! That hurts,” she screamed clutching and clawing at her hair. Her whole head began spinning again and she feared she was going to be sick again. She grabbed her middle and rocked for a while, hoping the feeling would pass.

“Lady, you don’t look so good,” Eennis said, standing above her, hands on his hips.

To’paz tilted her head up and just gave him one of those looks that ladies give when you say something stupid.

“Damn! I didn’t mean that,” he apologized. “You’re beautiful — really pale! Oh, Damn! Its … It’s just that you look like you lost a rumble with an evil spirit itself. You should see your face.”

He was scratching his head, trying to figure out how to say what he saw, but words were never easy. He eventually gave up trying to express what he meant after a few false starts. The nice words never seemed to come to him. She saw the frustration on his face, and felt a little sorry for the look she had given him.

“What’s your name?” she asked in a hoarse whisper, her throat was very dry and the taste in her mouth was just ghastly. She noticed the crowd was dispersing now that the show was over.

“Eennis. My name is Eennis, Lady,” he said, pushing out the wrinkles in his camisole, trying to tuck one side into his oversized pants. She noticed how rough and torn his hands were, his feet were bare. His clothes were very well worn and in places, the fabric was so thin you could see through it.

To’paz cleared her throat, “Well, Eennis, pleased to meet you and thank you for your help. I think I’ll be fine now, it must have been something I ate.”

She explained looking him in the eye. “Can you help me get my basket?”

Ennis looked around.

“Oh, sure. Sorry —” he said as he dashed around gathering up the small items that had fallen out. He set the basket next to her and crouched down waiting for her to say something.

She noticed how thin and drawn his face was and wondered when he had last had a good meal. Food was getting dear in the village this time of year until the new crops were harvested. She rolled over and grabbed for her satchel. She searched out a couple of coppers and a silver coin and handed them to Eennis. He pulled back, obviously insulted by her behavior.

“What’s that for?” he said indignantly.

“I want to give you something to show my gratitude for helping me,” she said, holding out the money. He reached and pushed her hand back to her draw bag while he shook his head no.

“I did what I did ‘cause ya needed it. Don’t need no pay! It wouldn’t be right. Momma always said to lend a hand when people are hurting. Kindness don’t hurt none, don’t cost none either!”

“I didn’t mean to insult you Eennis. I’m just indebted for your help. That’s all.”

She still didn’t understand these people. Every once in a while, one of them acted completely out of character, challenging everything she thought she knew. Most people would just take the money. Eennis obviously had good rearing and a high moral standard in spite of his rather shambled appearance.

“Could I at least buy you dinner?” she offered. “I’m starving and I don’t like eating by myself.”

She was feeling a bit guilty for implying that a reward was all he was after. It wasn’t what she meant.

“I guess I could use a meal,” Eennis said, avoiding eye contact. He shifted his weight nervously from leg to leg. Eennis thought about having a real meal and suddenly felt embarrassed about how he looked and smelled.

He knew it wasn’t his fault. He was willing to work. He worked hard, real hard, when he could. There just weren’t any jobs anymore, no jobs for someone without a trade. He reckoned most of the farms in the valley were run by families and they had their own kin to work the fields. Once in an Ocht’or moon, he could get on for a day or two, but mostly he worked for food and made little money. He didn’t feel good about the fact that he wasted his income on ale, but it made him forget his woes, at least for a little while.

Eennis looked at the ground as he spoke, “I don’t think they’ll let me into any place that serves food. I don’t smell too good you know!” He briefly made contact with her eyes and she could see his embarrassment.

“Don’t fret Eennis,” she said. “I’ll go in and get us something. I know the innkeeper and he’ll let me bring the food outside.”

“You just wait here. I’ll be right back,” she promised.

She tried to stand, but found that her knees bowed and quaked, and she just felt out of sorts. Something was out of kilter. Eennis was quick to be by her side and grabbed her by the waist before her legs gave way. She steadied herself, taking her time.

To’paz pointed at the rock next to the small traveler’s inn. “Could you help me get over there, to that rock?”

“I suppose so, sure!” he said. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, I won’t hurt you?”

“I know you won’t Eennis. I’m not afraid.”

Eennis flashed a smile that showed he was lacking more than a few teeth. “You’re very nice lady. People can be real mean. Most people like you don’t treat me too good, but you do.”

“You’re nice too,” To’paz replied sincerely. “Remember Eennis, wealth doesn’t change who you are unless you let it.”

“I know that Lady. I didn’t always live on the street. I just had a run with bad luck lately. Just can’t seem to find my place anymore. Things changed a while back and I lost my farm. It was a nice farm —” he smiled again remembering those days.

“I’m sure it was,” To’paz agreed. “How did you lose your farm?”

Eennis looked up and pondered his story. “Well, I had this nice little place down by the river and one day his Lordship rode by and decided he wanted it. The next I knew, some soldiers were throwing me out on my ear. I got to take some stuff, but had nowhere to put it, so I sold it. I don’t understand why he took it. He never even visited after that first time. I never see’d him once. My pappy built that house. He owned the land. It was given him by the last Lord.”

Eennis was practically in tears. The thought of his farm opened a deep wound. He sobbed a bit.

“I’m so sorry Eennis. The Lord shouldn’t have kicked you out like that. He should have offered you another plot of land in exchange.”

He felt downtrodden and quiet, not wanting to talk further. “So I just can’t seems to find a way to start over again. If you don’t have a trade or own land, you’re nobody, just nobody,”

“Well Eennis, maybe things will get better. You need to keep your spirits up and stay ready for opportunities. Opportunities always show for those who are kind and good hearted,” she said, taking his hand.

“By the way, my name is Lady To’paz.”

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady To’paz,” Eennis replied. He bowed deeply, snapping out of his dour mood.

“Such chivalry!” To’paz smiled. “Please! You don’t have to address me as Lady. You can just call me To’paz.”

She tried to see a little of his future to give him some encouragement. It was just something she did —

It was gone! She frantically tried to touch the gift that has always been there. She saw nothing. She sat there empty and startled. She had been able to see people’s futures since she was nine — nine! Slowly, it dawned on her. It wasn’t that Eennis had no future; she felt nothing, nothing at all. She tried again, just to be sure.

Now she was frightened, but she deduced what had happened. Well, she didn’t actually know for sure, but she had a good guess of why she had the pain. There was no more of the old magic in the realm of Naan. It was gone! The realm had been cut off. She reached out; she checked everywhere, for any sign, but found nothing. She could sense the source, but felt no power from the source. Something must have triggered a Closing. Oh, by the gods! They closed the realm.

She looked down at the bracelet on her left wrist. Five ruddy gems all glowed softly in their silver clasps. Her father had given her the bracelet the last time she had visited the Keep, long ago. At that time, she had no idea what the bracelet was, she just thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Her father had shown her how to fill it with magic and make the gems sparkle. Even as a little girl, she had always kept it charged, although it was more for the way it looked than it was anything else.

Many years later, she found out what its true purpose was by accident one day while reading in the library and seeing a drawing in one of the tomes. When she eventually became a traveler, she had taken the bracelet with her. Things were just too dicey what with all the demons and such. She couldn’t afford to be unprepared for what she knew would eventually come, a Closing. She made a mental connection to the stones and felt relieved to feel the magic again.

She needed to conserve the magic so she cut the flow down to a single thread, using just enough to keep her from getting sick with the headaches.

“To’paz,” Eennis said, as he tried it out. “To’paz is a wonderful name. What does it mean?”

Huh? Oh, yes! Thank you,” she replied, snapping out of her self-analysis. “It is the name of a rare bright yellow gem from my homeland.”

She regained her composure and remembered what she had been doing. She reached up for his arm.

He reached down and let her use his arm for balance. He half pulled her, and half held her up as she slowly shuffled over to the rock. She set her hands on either side of the rock and flopped down, shaking. The effort to sit down gently was too much. She was just happy to be out of the way of all the passing strangers. She decided that she should rest for a few minutes until she felt better.

She could hear all the merriment going on in the inn, singing, clapping, and every once in a while the sound of things breaking followed by someone being tossed out on their ear from the sturdy door. They more oft than not landed hard in the dirt, usually yelled back at the man who threw them out, but eventually, they just stood up and staggered down the street.

“Do you feel better yet?” Eennis asked, after they had been sitting quietly for a while.

“Yes, much better,” To’paz nodded. “I should be able to get us that dinner now. I’m famished.”

She carefully stood up and ever so slowly walked over to the old inn. The building was made of rough-hewn logs tightly chinked and had a shake roof. To’paz held tightly to the roughly rounded railing as she climbed the three short uneven steps to the entry. She slowly pushed open the inn’s door, and was greeted by the aromas of stale ale and sweat. Along with the inglorious sight of too many drunken men dancing and singing loudly out of tune, she seemed out of place. She stepped in; the atmosphere was loud as a bard standing on a table played a local favorite on the lute, shouting to be heard above the crowd.

Busty bar maids quickly shuffled between the bar and the patrons carrying as many large mugs of ale and mead as their arms could hold. To’paz lifted her dress high so that it wouldn’t drag in the spilled ale that was pooled on the rough rock floor as she wove her way to the bar. She waved down the innkeeper.

“Evening Lady To’paz. What can I do ya for?”

To’paz cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled, trying hard to be heard. “Can I get two full plates of sliced meat and some fresh rolls?”

“Is the pork okay? Just put it on this morning. It was a good pig —”

To’paz nodded.

“Anything else? Something to drink?” the innkeeper asked.

“How about a couple mugs of cider?”

To’paz leaned over the bar. “Is it cool?”

“— I can get some from the root cellar. It’ll be cooler than the cask up here.”

“That would be most welcome. I’m a bit parched from my trip up into the mountains today,” she laughed, making casual conversation.

“I’ll clear a table for ya. It’ll take a few minutes,” the innkeeper said gruffly, as he scanned the crowd. It was a very busy night. Getting a table may be a bit difficult.

“Oh, don’t bother,” To’paz said. “I’m sharing it with — someone who can’t come in. He’s a bit ripe.”

“We’re all a bit ripe, my Lady,” the innkeeper chuckled. “Most everyone came in straight from the fields. That’s hard work. Make anyone sweat. Just the same, have it your way.”

“I would like to take the food outside. I’ll pay extra for the plates and mugs, but I’m sure they’ll find their way back to your door.”

“I know you’re good fer it,” the innkeeper nodded.

“You know, I think I’d like to change from rolls to a couple of those fresh baguettes I see Sarra taking out of the oven back there. Oh, and some of your wife’s butter too!”

“Sure. I’ll get things ready. It’ll be a few minutes,” the innkeeper replied. He headed toward the little back room where the kitchen was located.

She turned and watched the patrons dance and drink, spilling more than they actually swallowed. They told each other grand stories, shoved and thumped each other in the back, all the while laughing and strengthening friendships. The harvest time was always a happy time in the valley. The fall festival was the biggest event of the year and was only a couple weeks off, but everyone was already in the mood. This year, the harvest was particularly good. They should have plenty to last the cold bleak winter.

Soon, the innkeeper returned from the kitchen carrying two wooden plates heaped with meat and bread and handed the food to To’paz. He grabbed a couple mugs and filled them with cider from a man-sized oak barrel. She dropped a silver coin and a couple coppers on the bar and added an extra for the cups. She picked up her plates and mugs, nodded to the innkeeper and made her way past all the revelry to the door.

She came out carrying the small loaves of bread on a wood platter and two clay mugs of cool cider. To’paz knew the cider was far superior to the ale, because at this time of year, the ale was weak and sour. Besides, Eennis didn’t need more ale or mead. She sat back down on the rock and handed the bigger of the plates to Eennis. The smell of the food met their noses. They were very hungry and the fresh bread and roasted pork smelled wonderful. She heard his stomach rumble loudly, and she let out a small giggle.

Eennis muttered under his breath. “Damn! I haven’t seen this much food in days.”

She turned her head and gave him a look.

“Well, months, actually,” he said, looking away wincing at being caught in a lie.

“Mmmm, this smells so good.”

“It does, doesn’t it!” To’paz agreed.

He held his platter tightly in his well-callused hand and lifted it closer to his nose. He sniffed deeply and took in the aroma. He lowered the plate to his lap and reached for a big piece of pork, drooling in anticipation.

“Ouch! It’s hot,” he yelped, shaking his fingers before putting them in his mouth to cool them off. He took a huge bite, barely able to close his mouth. The meat was succulent and the juice slid down his chin and dripped on his pants. He wiped his chin with his sleeve.

“Slow down,” she said, “nobody’s going to take it away from you!”

“Uh-huh,” Eennis grunted.

He looked up and nodded, but he continued to push the food into his mouth. After a few minutes, he started taking smaller bites, but he was still shoveling the food in as fast as he could swallow. To’paz decided not to say anything else.

Eennis took a big draw from his mug and rinsed down the meat and bread with the cider. He had hoped for ale or mead, but he wasn’t about to complain. That would be rude!

They sat there eating, neither saying much. She savored moments like this. They sat and ate for over twenty minutes before she finished. She hadn’t eaten the whole plate of food, but she wasn’t hungry anymore and stood up placing the half-full plate on the rock where she was sitting. Eennis didn’t even notice because he was so deeply engrossed in his meal. She turned around and looked at him. Eennis was smiling broadly and was working on devouring his second baguette.

“I sorry I have to go now — but I want to thank you for your kindness. Maybe I will see you again someday.”

She looked into his eyes. She could see that he didn’t want her to go. She knew that he was very lonely. She bent over, took his face in her hands, and gently gave him a kiss on his forehead.

“Don’t go yet. Stay a while,” he pleaded.

“I can’t Eennis. Perhaps I will see you again while I’m out walking or visiting the village. If you see me, just call out. We can sit and talk for a while.” She let go of his face and turned away. She didn’t want him to see her cry. She was alone now, more alone than anyone could ever imagine.

Eennis didn’t want to, but he cried anyway. Nobody had ever been kind to him. Not that he could remember. He would remember Lady To’paz. He would remember what she said. He waved as she walked away. She turned and waved back. She disappeared into the darkness, leaving Eennis sitting there with the rest of the food.

All of a sudden, Eennis noticed that she left the food! He would have to go and find her. He thought again. Lady To’paz was a smart lady. Perhaps she meant him to keep the food. He decided she had tricked him, had tricked him nice!

Eennis sat there laughing to himself, rocking back and forth. He took another handful of meat off of the platter and sat, chewing in the dark. When he was done, he wiped the plate clean with his last piece of bread. He left the plates and the cups at the door of the inn, waved down the innkeeper, and pointed to the plates. The innkeeper nodded. It was the right thing to do! He started to sing and he stumbled down the trail to a nearby farm that had the haystack he called home. He crawled under the warm hay and fell quickly to sleep.

To’paz reached her small hut and let herself in. She walked right through the wards and didn’t even notice the small swarm of bugs that tried to follow, but were repelled by the ward. There were no ants, no flies and no mosquitoes. All manner of crawling things were repelled. To’paz hated bugs. The constant wards also helped her when she treated patients with lice, which fell to the ground as they came for treatment.

The house really wasn’t all that special, made out of stacked rocks with a good thatch roof. The house was located at the end of the valley next to a small babbling brook. The hut was sheltered from the elements by several giant trees that she had helped magically grow tall, long before they should.

The house was modest, given her standing in the community. It took careful inspection to notice the small luxuries she had afforded herself. The wards to keep insects out, the pitcher of water that never emptied. The smooth inner walls where the stones met so closely, that even air could not penetrate. Above, a roof that never leaked no matter the intensity of the storm. Yet, from the outside, all appeared normal for the times.

The main room was good sized and held her two comfortable chairs and the long table. Both were dominated by the large hearth with its endless stack of firewood and kindling. There was another small room to the back, just big enough to hold her bed and her small dresser. The small dresser held all of her nice clothes and the treasures she had collected over the years. Memories of past lives, a couple books, and a small woodcarving she got from a little boy she had saved.

A heavy woven wool curtain separated the two spaces. The single window at the end of the table was shuttered and latched closed. There was a thick quilt hanging in the frame that kept the cold out when the cold winter winds howled outside. The table was filled with clay jars and baskets that held her medicinal supplies. A set of shelves were off to one side and were filled with food, supplies and herbs.

She bolted the door and motioned for light. The candle lamps lit immediately and her bracelet glowed. She shook her head upset with herself. Using the gift was so instinctive for her. She would have to conserve her power. She wondered why it had worked with the light, but not when she had tried to see Eennis’s future.

She wondered if he was one of those who could block the magic. They were like big dark holes in the landscape of magic. They couldn’t be seen, felt or heard using the gift. A dark mage with that trait was extremely dangerous.

She walked over to the fire pit, shook the small teapot checking for water, and swung it out over the coals. She added two small logs onto the fire and stirred the embers with a poker until they started to flame. The shirt and dress came off as she entered the small nook where she slept.

The clothes would have to be washed. They were filthy from her tumble to the ground and from being sick. The image in the small polished hammered metal mirror caught her attention and she stood there staring.

She gazed upon her body, pleased with how young and fit she looked. She turned sideways and gazed at her breasts, still firm. Her cheeks weren’t drooping. She still had great legs for eight-hundred years old and her hair was still jet black. She hadn’t aged since her early twenties when she had learned how to control the gift, prior to getting her medallion.

The tears started to fall. She knew that without the gift she would age. She took off the now useless medallion and packed it into her chest. She had to face the fact that she’d grow old, real old, wither and die. It would be excruciatingly painful. To’paz was thankful that she knew about herbs and potions. At least she could numb some of the pain she would be experiencing. What else could she do? She cursed herself for failing. She wept, the tears rolled down her cheeks. She pulled her nightshirt over her head.

Ultimately, the Closing was her fault. She could blame no other. She had failed to hold evil in check. She had been too lenient in her punishment of those who experimented with the black arts. She should have quieted their minds, cut them off from the gift. She had always thought she would have more time to show them the right path. She had had an inkling that things were getting worse after the attack several days ago. She should have set some wards and protections up, but she didn’t. She had assumed that destroying the demon was enough. Apparently not ….

Hundreds of people had perished in this morning’s single burst of dark fire; she had heard them scream as they passed into the Mist World. She was frustrated, because whatever it was that caused this calamity would have gotten away before she could get there, even if she hadn’t collapsed. Now, there wasn’t much sense in investigating she reasoned. After all, without her gift, there wouldn’t be anything she could do about it. The only satisfaction she could take was that the demon was in the same predicament as she was, and probably even less prepared.

She knew the devastation to the north was caused because of her negligence. Although there was no way to know for sure, she suspected that it was that event that had triggered the Closing, although it didn’t feel that way. The town was a far measure off and she had seen and felt the magnitude of the spell. As she thought back to the exact moment, it felt as though the magic went away after the dark fire, well after. The totems didn’t work that way. She wondered what that meant.

She prayed that the demon had perished when the gates closed, if it was a demon at all. She wasn’t so sure about that, the amount of magic that had been used had been massive. Far larger than any amount she could have managed. Therefore, she reasoned, either it was a very powerful demon, a lower plane lord of lords, or it was a dark mage, but that was impossible. Still, if it were a pure magical being, which she supposed it was, it would have either been destroyed or returned to the lower planes when the magic ceased to exist. She was sure of that!

She knew that sooner or later, an event such as this would trigger a Closing. She was actually surprised it had taken this long; still, she had not known what to expect. How could she? The Closing cut off the realm to the gift and without the gift, none could report back how if felt. She wondered if all Closings took as long as hers did. She would hear the chimes when the ceremony permanently closed the realm.

Her time was limited, the watchers would know, and the Keep would be informed. They would gather the nine and perform the rites and soon the realm would be permanently closed to all possessing the gift and to travel by those using the old power.

She needed a plan.

The copper teakettle began to hiss and pop. She buttoned up the top of the linen nightshirt and went to fix a cup of herbal tea. She opened the clay jar above the mantel of the fireplace, reached way to the bottom, and pulled out a bag of herbs. She undid the leather strap, opened the bag, and sprinkled them into the bottom of the cup. The hot water came next. She used and old cloth to wrap about the hot handle and tipped the pot over, letting the steaming water pour into her cup.

She stirred it with a wooden spoon, letting the loose leaves release their flavor and medicinal properties into the hot water. She held the cup to her nose and drew in the rich aroma of the mint, rose hip and herbs. She reached for another jar on the mantle and pulled the top loose. Grabbing the wooden stick, she put a large dollop of honey into her cup and stirred briskly. The leaves sank to the bottom and soon, the soothing mixture was sliding down her throat. She tasted the mint and chamomile, and quickly felt the numbing properties of the herbs she had used taking effect.

Sleep. She needed sleep. Her entire body ached from the spasms that had racked her frame. She stumbled back to bed and wetting her fingers, pinched out the flame on the beeswax candle. After throwing her feet up onto the bed, sliding down and getting comfortable, she pulled the heavy eiderdown up tight to her chin and shivered until her body heated the blanket.

Her eyes closed as her head hit the feather-filled pillow and her entire body relaxed. She waited as the drugs took effect, opening her eyes and peering across the pitch-black room while they adjusted to the dim light of the fire.

There was no moon out tonight; clouds covered its comforting glow. She laid there for a short while, watching the logs burn down. The purple tipped flames retreated and all that remained were embers, which flickered and pulsed in hues of red, orange and deep yellow. Soon, the room was dark except for the flicker of the coals. There would be no dreams tonight. She would never dream again, not in the way she used to. It was so sad, she thought as sleep overcame her.

Morning came quickly and To’paz had slept well. She opened her eyes and was surprised that the sun was already well up and the light bled into the room through the shutters.

She slipped on her leather slippers, walked over to the water pitcher and added water to the kettle she left over the coals from the wooden bucket she had filled and left by the door. She set another two dried-oak logs onto the fire and stirred the gray, ash-covered coals with a long stick, bringing them back to life. It was still plenty hot under the ash and soon the new logs burst into flame, warming the room.

She wiped off the sleep and sweat from the previous day using a damp cloth and dried off. The mirror’s image that greeted her made her drop the towel.

She was older. Well, she thought she looked older, not really much older, but different. She had lived with this same face for eight-hundred years. She knew every line, wrinkle and crease. She pulled at her eyes and forehead. These did not belong, no they didn’t.

She looked down at her bracelet checking that all five gems glowed softly. She was relieved that she at least had some power saved. It was ironic that the bracelet that her father had put on her right arm in her youth as a gift would provide her with some protection, and maybe a way to live out a normal life. It was the only thing keeping her alive.

In hindsight, she cursed herself for not saving more magic. She could have stored almost double in the bracelet and she had another gem that she could have used to store even more. Of course, it’s easy to be critical with what she knew now. The gift was always there, and so much of it. Why would anyone need to store it?

She cursed under her breath. She had been extremely careless, letting the bracelet drain and only charging it when the gems stopped glowing. At least the gems were mostly charged. She had been lucky! Of course, she had another bracelet. It sat in her box on the dresser. She hadn’t worn it in years; it sat dull and lifeless and contained no magic at all. With a second bracelet, she could have lived a very normal long life, maybe even ninety years or so.

Now that she had become truly mortal, she would age alongside her friends here in the Balder Hollow, most of them rarely made it past fifty. She would die of old age.

They would grow old together, complain of aches and pains and tell stories about when they were young. She would be able to have true friends now. She would never have to move again. She would grow old in this house and she would die in this place. This was her home.

She opened up the porcelain jar on her table and pulled out a small bracelet. Last time she was in the Keep, she had managed to steal it without anyone knowing, anyone meaning her brother. She held the Bal’achar and stared into its milky white stone, watching the mist and colors swirl. It was another option.

She again looked closely into the mirror, pulling on the skin around her eyes. She thought about using the gift to restore her looks, but didn’t. She might need it for something important, really important, like staying alive.

The Cave

It was late. Ja’tar patiently waited in his room. He paced the floor, checked the time and paced some more. He wanted to be sure that everyone in the Keep was sound asleep. He couldn’t risk anyone finding out the location of the Cave of the Forbidden. He furrowed his brow trying to remember exactly where it was located. He had not visited the cave since he had taken over the role of Keeper.

He heard a murmur. It sounded like a woman yelling for help afar. He tried to turn an ear toward the sound. Just when he thought he could make out the words … nothing; no sound at all could be heard. He forgot about it, paced the floor waiting for the hour to pass.

He checked the clock again, carefully counting the various sized balls as they spun and rolled in unison from the top to the bottom, driven by wood gears and a heavy weight, which spun them at the right velocity. The balls slid down the tracks and tipped small vials of oil into a column, poured in four stages, a quarter hour each. Each vial was worth one hour. At midnight, the vials refilled after the column dumped the contents, starting the cycle all over again.

He walked over to his dresser and with a quick flip of his wrist, intricately spun a pattern and watched as the magic began to take effect. Panels slid back and forth, shifting, sliding, shrinking and growing as layers of the dresser decomposed revealing an inner chamber. Ja’tar slid open a small drawer and picked up a shiny marble. He rolled it between his fingers and over his knuckles. He marveled at how such a simple item could hold such powerful magic. He slid it into his pocket. He repeated the spell and watched to make sure the dresser resealed itself.

Ja’tar checked the hourglass one last time before grabbing his pack and exiting the chamber. One glass was empty and the second was getting ready to tip again, one-forty-five in the morning, perfect. He was fortunate and lived fairly secluded from the others in the wing where the Ten had lived. He had chosen a more modest apartment, rather than the ostentatious quarters used by the Ten, not that he could get into any of their rooms even if he wanted.

The Ten lived as extravagantly as kings did. They valued their privacy and often conducted vast magical escapades in their apartments, so safeguards were put in place to keep the normal ‘riff-raff’ out of their wing of the Keep, riff-raff being everyone except for them. They had fiercely guarded their secrets, spells and castings. They had even been known to banish and sometimes magically silence those spies that had attempted to figure them out.

Once he left his room, the door sealed and glowed as he set his ward. He watched as the spell took effect and entered the joining room. The dodecagon-shaped room, with a door for each of the Ten, the Keeper, and the Floormaster, was multistoried with a ceiling was hand-carved. It depicted the final battle of Ror. The animated carving reenacted the final push of the Ten against the Warvyn army and the dark magi.

Carved from massive fine-grained yew logs of the elven realm, they were some of the most magnificent carvings in the Keep, carvings that few besides the Ten and the Keeper had ever enjoyed. Ja’tar felt privileged. He had been privy to many things that none but a handful of the Guild members had ever seen. He often thought it would be nice to open all parts of the Keep to his fellow wizards, but had never been able to counter the protective spells.

Most of the spells just made sure that the rank and file stayed away, but some were a little more persuasive and could leave permanent damage if the wizard didn’t take a hint and turn back. Most were reactive and turned more dangerous the more an uninvited guest prodded. Only his initiation, the secret chants of passing and his ring protected him, but even he couldn’t enter the old quarters of the Ten. They had made damn sure that no one would ever see or learn their secrets. As far as he could tell, their rooms would stand to eternity and never be seen by another wizard.

He could bring a single guest, as long as they stayed with him at all times. He had brought Zedd’aki to his quarters on several occasions so that they could discuss private Guild business.

Ja’tar used his Keeper’s ring to access the Receiving Hall and walked down to the main Keep. It was a long walk filled with history and tradition. The walls were lined with paintings and display cases filled with historic artifacts.

No longer used to greet Kings and dignitaries, it now stood as a monument to the past glory of the Guild. Ironically, there was only a single case from his time, all the other displays were from times long past. His father had three cases. Ja’tar often sat and watched the displays, reliving some of the better memories from his childhood, although most of the displays were of events before his time or from which he had little memory.

He reached the main staircase and slowly circled down, five stories, to the main level. He checked again to make sure he was alone, and continued ten, twenty, fifty stories more. He found that he had to stop and conjure a small light globe, for no light reached these depths and this section of the Keep had been cordoned off for centuries.

He searched the floor until he found what he was looking for. It appeared to be the grate to the sewer, but when he lifted it, he found another hidden stairwell beneath. The illusion was excellent, including the sight of dripping water and the sight of sewage through the grate. He stepped into the narrow stairwell, closed the heavy grate behind and continued counting.

The confining stairwell was dank and covered with webs. All manner of bug crawled and scurried along the walls, trying to hide from the globe that he held in front to light the way. He finally stopped at the ninety-ninth story and rubbed his sore spindly legs. He thought about the trip back up and practically cried. He raised his hand and called on the small globe to produce more light.

The stairs ended at the bottom of a roughly carved hollow. There were no doors, just rough rock. Ja’tar motioned for the light to traverse the area as he looked for clues. He felt for the magic and stopped in front of a section of rock that felt different. He chanted and wove his spells of protection before he placed his Keeper’s ring on the surface of the rock and watched its orange glow work its way out to the edge of the door he knew it hid. He placed his hands on the rock and pushed, feeling the rock move to the side. He felt the sharp shards rip at his hands and he winced as he pushed deeper.

His hands slid into the rock to his wrists. He began to chant as he moved his hands around; feeling for the edges of the door he knew was there. He found the side of the door and felt around for the small keyhole. Finding it, he placed his Keeper’s ring into the slot and twisted. The rock covering began to separate and the individual razor-toothed rock gremlins moved to the side and burrowed into the rock on either side. They eyed him menacingly as they slowly exposed the hidden door.

He stood anxiously before a huge dull metal door with no visible lock or hinges. If you didn’t know, you would assume that the metal wasn’t a door at all, but a seal over an unfinished hall. He dug in his pocket with his free hand and pulled out the small marble. It looked otherwise normal, but was warm to the touch and so shiny that light bounced off it covering the walls with prisms. Ja’tar held it in his hand and pushed his hand into the metal wall. His arm gradually turned into the same material as the marble. The metallic liquid was quickly crawling up his arm. Even his robe was becoming shiny metal. The globe he was holding winked out as the marble’s spell took hold.

He clutched his fist tightly around the marble and pushed until he was completely through the wall. He took two steps into the pitch-black room. He put the marble back into his pocket and waited for his form to resume its traditional shape. He extended a hand and brought a small light globe to his palm.

The light flickered and Ja’tar was standing before an immense set of druid-carved wooden doors. He walked up to the doors and ran his free hand lovingly over the mottled burled wood. So simple, just an intricate continuous knot adorned the center of each door. Yet he could feel the powerful and dangerous magic warding the entry to the Cave of the Forbidden.

He searched the walls, found the twin sconces, and brought them to light with the flick of his hand. The small flame orb jumped from his palm to the nearest sconce and then to the far one. He sat down on the single small iron bench in front of the doors and thought. He tried to remember all that his Dad had told him. The process was slow, recalling conversations over a thousand years old. He wished he had paid closer attention, but … when you’re a child.

Ja’tar sighed. He knew he had better be careful and he wove a set of protective spells around himself. He wove every spell he could think of, protection from fire, water, crushing, tearing, impalement, disease and dismemberment. The list went on. The spells took him a long time. He checked his pocket for the time wards he had tied to the hourglasses in his room. He only had another two hours to work before he would have to return. He planned on being back in his room by four-thirty.

Ja’tar stood and walked to the door. Rolling up his sleeves, Ja’tar wove his first spell, a spell to reveal that which is hidden. He was hoping to be able to see the intricate set of weaves that barred his way. He finished his incantation and released it at the door.

The door shimmered and Ja’tar covered his face, expecting the worst. The door began to flow like a liquid and the face of an ancient druid appeared. The face, nearly four feet tall, projected from the door. The hollow eyes opened revealing pure black orbs that were filled with the stars.

The face spoke in a thundering voice, “Leave! None are allowed to enter this place.”

“But my need is great,” Ja’tar pleaded.

The druid just nodded and dissolved back into the door. Ja’tar paced for a while, pulling on his beard. He couldn’t recall what his Dad had told him, no matter how hard he tried to remember.

Ja’tar tried a spell of dispersal, hoping to release the spirit of the ancient druid protecting the door. Again, the face of an ancient druid appeared, but the face was different this time, more menacing. The hollow eyes opened and the face spoke in a thundering voice. “Leave! None are allowed to enter this place.”

Ja’tar was desperate to get a response — any response. “Can you talk? Please communicate with me?”

The face paused before beginning to fade back into the door. “I have nothing to say to you. You may not pass.”

Ja’tar was feeling defeated. He tried several more times to get the door to open, including a direct open spell, a spell of dissolution. None worked, and he got very little information from the druid. Eventually, he was forced to leave.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs holding his globe and looked up. The spirals went on forever, disappearing into the dark. It was going to be a long trip. He contemplated staying but changed his mind and hesitantly took his first step. By the time he had been climbing for fifteen minutes, he was panting and sweating profusely. His thighs burned and he used the wall to help him take his next step. He winced, but continued putting one foot in front of another. He sulked on his way back to his room, threw himself on his bed exhausted, and frustrated.

He woke near noon and made his way down to the banquet room. Zedd’aki was there eating lunch. Ja’tar sat down next to him.

Zedd’aki took another bit of chicken. “Where have you been? I thought you wanted to be at practice today. The team missed you.”

Ja’tar tore off a piece of dried sausage and took a big bit of goat cheese. His eyes were but thin slits. “I had a restless night —”

“Well, the team is coming along nicely. They maintained coverage from the spells for almost ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes? That is great news. Maybe we have made a breakthrough!” Ja’tar exclaimed between bites,

Zedd’aki wiped his plate with a torn off section of rye bread. “Will we see you this afternoon at the testing?”

“Not likely. I have a few things to take care of. I’m way behind from my oversleeping.”

“Hmmm,” nodded Zedd’aki as he stood up.

Ja’tar raised his head from his meal. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Right, I’ll catch you up on what practice was like this afternoon!” Zedd’aki agreed. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Thanks. Sorry I’m such lousy company, I’ve a lot on my mind lately — we’ll catch up at dinner.”

Ja’tar watched his friend exit the dining room. He quickly finished his light meal and hurried off to his room to do more research.

Later in the day, he met with his friend at dinner. He made a special point to see the team and congratulate them on their achievement. Most of the dining hour was spent with pleasantries. Later, he excused himself and turned in early. He knew he was in for another exhausting night.

In a repeat of the previous night, Ja’tar set out again, only to return hours later battered and defeated. He staggered back to his room. He had been caught off balance when a spell had been reflected and hit him square, lifting him off the floor and slamming him against the crude rock wall. He slowly peeled his robe off of the bruises and lacerations on his shoulders and back. He gently patted them with a healing balm, as best he could. Unfortunately, he no longer had the energy to heal himself. His reserves had been drained.

All in all, he counted himself lucky that he had prepared beforehand and erected protections. Unfortunately, his protections had deteriorated by the end of the evening and in a moment of stupidity; he threw a desperate explosive spell at the door in frustration. He raised his hand to his face and rubbed his temple. Exhausted, he fell back on the bed and fell straight to sleep.

Morning came quickly and having woken late, Ja’tar had to hurry to make it for breakfast. He dared not miss another day in a row lest he raise suspicion. He favored his right side, which was injured the night before. He limped and hobbled in a half run down the long hallway away from his chambers. He straightened up and strained to enter the dining room relaxed. Zedd’aki watched as his friend sauntered across the room. His eagle eyes noticed the limp and the favoring of his right side and saw the slight grimace on Ja’tar’s face as he came down the stairs.

“Morning!” Ja’tar put out the greeting with as carefree a demeanor as he could muster.

“For me it is!” said Zedd’aki sarcastically, “— but you look like you’ve been jousting and lost miserably.”

Ja’tar frowned, “Noticeable?”

“A little, why don’t you heal yourself?”

“Can’t … I drained my reserves too low. I’ll have to try later,” he whispered.

Zedd’aki took a long quaff off his mug and stared at his friend over the rim, “Care to elaborate?”

“Not here. Let’s take a stroll after breakfast —”

“It doesn’t look like you are up to ‘strolling.’ Should I be concerned?”

“Probably not, but I know you’re going to be furious anyway, so I’ll tell you later so as to not ruin your meal.” Ja’tar said, hinting that he wanted to change the subject.

Zedd’aki furrowed his brow, “Furious, huh?”

Ja’tar looked up from his meal and tried to smile. “That about sums up how I think you’ll react when we talk — later!”

They ate in silence, nether having much to say with whatever it was hanging above their heads. Zedd’aki kept staring at Ja’tar, trying to measure his demeanor. He supposed he could wait for another twenty minutes to hear him out. His friend was right. He probably would be furious.

After breakfast, Ja’tar and Zedd’aki left the dining room and after crossing the courtyard, past the formal hall, they headed out of the Keep. They ended up in the somewhat secluded center atrium garden and chose a long bench to sit on. The sun was high and warmed them on this spring day. After checking for others and setting a simple privacy ward, Ja’tar confessed.

“I’m not sure there is a good way to say this, so I’m just going to come straight out with it. A couple nights ago I went down and tried to open the cave”

Zedd’aki’s jaw fell open. “The cave?”

“You know damn well which cave I’m talking about …,” Ja’tar mumbled back.

Zedd’aki’s jaw dropped and spittle spraying from his mouth, “Of all the stupid … asinine things ….”

“Before you start yelling, remember that I —”

Zedd’aki shot up and stepped away from the bench. He crunched up his face, hauled off and smacked Ja’tar in his sore shoulder.

“Ow! Damn it!” Ja’tar barked, grabbing his already aching shoulder and massaging it.

Zedd’aki paced back and forth his fists clutched at his sides. “You deserve that … and more. I should —” Zedd’aki raised his fist into the air in front of Ja’tar’s chin.

“Calm down, you’re making a scene. I-I-I —” Ja’tar stammered. His head shot side-to-side to see if anyone was watching.

“What the Ten were you thinking?” Zedd’aki blurted out, hands up with his face red and the veins on his neck pulsing. He got right up in Ja’tar’s face and shook his hands in a choking hold. “I’m so angry …”

“I know. I’m sorry …,” Ja’tar said, shaking his head. “… I should have asked you to join me.”

“Damn straight you should have!” snorted Zedd’aki.

Ja’tar hung his head low, “I just thought I would try to open the cave, that’s all. No sense both of us getting injured or killed.”

“Well, did you get in? I assume you didn’t or you would be here gloating!”

Head held low, a very quiet Ja’tar muttered, “No, not even close”

“Harrumph!” Zedd’aki growled. He waved his arm up and down Ja’tar’s frame. “And how’d you get all battered up?”

Ja’tar was very embarrassed. “It was quite stupid really — I got frustrated and threw an explosive spell at the door.”

“That’s it? Nothing else?”

Ja’tar rubbed his sore shoulder. “It was reflected and threw me against the cave wall.”

“Your protections failed?” Zedd’aki’s eyes got very round. He couldn’t believe his ears.

A humbled Ja’tar dipped his head and sheepishly admitted, “Not really, just weakened from all the hours of spell casting.”

“But they were ineffective?”

“— Ineffective,” he winced.

“And you haven’t healed yourself because …?”

“Another blunder. I already told you, I spent —”

A long pause followed.

“— all my reserves.”

“Of all the stupid …,” chided Zedd’aki. He fully understood how close his friend had come to being seriously injured. “All of your reserves depleted?”

“Nearly. I was barely able to walk back to my quarters. I actually had to crawl up the last few flights of stairs,” Ja’tar meekly confessed. “I really felt my age, I came so close …”

By now, Zedd’aki was starting to calm down. He was still furious, but he had regained control of his emotions. Nevertheless, he still let Ja’tar know how he felt.

He shook his finger close to Ja’tar’s nose. “Because you are so stupid, I think I will let you suffer your pain.”

“I deserve that …,” Ja’tar nodded to himself. A sheepish grin spread to his face.

Zedd’aki couldn’t resist one last dig. “Yes, you do. And you look older today. More wrinkled — not becoming at all ….”

“I feel older —” said Ja’tar, with a small tear in his eye, “foolish too.”

“So, talk to me,” Zedd’aki grunted gruffly.

Ja’tar broke down. “I feel defeated. Seriously, I tried for two full nights. For the life of me, I cannot figure out how to get in. Most of the spells do nothing, some just irritate the Guardian.”

“What Guardian? You mean an ancient?”

An exhausted Ja’tar closed his eyes. “Not exactly — but yes. The door turns into this big ancient druid. We have to get past the druid to get in.”

Zedd’aki nodded his head in understanding. “Druid magic is … tough.”

“Strange, I don’t remember the druid from my youth. My father must have taken me to the Cave a dozen or more times and I have no memory of the druid,” an annoyed Ja’tar said, as he turned his face into the warm sun.

“Something your father could have set in place later, maybe?”

Ja’tar nodded his agreement, “Must be — but I cannot help wonder why father never mentioned it. That’s not … like him.”

“What do you think we should do next? Do you need me to do some research?”

Ja’tar shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight and looked up at Zedd’aki. “Doubt it will help, but feel free to poke around in the library. Know much about druid magic?”

“Some. The magic is based on the earth, mostly invoked using songs and chants,” he reasoned, “… all based on living things, the energy of the planet. I had the same classes as you, why are you asking me?”

Ja’tar shrugged.

“What? We spent maybe ten years on druid magic, barely scratched the surface of what it’s about.” Zedd’aki continued rambling on. “Old professor Ollif left and went back to the wood before he taught us the advanced classes. Why’d he leave anyway?”

Ja’tar shrugged, “I heard rumors he was to be wed and wanted to go back to the Gywnlyr Grove.”

“You think he’s still alive?”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” he nodded. “Druids can live a very long time. Their magic is powerful.”

Zedd’aki’s mood brightened substantially. “We could see if we can locate him?”

“We could, but I don’t think we can afford the delay, besides, that would alert the rest of the Keep that we are up to something.

Zedd’aki nodded, “I could walk to the Grove in a couple days?”

“Maybe, but let’s try to figure this out on our own for now.”

“I’m just saying …”

“I know,” smiled Ja’tar. “Check the books up in the attic section, there are some good references there on the druids. I think this is ancient druid, so the older tomes might be more useful.”

“Couldn’t hurt …,” Zedd’aki offered up.

“Couldn’t. If we can’t figure this out in a day or so, you’ll be taking a walk. Trouble is trying to cover up that you’re gone.”

“You think I’d be missed?” Zedd’aki smirked.

“No, but someone might notice you are missing …”

Zedd’aki caught the cut and grunted, “So, the plan is?”

Ja’tar sat up and painfully stretched. “More mead to dull the pain!”

Zedd’aki rolled his eyes.

“Well, obviously we need to get past the druid. How? Well, that’s the question isn’t it?”

“We’re lucky it’s only druid …,” sighed Zedd’aki.

Ja’tar grumbled, “I don’t know that it’s only druid, only that the druid is the first step.”

“Hmm. We might get ourselves killed yet!” Zedd’aki exclaimed with a huge smile on his face, rubbing his hands together in mock glee.

Ja’tar just bit his tongue and put up with his friend’s sarcasm. “Might, I suppose …”

“What’s past the door?”

“If I recall correctly, another room, but given this, I’m beginning to question my memories.”

Zedd’aki shook his head, “Another room — really. I couldn’t have guessed that.”

Ja’tar missed the sarcasm, “Sorry. That’s all I really remember. I’m hoping getting inside jogs my memory.”

Zedd’aki posed, “We go tonight?”

An exhausted Ja’tar stammered, “No. I’m still far too weak. I need a day or two to recover. Let’s plan on tomorrow night.”

“Agreed, I’m warning you Ja’tar, no more heroics!”

“No more heroics,” Ja’tar granted, smiling weakly.

“Now, let’s get you back to your room and get you healed.”

Before they could leave, Rua’tor came running up.

“Are you ready for the Solstice ceremony tonight?” he said excitedly. “I’ve prepared everything.”

Ja’tar had completely forgotten. He tried to hide his surprise. “Yes, I’ll meet you right after dinner — when sunset is near, at the main gate.”

Rua’tor clapped his hands together excitedly. “I’m glad, so glad that you feel better. It would be horrible to miss the rite. The realms need the rite for a fruitful summer.”

“I will be there,” said Ja’tar weakly.

Rua’tor nodded and ran off; not even noticing how run down Ja’tar had appeared.

“Looks like you are going to be very busy tonight,” Zedd’aki commented smugly.

Ja’tar shook his head and tried to stand, falling to the side. Zedd’aki reached down and grabbed him. “Let’s get you to your room.”

Totally exhausted and physically run down, Ja’tar barely nodded his concurrence. “Thank you. I hurt everywhere.”

Later that evening, Ja’tar prepared for the rites. He spotted Tar’ac’s journal on his desk and thought about the last entry. Just as a precaution, he strapped on his blade and cast several layers of wards, counterattacks and protections before he left his room and journeyed to the entrance to the Keep. He spotted Zedd’aki ready to join the ceremony.

“Zedd’aki, can you do me a favor and wear a sword tonight?”

“May I ask why?”

“I have a feeling — something Tar’ac said …”

“If it will make you feel better, sure!’

Ja’tar grinned weakly. “Thanks.”

He watched Zedd’aki head off to gather his sword and waited for him to disappear around the corner before he turned and reached for the door.

He and Rua’tor gathered in the center courtyard of the Keep and quickly walked the short trail down to the ancient giant oak tree in their ceremonial robes.

Rua’tor immediately noticed the protections. “You really think we need those,”

Ja’tar nodded, ending the conversation.

They called forth the wood sprites and the nymphs and watched as they danced hand in hand around the tree and sang the Song of Life. Ja’tar chanted in song, reciting the poems and magical phrases as Rua’tor danced the intricate dance patterns.

Rua’tor filled the cut crystal Goblet of Bryn with wine, herbs and purple verve crystals from the deep limestone caves of Sparta, which he had gathered the previous week. He circled the tree while singing and dancing. The goblet glowed and frothed as he danced. Rua’tor was bathed in sweat from the exertion of the quick tempo of the song and the last verse came out choppy as the overweight man puffed, unable to pull in enough air. He finished by pouring the liquid at the base of the tree as he spun and circled its circumference.

The tree was silent, but as the night wore on, the tree softly moaned and began to sing, wakening from its winter slumber. Grass and flowers sprouted from the base and buds appeared on its branches as they swayed in time with the music.

Druid spirits visited and their blue glowing forms shimmered as they swayed to the music, forming an outer circle around the entire celebration. Near the center, the smaller, naked nymphs danced the spring rites and fertility dances, pumping and gyrating their hips as sweat covered their intertwined bodies. The wood sprites glowed softly and sang in ancient Krill as they caressed the tree. The stars twinkled above and even the wind spirits paid homage to the changing season by blowing a soft warm breeze over its branches.

As the night wore on, the magi of the Keep came, one by one, stripped their robes and danced in private, each giving thanks for another year. They drank large mugs of ceremonial spiced wine that Rua’tor had prepared in advance and had stored in a waist-high wood cask near the tree.

Hidden in the trees, just out of sight, a demon horde stood waiting with their weapons drawn, the small goolog clan paced nervously at their side. They watched as the ceremony unfolded.

“Do we attack?” a small demon asked the tall horned leader.

The leader frowned, “They have wards! The surprise would be lost. They must suspect …”

“What do we do?”

“We wait.”

Two small catomen slithered up to the leader and purred. The muscular cat like beasts demanded treats from their master for scouting the magi gathering without being detected. The smaller demon stooped down and purred back, handing them scraps of raw meat, which they gulped down ravenously. The cats finished, licked their paws clean, growled, showing their long fangs and the single deep-yellow eye centered on their forehead. They turned and left the small clearing.

“The catomen say that only two have weapons!” the smaller demon relayed.

“That we can see …,” the leader said forcefully. “Our plan required surprise. We leave, now!”

“The Master will be disappointed,” the smaller demon said quietly.

“Perhaps!” the larger replied. “Perhaps — now go!”

The group of twenty slid back into the brush, never noticed by the dancing magi.

At the stroke of midnight, all dancing and singing stopped as all gathered to watch the great oak. They scanned the branches and searched. The tree quaked and a single green leaf came forth, signifying the start of spring.

A nymph spotted the leaf and pointed excitedly, singing out in broken elven so that everyone could understand. A loud roar of laughter erupted and the dancing continued into the wee hours of the morning as the wine flowed and inhibitions were let loose.

Ja’tar yawned deeply as he sleepily walked back toward the Keep. He turned around just before he entered the wide courtyard door to see Rua’tor and Qu’entza still drunkenly dancing with the nymphs and singing loudly off-key. A smile erupted from his face and he was glad that he had found the energy for the rite.

Ja’tar wearily dragged himself back to his room and fell straight to sleep; his dreams were peaceful for once, filled with the impish smiles of the faeries and nymphs.

The next two days passed quickly as the training of the three mages, Dra’kor, Grit and Men’ak consumed nearly all the time available. Their training should have taken years, but they didn’t have years. Ja’tar was trying to just give them enough power to be able to survive if they were to happen upon a demon clan.

Ja’tar stared out over the courtyard from his quarters high above. He prayed that they had enough intelligence to do the right thing; turn and run should they encounter a force of substantial size, or of substantial talent.

It was very late the following night when Ja’tar and Zedd’aki stood in front of the metal door. Ja’tar took the small chrome marble, an ancient tel’faz, from his pocket and grabbed his friend’s hand.

“No matter what you do, do not let go of my hand until I tell you so.”

A surprised Zedd’aki watched as the liquid metal crept up his friend’s arm and slowly crossed from Ja’tar’s hand to his. He was amazed that he didn’t feel anything, just cold. As soon as the transformation was complete, the pair walked through the door and when on the other side, Ja’tar put the marble away after checking that they had completely cleared the door.

The two stood in front of the impressive wooden doors for a couple of minutes before Ja’tar threw his first spell. As expected, the druid appeared. They alternated attempts and after several spells, they rested.

“I see what you mean,” a very tired and perturbed Zedd’aki sighed. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, “Maybe a chant?”

“We could try that, I’ve tried about everything else. Any particular chant you have in mind?”

“I was thinking of trying the ‘Song of Trees.’ You know, it’s that song the old druids used to teach us kids.”

Ja’tar trying to recall the song to which his friend referred. “You mean the one that makes the trees dance and move?”

“That’s the one I had in mind, you have another?”

“No, give me a little hint on how it went,” said Ja’tar, slightly embarrassed at his forgetfulness.

“You know, na..na.nana..naaaaa.na.na …,” Zedd’aki hummed a few bars more or less in tune.

“Ah, yes! I remember it now. At least there weren’t a lot of words to remember. Let’s give it a go,” Ja’tar said, clearing his throat. He wasn’t much of a singer.

The two began to sing and soon the druid chimed in. The doors pulsed and flowed like liquid, but when the song was over, the druid drawled as usual, “Leave. That is not the song.”

Zedd’aki broke into a huge smile and could barely contain his excitement. Ja’tar saw his smile and seemed confused by his reaction.

Ja’tar’s face showed he was perplexed. “What?”

“It’s a song. The druid said that it was not that song. We are looking for a song!”

Ja’tar slapped his friend on the back. “I didn’t even catch that. Good work, but which song?”

“I suppose it doesn’t have to be a druid song. Didn’t you use to sing elven songs as a kid?”

Ja’tar shrugged, “Suppose I did — most of them were ceremony songs. Solstice celebration, harvest — you know.”

Zedd’aki was hopeful. “You think any of those will work?”

After a bit of reflection, Ja’tar uttered, “Probably not, most of them brought faeries or such … made trees bloom or grow.”

“Didn’t your father teach you any songs?”

“Plenty, we sang all the time, but none of those seem to be suitable here,” Ja’tar said in resignation.

Zedd’aki placed his hands on his hips. “My guess is you’re the only one who knows the right song. That would be my guess.”

Ja’tar threw his hands up as he paced. “But what? I don’t remember any magic song of power or such …”

“Maybe we are approaching this all wrong. Maybe we aren’t looking for a spell or song of power.”

Ja’tar’s curiosity was piqued. “What are you getting at?”

Zedd’aki continued with his train of thought. “What if we are looking for some sort of recognition or authority play?”

“I see where you are going, but I’m still not clearly seeing a connection between what I know and this problem.”

Zedd’aki reasoned the puzzle out loud. “It would have to be something your father taught you. Agreed?”

“Agreed, I suppose.”

“I’m sure he would have made sure you knew it inside and out, because if you forgot, all of this would be lost for all time. He would have wanted you to pass it on to your kin.”

Ja’tar was drawing a blank, “I can’t for the life of me remember any song that Da really pressured me to learn.”

Zedd’aki’s eyes lit up. “By the Ten! What was that song you used to sing over and over again when we were kids? It was kind of a nonsense song. You sang it all the time when we played. It was very irritating.”

“I don’t remember those songs. They were just nursery rhymes,” said Ja’tar, as he smiled at the memory of days past. “Do you remember the song?”

“No,” Zedd’aki laughed. “This was different, it was your song! The rest of us were never taught it. It was just between you and you Da. You said your grandpapa had taught it to your dad and your dad to you.”

Ja’tar was truly frustrated because he couldn’t recall anything of the sort. “I could use a little help here …”

“Well, your father taught it to you, that much I remember. The song didn’t seem to do anything, no magic. You knew it irritated us when you sung it so I ignored it. All of us ignored it!”

“That bad huh?” Ja’tar mumbled apologetically.

“Bad!” Zedd’aki nodded. “What I remember is this small part of the verse that went a little like …‘Donna mea Donna rae, isha kei …something, something …’”

Ja’tar snapped his fingers, “I know that … I know the song you mean. My father taught me that song, made me remember it word for word. We used to sing it every time we went for a walk. He always told me it was a very special song from the druids and elves. He quizzed me on it for years. By the Ten, you don’t think?”

Zedd’aki shrugged, “Maybe it could be that simple. Give it a try, it can’t really hurt.”

Ja’tar’s head drooped as he shook it. “Honestly, I can’t recall any of it —”

“You can’t be serious?”

Ja’tar shrugged, “It’s been a long time —”

“You have to try ….”

“I remember parts of it, words here and there, but other sections are just blank.”

“Well, give it a try …,” an impatient Zedd’aki pressured.

“I suppose I could try the first verse. I seem to recall most of that at least …”

Zedd’aki smiled at his friend. He could see the frustration in his eyes. It wasn’t like Ja’tar to not be able to remember things, especially spells, chants and songs. Zedd’aki thought that it must be the stress. He hadn’t seen his friend like this in a very long time.

Ja’tar began to sing the first verse. His voice cracked and he couldn’t seem to find the key, but to his surprise, the druid began to sing a counter verse and harmony just as his father did when they practiced together.

The memories of sitting in the cave and singing the song with his father made his eyes tear. In the blink of an eye, he was young again, sitting on his Da’s lap. He could vividly remember his father’s smile and his flowing white beard. A rotund man, his tummy shook when he laughed and his voice was always full of life. His eyes sparkled through the thin small glasses that always sat way too far down his nose.

Before he realized it, the song was done, Zedd’aki was patting his back and the druid was smiling.

“Welcome little Ja’tar. It has been a long time.”

“I thought you didn’t remember the song?” a very impressed Zedd’aki laughed.

“Wha …?” Ja’tar had a blank look on his face. “I-I-I don’t even remember singing the whole song.”

“By the Ten, You sang for well over five minutes …”

No one was more surprised than Ja’tar was.

“Once I started singing, all my memories of my father came rushing back. It was as if I was twelve again. All I remember is my father sitting next to me, singing with me.”

They were so busy talking neither noticed that the druid had melted into the door and a set of doorknobs had appeared from nowhere. Zedd’aki was the first to notice, pointing at the door.

“Handles!” he exclaimed excitedly.

Ja’tar stopped talking mid-sentence and stared his mouth agape. “Well, I’ll be damned! You were right. It was the song, of all the … I never would have —”

Zedd’aki motioned for Ja’tar to do the honors and stepped to the door. Ja’tar grabbed the oversized knobs and gave a pull. The doors gave way with a puff of dust and slowly opened revealing a rather small and surprisingly empty room. The air was musty, but definitely breathable. The two wizards tentatively entered, lit the lamps and looked around. Nothing much to see here, the room had a couple doors, a few bulky wood cabinets and a tall filled bookshelf.

A disappointed Zedd’aki shook his head side-to-side. “Not what I — I just thought it would be … bigger, that there would be more items. From all of the stories — I just expected more!”

Seeing the expression on his friends face, Ja’tar brightly spoke up, “If I remember right, this is just the anterior chamber, there should be hundreds of chambers farther back in the cave. Those are the areas guarded by those nasty spells you keep reminding me about.”

Zedd’aki was standing hunched over by the impressive bookshelf and was gawking. “By the gods man, have you seen the titles in this case?”

Ja’tar walked over and randomly grabbed a title. He began reading aloud from the middle of the book. “In the fifth century of the battle of Ror the dark mage Zula, having suffered a blistering defeat at the Cliffs of Rootaulk sequestered the demons of the third plane and made a blood pact with …”

He raised his brow before he closed the book and put it back on the shelf. “Looks like the entire history of Ror is right in front of us. That could come in very handy.”

Zedd’aki watched his friend lovingly return the book to the case.

“So, what exactly are we looking for?” Zedd’aki asked, caressing his hands over the finely bound carved leather volumes.

Ja’tar scratched his head, and twirled his beard. “Well, I’m not exactly sure, but what we need is a book that talks about the demons and battle spells, who did them, when and if any counters exist.”

Zedd’aki rolled his eyes, “Not asking for much are you?”

Ja’tar cracked a big smile and just nodded as he continued to check the titles on the books in the case. Having searched through the anterior room, they were ready to move on, although Zedd’aki was still marveling at the fine jewels and silver work in the display case. He thought he recognized the pieces, but couldn’t recollect from where.

He didn’t even look up when he asked, “Which door?”

Ja’tar rubbed his beard nervously. “I seem to remember that the door on the left leads to the library.”

He casually walked over to the door and reached for the knob. A huge lightning bolt shot from the knob to his hand, throwing him backwards. The smell of charred flesh immediately filled the air. The loud crack deafened their ears. For a while they could hear nothing.

Zedd’aki rushed over to his injured friend clutching at a charred and smoldering stump that used to be a hand.

“The gods help us!” he shouted as panic set in.

Ja’tar’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor. He rolled to his back and looked up, eyes glazed over. The room whirled, and blurred. He was going into shock.

Zedd’aki held his friend and immediately began chanting the songs of healing. He worked quickly, for the sooner he restored his friend the less lasting damage there would be. He was surprised at how quickly his battle training from over a thousand years ago came flooding back.

Soon, Ja’tar was chanting too, but he was chanting to control the pain. His eyes were filled with tears and his mouth was contorted by the raw nerves throbbing from his smoldering stump. His eyes were clenched shut in agony. He felt every spell — he felt his bones growing, felt his fingers coming back, felt the muscle, skin and tendons forming. In a brief minute or two, his hand was back to normal but oh so very sensitive to the touch.

“That was careless,” Ja’tar shouted, stating the obvious.

“You think?” Zedd’aki replied, his loud voice riddled with sarcasm. “Imagine if you had been here alone.”

Ja’tar took the deserved criticism and gently rubbed his newly formed hand. “Well, at least we know to proceed with caution from here out.”

Zedd’aki’s hearing was returning to normal and he realized they had been shouting at each other. He toned down his response as he chastised his friend, “I told you so. You’re gonna end up dead.”

“— Enough!” a defiant Ja’tar loudly growled back. “We have issues to address. We can’t afford this unproductive banter.”

A rebuked Zedd’aki toned down his bitterness.

“Are you going to be okay? Should we continue?”

“Hurts like hell, but I’ll live. Thanks for asking,” Ja’tar spat.

“We should try to be more careful ….”

“No, really?” an irritated Ja’tar sardonically quipped. “You think?”

Zedd’aki disregarded his friend’s rants. “So how do you want to approach this?”

Ja’tar was still upset, but more at himself than his friend. That had been plain carelessness on his part. He knew better. They, he, had been rushing and had become careless. Too many years of superficial study had left him weak and dull witted. He vowed to never be complacent again. He steeled his jaw and growled.

Ja’tar didn’t realize he hadn’t answered his friend until he looked up and saw a quizzical look on his face and heard an impatient, “Well? Or are you gonna just growl at me all night?”

A flush-faced Ja’tar mused, “I think that we should expect the unexpected. The Ten were very clever. They were overly proud of their mastery of the craft and filled with pride at their clever solutions. Although they designed this Keep, remember that my father was the last to access this place, so his knowledge and skill was sufficient.”

“Your father was practically a god,” Zedd’aki grumbled.

“— And?”

“— and hopefully, he passed on all that knowledge to you,” Zedd’aki smirked. “— I don’t know about the skill!”

Ja’tar resigned himself to the fact that Zedd’aki was by no means going to change, so he brushed off his latest remark and turned his attention to the problem at hand.

He pondered out loud. “So how do you get around a bolt of lightning?”

Zedd’aki shrugged.

Ja’tar was standing in front of the door scratching his chin. “Hmm, How long does it take to recharge? Water perhaps to diffuse it?”

“Water won’t work,” Zedd’aki reminded his friend. “Remember when Joll’ab was hit by lightning in the rain? We never did find much left of him.”

Ja’tar nodded his understanding. “I’m open to suggestions. Let’s put our heads together here …”

“Perhaps a shield?” offered up Zedd’aki.

The two mages wove shields of air and tried again. This time their wards kept them from injury, but they were no closer to solving the puzzle. The two kept at it for well over an hour, trying many variations of dispersal spells. None worked.

Zedd’aki scratched his head. “Why don’t you use that fancy marble of yours? Maybe it works for more than the outside door.”

“That would be stupid … the first rule of magic is to never repeat …,” Ja’tar lectured.

Zedd’aki merely said one sentence. “The Ten never followed the rules.”

Ja’tar was amazed at the suggestion. It was brilliant.

“Zedd’aki, you are a very clever mage ….”

“I’m only clever if it works,” Zedd’aki replied a bit embarrassed.

“Better refresh our protections first,” Ja’tar suggested. “Just in case —”

Zedd’aki tilted his head. “In case of what?”

“In case you’re … wrong.” Ja’tar laughed.

“I’m rarely wrong,” Zedd’aki stated dryly.

“Just the same …”

“Better bolster yours then,” Zedd’aki added with a big grin. “I don’t plan on getting within an arms length of that door.”

“— But it’s your suggestion,” Ja’tar reasoned.

“No buts. You’re the Keeper, lead!”

Ja’tar harrumphed and let Zedd’aki add to his wards. At the last minute, Zedd’aki added a spell to muffle the sound. Ja’tar nodded his head as his ears went quiet. Zedd’aki stepped away and graciously motioned his friend to the door.

“Showing me the door?” Ja’tar joked loudly.

Zedd’aki rolled his eyes. “Just trying to help …”

Zedd’aki cast a hearing spell on himself.

Ja’tar reached into his robe’s pocket, pulled out the marble, and began chanting. He felt a chill as the metal spread up his arm. Once he was fully metal, he reached for the door. A loud thunderclap shook the room as the brilliant flash of the discharge made him jerk his hand back, but he felt no pain. He cursed as he was seeing bright white spots and streaks in his eyes. He looked away, and turned his head to guard his eyes. He slowly slid sideways closer and closer to the door. The lightning danced and twisted around his hand and arm until he fully grasped the knob. He gave it a twist and felt the door give way. As soon as the door cracked open, the lightning stopped.

He opened it completely and after returning the marble to his pocket, he smugly motioned for his friend to enter. Zedd’aki slowly approached the door, keeping his back tight to the side opposite of the knob, no sense in taking any chances. Once he crossed the threshold, he quickly moved into the center of the room. The lights flickered on as they entered the room and the both of them gawked in awe.

He stood in the entry of an immense library with rows and rows of shelves as far as his eye could see. The luscious volumes handwritten and leather bound stacked to the ceiling. He couldn’t help but let out a whistle of admiration.

“By the Ten, it’ll take us years to find the volume you seek!” Zedd’aki shouted defeated. He realized he still had his ears shielded, so he released the spell, letting it unravel, as did his friend.

“Maybe not,” said Ja’tar enthusiastically. “My father showed me a book listing once that referenced the books to certain rows and shelves. We need to find that list. Let’s look, but not touch.”

The two began to systematically search the room. The size of the room had both mages in awe. Ja’tar didn’t remember it being as large as this, but reconciled that fact with the assumption that his father had continued work on the Cave long after he had last taken Ja’tar to visit.

Ja’tar didn’t find any list as he had expected, but he did finally happen upon a Librarian. Walking up to the kiosk, he spoke to the mirror surface and waited. After a long while, the librarian apparition appeared, adjusted his small thin spectacles and cleared its throat. “Yes …”

Ja’tar excitedly shouted out for his friend. “Over here, I found it.”

By the time Zedd’aki found him, he had already been talking to the librarian for some time. Not that he was making much progress, but he knew a lot more about the library than when he had first entered the room. The rooms to the rear were locked and required two different keys to open, the lower chamber was strictly forbidden, and the librarian had warned that it was heavily protected. The general library was accessible; however, some of the tomes were warded.

An out of breath Zedd’aki panted, “Make any progress?”

“Not really,” a frustrated Ja’tar conceded.

“Well, if this one is anything like the scheduler, we could be here all night —”

“It seems to only be able to answer direct questions,” a beguiled Ja’tar muttered.

“That is strange,” Zedd’aki agreed. “Maybe it doesn’t wish to answer the questions for some reason. Can I try?”

Ja’tar aloofly waved his friend to the podium with a grimace on his face. “Give it a try …”

Zedd’aki thought for a bit and very carefully worded his question, “Are you able to answer any question posed to you about the tomes contained within these walls?”

“Yes,” the librarian answered dryly.

“Will you answer any question?”

“No!” the librarian said, looking down its nose.

“Will you tell me why not?”

“The questions you ask are uninformed. You obviously know nothing about the library and do not belong here, therefore, I refuse to provide you the information you seek. You should leave before you are injured.”

Zedd’aki again paused before replying. “We were children when the library was sealed. It has been closed for almost thirteen-hundred years. We are in desperate need of information to protect the Guild. Would you reconsider?”

The librarian stared at Zedd’aki for a long time before he spoke. “I sense the truth, so maybe. And what is it that you need?”

“A watcher was incinerated this week through an orb. He was observing a fireball thrown from a dragon that upon impact turned into a fiery demon many trees high that destroyed an entire village. We wish to find out if there has ever been such a thing in the past.”

“Oh my, that is not good!” the librarian said, in a totally different demeanor. “I know of such events. You are indeed in need. Try row 66, shelf 8, in the third quarter. The book’s title is, ‘Demons of the Fourth Plane.’ But, I warn you to not explore further without permission.”

“Thank you,” a grateful Ja’tar replied.

The two rushed down the main isle to find the third quarter based on the directions from the Librarian. As they walked, a very worried Ja’tar spoke in a hushed voice out of habit. “A demon from the Fourth Plane is not good news. It takes a lot of power to bring a demon of that stature up out of the bowels of the Lower Planes.”

After walking for ten minutes, they found the quarter and rushed down the rows until they found the right one. The eighth shelf was high above their heads. Ja’tar searched up and down the rows until he found the small ladder. He set it next to the row and stepped on top. He stepped up and in a quiet voice commanded, “Eighth row.” Small arms extended from the ladder and began pulling the ladder up as it elongated. He motioned for it to stop when he reached the row and methodically worked his way down the books, reading each title.

“Another step right, please?” he demanded. The ladder took a small steady step to the right.

“Another, please?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed as he pulled the tome loose, “Down.”

The ladder collapsed in on itself and by the time he was on the ground, he was already paging through the ancient text. It had been a long time since he had read High Torren. He was much more accustomed to the common dialect of Torren’al. High Torren hadn’t been used for years, not really since Ror, except for certain ceremonies. Of course, they were all required to learn it in school, but that was a long time ago.

Zedd’aki watched over his shoulder as he delicately flipped through the ancient pages. Each page was meticulously hand lettered and sometimes, illustrations were included. The tome was thick and they were running out of time for the night. About a third of the way through the tome Ja’tar stopped on a page and drew in a sharp breath. A picture of a demon very similar to the one he had seen in the orb was there, hand drawn on the page. He scanned the text, looking for familiar words and phrases.

Having found what he wanted, he read, “The librarian was right, look here. Let’s see. The demon is from the Fourth plane and was last seen before the final battles of Ror.”

Ja’tar rattled off the details, “The demon, called a ‘Soul Storm - Nagracumulo’ - is initially very small and empty, but expands as it destroys, feeding on the souls of the living. It stops growing once it has consumed all the living beings it can hold. It collapses into itself and returns to the plane with the souls it collected. Each demon can only be summoned once. It was not known who conjured or created the demons, but it says that it was used for two purposes, to destroy a concentrated cluster of the enemy and to …”

Ja’tar paused and expressed worry, “Oh, no!”

Zedd’aki heard the terror in his friend’s voice. “What? Tell me.”

“And to close the gates …,” a horrified Ja’tar said, reading on as his voice quivered.

“I thought the totems weren’t created until after Ror? Wasn’t Ror the reason why the gates were devised?”

“Yes, and No,” explained Ja’tar. “The Guild came up with safety mechanisms for the gates as a means to sequester rogue mages. They didn’t have the totems, but the gates themselves could be closed by use of certain kinds of magic in their proximity.”

“Who could have dreamt up such a horrible thing?” Zedd’aki stomach turned.

Ja’tar rolled his eyes.

“Oh!” said Zedd’aki knowingly.

“All I can say is that there were many horrible things created in the days of Ror. It’s why we decided to remove ourselves from the world.”

“And still they built the cave and filled it with reminders of those times?” said Zedd’aki sourly. “We should never want to be in a place where those kinds of things happened again.”

Ja’tar just stared blankly.

Stunned, they both stood there for several minutes letting the information set in. They returned the book to the shelf and turned to leave the library. Having lost their sense of direction, they wandered down a row of books that they had not passed on the way in. When they broke out of the shelving, they saw the entrance to their left, and just off to their right, they saw a set of double doors. The overly large doors were made of elaborately engraved and polished metal and had a head-sized seal in the center. Zedd’aki could feel the magic oozing from where they stood and it made his spine tingle.

“I’m willing to lay a wager that those doors hide the back rooms,” Ja’tar said, motioning with his hand after stopping to stare.

“Don’t get any ideas …,” Zedd’aki said, as he looked at Ja’tar with a foul gaze. “You promised.”

“I wonder why they have those immense doors. Don’t you wonder how they got items that big down those narrow stairs?”

“They were the Ten …”

“I’m just saying —”

“Me too!”

Ja’tar stopped as they neared the doors.

“You promised …,” said Zedd’aki forcefully.

“I’m just saying,” Ja’tar said. They walked out the main doors and watched them close. They could both feel the wards and traps being reset. Ja’tar grabbed Zedd’aki by the sleeve and tightly gripped the tel’faz and they stepped through the door together.

The trip back to the living quarters was dressed in silence as they both reexamined what they had learned.

Ja’tar was feeling the futility of the task at hand and his shoulders slumped as they walked. “We’ll need to think this over. I fear that our worst nightmares are coming true.”

Zedd’aki sighed, “I cannot say that I am overly surprised at what we learned. I had hoped for better news … We are not ready for this.”

“Ready or not, if the demons are using the Nagracumulo to close the Gates, the realms will be cut off and we will be isolated.”

“Thank the gods that the Keep cannot be choked off from magic like the rest of the realms.”

“I don’t think the gods had anything to do with this!”

Zedd’aki snorted.

— and we assume they can’t be cut off,” said Ja’tar, in a near whisper.

Zedd’aki was rather confused. “Why would they do that? There were no totems in the times of Ror.”

Horrified, Ja’tar spoke in a hushed voice, “We know that totems can be used to close the gates, but what if closing a gate doesn’t necessarily activate the totems and close the borders?”

“That would mean that travel is limited, right?” Zedd’aki reasoned.

“Yes, but it would also mean that those realms would still have access to magic.”

“And, the gates could be used to block entry of magi if the realms chose to limit access using the totems,” Zedd’aki added.

Ja’tar postulated, “So, theoretically, if all the gates were closed, the Keep would be completely isolated from the rest of the world.”

“What?” Zedd’aki asked wide-eyed.

“Remember I told you? The realms could control access through the gates from realm to realm and posted sentries at the touch points.”

“So why?” Zedd’aki rubbed his eyes. He was tired, having spent the entire day training the three mages for their quest. “I cannot think straight I’m so tired. We will not solve this tonight. I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

Ja’tar dropped Zedd’aki off near his quarters nodded and turned to leave, “Good night.”

“Good night,” an exhausted Zedd’aki mumbled as he opened the door to his room after dismissing his ward.

Ja’tar continued his lonesome trek to the opposite side of the Keep. He climbed the tower stairs alone, listening to his footsteps echo, and eventually made it to the dodecagon. He walked around the circumference to his room, undid the wards and entered. He recast his protection and after shutting his door and getting undressed, he sat on the edge of the bed, lowered his head, and fretted.

Unlike Zedd’aki, Ja’tar understood exactly what the appearance of the Nagracumulo meant. A dark mage had returned.

Quaint Rundown Inn

The spells came at him fast and furious. Dra’kor fought back, rolling over his shoulder to avoid a blast. His face grimaced as he concentrated. He countered the fireballs and attacked. He screamed in anguish when he wasn’t fast enough and the crippling spells got through his defenses. He refocused and tried twice as hard.

“Watch your back … watch your back—” Grit screamed.

“— Got it,” Men’ak triumphantly replied, as he was quick to counter a lightning bolt.

“I need help,” Grit cried out a desperately.

“I’ll take the fireball,” Dra’kor growled. He threw up a shield and deflected the spell to the dirt to the side.

“They’re coming too fast — I can’t keep up,” Men’ak shrieked.

“You can do it,” Dra’kor replied back defiantly. He bore down and loosed a wicked paralyzing spell at his foe that took him to his knees. There was little relief as another simply stepped up to take his place.

They battled on.

Dra’kor’s ankles were bruised and a deep gash on his leg was crusted over. He had torn his robe somehow, but couldn’t recall when, only that it caught on his arm when he tried to throw too fast. It didn’t really matter, it was ruined anyway; dirt, mud, grass stains and blood had been ground into the fabric. He would have to give it to the housekeepers to use as a rag when his training was finished.

“Rotate,” Dra’kor shouted.

All three magi all took a step to the right. Each was now facing a new foe.

With the wave of his hand, he blocked the lightning bolts, snuffed the explosive volleys and dissolved the spells of paralysis. He could feel Grit and Men’ak at his back also fighting for their lives. He threw up a shield and after the lightning ball cracked over the surface, he dropped it and let go a volley of flying rocks back at the mage who sent it.

Finally after a couple hours, the barrage stopped.

“Much better,” said Ja’tar, from high above the melee on the tournament dais. He stood proud with his arms crossed with a smug smile on his face. “I think you lads are getting the hang of it, but your counters would be more effective if you stepped slightly off center. You’d give yourselves a little breathing room.”

Ja’tar hurried down the roughly hewn gray stone stairs to the field. He demonstrated the refinement of technique by throwing up a shield as he stepped lower and to the right. He pointed to where the volley should hit his shield and explained how it would deflect away from the group, perhaps even taking out an enemy to the side. He called up Zedd’aki to assist because he knew he would cast a powerful blast, sure to leave a lasting impression.

“It diffuses and deflects part of the explosion up and away. It might even take out someone else’s attacker. It’s like the difference between a ball hitting a wall, and the same ball glancing off a tree. You’ll be able to fight longer if you aren’t absorbing all of the spell’s power.”

“Okay, I see what you mean. Let me try again,” a winded Dra’kor agreed. “Just give me a couple seconds to catch my breath!”

Dra’kor placed his hands on his knees and bent over, taking the strain off his back. He took a couple deep breaths and he stood up at the ready, waiting for the next round of attacks.

This time, he stepped slightly to the left as the fireball approached. He noticed a big difference in how it felt when it hit and went careening off into the yard.

“I can really feel the difference,” Dra’kor exclaimed, surprised at how effective the advice was. “We should all try it.”

After several more hours of battle practice, the three collapsed to the ground exhausted.

“You’ve done well today. I think you’ve finally turned the corner and understand basic field battle,” Ja’tar said, smiling broadly.

Men’ak slumped in exhaustion rubbing his calves and thighs. “I hurt everywhere!”

“Me too,” said Grit. Physically spent, he smiled back wearily and pushed himself to his elbows. “Well, what do you think Ja’tar, are we really ready?”

Ja’tar nodded. “Yes, Grit. I believe if you work together, the three of you are ready for most anything you might face. Of course all threats don’t wield magic or throw fire balls, but with those you will just have to face them as they come and use your common sense to figure it out.”

Ja’tar didn’t really mean that literally. After he and Zedd’aki visited the Cave of the Forbidden and discovered what they were up against, the best he hoped for was that the three returned in one piece with sufficient information for him and the Guild to make a sound decision.

Men’ak limped over to the healer’s blanket favoring his right leg. “I feel a little worn down. I’m not sure I could have kept it up much longer.”

Ja’tar slapped the younger mage on his back causing him to wince. “Well, you know enough to stay alive and that’s the goal … Remember, getting away is still your first option. I don’t want you taking on a whole demon horde on your own.”

Ja’tar laughed, but hoped he had reinforced his message of ‘live to fight another day.’

“No heroics!” he said earnestly.

“No heroics …,” the three repeated in unison, rolling their eyes.

Dra’kor sat down on the warm grass and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was still breathing heavily and his head ached from the exertion it took to command the spells. He gingerly wiped at some of the burn marks on his arms where he hadn’t countered quickly enough. He looked over at Grit who was tending a nasty gash on his leg. He grimaced as the healing spell took effect. Men’ak was lying flat on his back recovering from his healing.

“I think that’s enough for today.” Ja’tar laughed jovially. “Take the remainder of the day off and rest for your trip tomorrow. You all deserve a good rest.”

Dra’kor, Grit and Men’ak nodded, appreciating the respite. They had been training nonstop for almost three weeks. Considering where they had started, Dra’kor was very proud of their progress. He had learned more practical magic in the last few weeks than he had in the last decade of study in the great library.

He supposed that he could have actually learned a fair amount if he applied himself, but he had become sullen and despondent, knowing that what he learned would never be put to use. What was the point of gaining knowledge and expertise if you were never going to use it or pass it on to others? So, for the most part, he just went through the motions of learning.

But this was different. He knew immediately after their first lesson that he had better master what he was being taught. He had soaked it all in like a dry sponge. The fact that the knowledge might save his life or someone else’s made him crave it all the more. He wished that the training could go on for a few more weeks, at least …

They removed their brown tattered robes, nursing their bruises and cuts. After inspection and healing, they washed down with the buckets of warm water brought up from the hot spring on the Keep’s grounds by the housekeeping staff. They stood there in their braies as the staff soaped them down. The soap and warm water felt good as they washed away the dirt and sweat of the day. After drying themselves, clean robes and sandals were donned and the three made their way back into the Keep. The small crowd of onlookers dispersed now that the show was over.

Grit and Men’ak stopped in front of the spiral staircase and watched Dra’kor labor a few steps up toward his room. “Do you want to go soak in the tubs with us?”

He turned to face them, exhaustion showing on his brow. “No, not now! Maybe tonight after dinner. I think I’ll just go up and lie down for a while.”

The two nodded, understanding how he felt and turned down the hall to take refuge in the hot pools under the Keep. The pools were completely natural, which was saying plenty given that most things in and around the Keep were created using the gift. They were nestled in a small grotto back behind the atrium at the rear of the outer wall. The water from the pools cascaded from pool to pool and eventually exited the Keep feeding a small stream that headed down the mountain. There was a distinct odor of sulfur to the air and colossal multicolored stalactites hanging from the ceiling far above and softly mounding stalagmites covered the floor. Finely woven grass mats had been laid down the slippery surface to provide some measure of footing and a makeshift railing of sorts dotted the sides.

Men’ak and Grit stepped to the nearest pool, which was the deepest, and threw off their robes. Grit winced at the sight of all the crisscrossed lash marks on Men’ak’s back, but wiped the expression from his face before Men’ak turned around. It still bothered him, even after all these years.

“This is going to feel so good!” Grit moaned. He lowered himself into the steamy water. “By the Ten, that’s hot!”

Men’ak slid in next to him testing the water first with his foot before sliding in. “I really need this, it’s been a very long day.”

“It’s been a long couple of weeks…,” Grit said, his voice trailing off. He closed his eyes before he could see Men’ak’s weak nod. “It was clever of Ja’tar to announce that he was going to begin teaching some battle and defensive moves to everyone.”

“Everyone is jealous that we got to go first. Most think that Ja’tar is trying to make peace with Dra’kor.”

“That’ll be the day,” Grit grunted. “— I’ll bet Ja’tar has never folded or given an inch in his life.”

Men’ak laughed at the truth of the matter.

“He’s a sly one — that’s for sure,” Grit said, with a grin. “I hate to admit it, but it is the perfect deception. I never would have thought of it!”

“That’s why he’s the Keeper,” Men’ak nodded.

“— That’s why he was a god!”

They both laughed and splashed water into each other’s faces. They settled down and tried to work out the kinks by stretching.

“We leave early tomorrow, before anyone else gets up.”

“Feels strange not being able to say goodbye,” said Men’ak sadly.

“Like we have so many dear friends —”

“We have friends!”

Grit grunted as he worked out another knot in his back. “We have each other — that’s what we have!”

Men’ak agreed wholeheartedly, but didn’t say anything.

Grit smiled. “Imagine us, sneaking out of the Keep like cutthroats.”

“Imagine that …,” Men’ak echoed softly.

They both closed their eyes and let the mineral water soak out their aches and pains while listening to the echoing drips of water cascading down the stalactites and dropping to the floor where they would leave a thin coat of minerals to continue building the cave. Other than the sound of the water cascading from pool to pool and their raspy breath, the room was silent.

Dra’kor slowly climbed the many floors and limped down the dark hall to his room. He opened the door and went inside. The first thing he did after tossing his clean robe on the edge of the bed was heal himself, although Ja’tar and Zedd’aki had already seen to that. He wanted to be sure. It didn’t make him feel any stronger, healing never did. You just couldn’t heal bone weariness!

He set his mental alarm to get him up early in the morning, threw back the blanket on his bed, crawled under the covers, and fell quickly to sleep. He completely missed dinner.

When he woke, the sun was not yet rising and his room was dark and cold. He sat up and rubbed his sore arms and legs. He winced as he stood. Stiffness from all the fighting had set in overnight. He bent over and touched his toes, stretching his leg muscles. It didn’t do much good and he still walked like an old woman.

His stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he had missed dinner. He stretched out and slowly got dressed and went down to the dining room for breakfast.

When he entered the dining room, he saw his two friends standing in line for their morning meals. They were the only ones in the room. Even Ja’tar, he supposed, was still in bed. He nodded in their direction as he stiffly walked across the room.

“Missed you at dinner …,” Grit commented.

Men’ak just looked up with his mouth stuffed full. He couldn’t understand how anyone could miss a meal — for any reason.

Dra’kor cackled. Men’ak was eating as fast as he was filling his plate. He wasn’t even waiting to sit down.

Men’ak feigned mock innocence and shrugged. “What —?”

“I fell asleep, slept right through the night,” Dra’kor laughed. “I was so tired; I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

“I hear that,” Grit said, giving a gap toothed grin.

Men’ak grabbed Dra’kor by the arm and giving a shake. “— You sore?”

Dra’kor grimaced, brushed his hand away and nodded. “You?”

Men’ak scowled, grabbed his hips and bent over, stretching his back. “I can barely stand. My back is so stiff, but the hot bath really helped — You should have joined us.”

“Here ye go lads,” Gretta said. She filled their three plates with eggs, fresh bread, fruit and hot roasted pork. Gretta heaped their plates and filled their mugs with apple blossom mead. “Yer up early! Big day planned?”

“Trying to catch up on our work,” Men’ak replied — lying.

Grit threw back his mug, gulped it down, and wiped his chin with his sleeve before she had finished filling the other’s mugs and held his out for a refill.

Gretta shook her head, causing Grit to blush sheepishly.

“Thanks Gretta,” acknowledged Grit cheerfully. He watched Gretta refill his mug to the very top.

Gretta took good care of the lads. They weren’t wanting for anything in the food or snack departments. The other two nodded their agreement and they shuffled off. The three men stood at the top of the stairs and surveyed the huge room. They picked out a secluded spot to break their fast and made their way to the corner silently.

The magnitude of the impending quest was beginning to take its toll. Dra’kor was edgy, Grit fidgeted and Men’ak was in a foul contemplative mood.

They quietly wolfed down breakfast choosing to sit away from the main area. It would be the last meal they would eat in the Keep, and they should have been savoring it, but they had far too many issues they still felt needed addressing and they barely tasted the food.

Men’ak was ravenous. He he tore off a big slice of boar. “By the Ten, I’m starving.”

Dra’kor wiped his chin with his napkin. “You’re always hungry.”

They sat and ate quietly for a few minutes without anyone feeling the need to talk.

“To tell the truth, I’m not ready,” mumbled Grit, his mouth full of half-chewed eggs. “Not even close. I need a few more weeks.”

“Me neither, I suppose” grumbled Men’ak. “You?” he motioned at Dra’kor.

“Doesn’t matter, by dawn we’ll be on our way.” Dra’kor shot back. He ripped off a big chunk of steaming hot maslin.

“I’m just saying …,” Grit said defensively, shaking a fist-sized roll back at his friend. “Not that I’m afraid, or anything …”

Grit’s voice trailed off.

Men’ak grunted, “Me neither.”

“I know. I’m just … anxious, that’s all,” Dra’kor sighed heavily.

He shoved a pile of eggs to one side of his plate, before pushing them back to whence they came with his fork.

“Truth be told, I’m not sure we’d feel any more ready if we had another year.” Dra’kor muttered under his breath.

Grit leaned forward, “What was that?”

“— Nothing,” Dra’kor replied, suffering a deep morose.

Dra’kor knew all too well that they were not ready. If nothing else, he had always been a quick study of people and he knew that Ja’tar also knew they were not ready. The fact that Ja’tar would be so anxious over their journey made his skin crawl. He figured that if Ja’tar was concerned, they should be terrified because Ja’tar had wandered the realms and knew what it took to survive. He had seen the ease with which the old man cast his spells and the power and accuracy behind them. He felt that for the first time, he was seeing a glimpse of what the gods had considered worthy enough for ascension.

Dra’kor looked across the tables and saw the small halfling, Tax, staring at them. He must have been standing on his toes, and yet, his eyes barely cleared the tables.

“Looks like you’ll have three less magi to grumble at,” Dra’kor said to the halfling in jest.

Tax’s ears twitched as he frowned, not saying a word. He knew the three were heading out. He had already told the others. He hoped that their time had finally come. Now they would see what the rest of the world already knew. Yes, they would.

“I’ll miss you too —” said Dra’kor, blowing the halfling a kiss.

Tax turned and headed off out of the room, the top of his head bobbing up and down just above the tabletops.

“He’s a strange one,” commented Grit.

Dra’kor nodded. He had never understood the halfling, but Ja’tar had once told him that his family had served the Keep for over two-thousand years.

Men’ak grunted, and wiped his plate with his bread, soaking up the yolk. “I think we’ll be all right then. There are three of us, right?”

“Right, we should be able to manage a walk around the realms without our mommies!” Grit muttered with bravado as a quirky smile spread across his face.

“People—normal people with no magic do it all the time …,” Men’ak said. “It can’t be that hard — can it?”

“It ain’t gonna be a walk about.” Dra’kor spat back angrily. He slammed down his fork, “If Ja’tar is right, we are going to be constantly tested, and face real danger. We shouldn’t make light of this journey — Overconfidence might get us killed.”

His two friends looked up at him. Lately, they had been seeing a side of him with which they were unfamiliar. He seemed less confident, more irritable. And today, he was downright dour.

Grit threw his hands up in frustration. “What’s it with you? You’ve been harping on us all week.”

“Aye, nothing we say or do is right. Let it out man, tell us what’s going on in your head,” Men’ak echoed Grit’s sentiment.

Dra’kor threw his knife down on his plate making a loud clank, causing more than a few heads to turn in their direction. Dra’kor sat there, red-faced for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts and trying to control his temper. “Nothing”

It wasn’t his friends’ fault that he felt this impending doom. It really wasn’t their doing that they were in this mess. He held himself responsible because he was the one who was always pushing Ja’tar. Now, he was questioning whether he had the skills, and courage to carry out the task at hand.

“Really?” a sarcastic Grit asked, not expecting an answer.

Dra’kor said, throwing up his hands and staring down his friends.

“Look, I’m not mad at you. Okay?”

“Sure,” a sullen Grit nodded. Not really buying the goods that Dra’kor was selling. Actually, he was more upset that his friend couldn’t confide in them.

Dra’kor saw the look on his face and blurted out, “I’m a bit edgy — worried too. I’m not sure we are up to the task and I feel grossly unprepared. When I said earlier that I wasn’t afraid, I lied. I’m terrified. I’m afraid of what we’re going to find, and I’m even more afraid of losing one of you.”

Men’ak and Grit stared at their friend, and at each other. His admission of weakness had caught them both by surprise. Grit put his hand on Dra’kor’s shoulder and gave it a good thump.

“We’ll be okay. We all have the jitters. That’s all. To be expected really!”

Dra’kor feigned a smile and nodded in Grit’s direction. He appreciated having both of them as friends. Over this past two weeks, they had grown even closer and now they relied on each other like brothers.

“We’ll pull through this,” said Men’ak. He pushed his stool back and stood up, rubbing his bulging stomach.

“Well, I’m going to have more of that ham and bread. If I’m venturing out into the wild to quarrel with the Custodian of the Underworld, I’m filling myself until I can’t move. Maybe I’ll even pack my robe with some leftovers.”

“Well said,” a smiling Grit chipped in as he raised his mug high.

“Hear! Hear!” Dra’kor echoed albeit much less enthusiastic than the others.

Men’ak returned shortly with his plate heaped with glazed ham and small loaves of fresh bread, slathered with butter. The others looked at the plate and burst into laughter. Men’ak shrugged, setting down the plate and pulling up his stool.

You’re gonna need a bigger robe,” said Grit, reaching over and stealing a slice of ham.

He nearly got stabbed by an angry fork, wielded expertly like a rapier by Men’ak. “— Get yer own!” he shouted in mock anger.

“You have enough for half the magi in the room!” Grit laughed. “Did you leave any for the others?”

Dra’kor covered his eyes with his hand and just shook his head.

Men’ak belched loudly, “What? Just making some room.”

“We aren’t slowing down because you need to waddle,” added Dra’kor, joining in to tease his friend.

While the three were bantering, Gretta came over to the table with an arms load of breads, cheeses and sausage.

“Here you go lads! Gretta can’t have you going hungry while you’re out maging in the realms, can she? You lads take care of yourselves; we can’t afford to lose more of ya.” She set the bundle down and turned to hurry away.

Dra’kor looked at Men’ak with a horrified look on his face, “I thought our mission was secret. Does everyone bloody know.”

“Now boys, don’t you worry none,” Gretta said, with a big smile. “I’m the only one that knows what’s going on. Ja’tar and I are good friends. He asked me to prepare some eats for ye for yer journey. He didn’t want ye going hungry.”

She turned quickly and took a couple steps back toward the kitchen. “Yer secret is safe,” she whispered back.

“Hold up Gretta?” Grit hollered after her. He pushed back his stool and ran after her. He reached her and bundled her up in a warm embrace, lifting her feet off the ground. “Thanks for thinking of us.”

Gretta giggled and burst into a big smile. She quickly wiped a tear that was forming in the corner of her eye.

“Tis nothing, really. Have a safe journey.”

She gently set a hand on Grit’s face and planted a kiss on his cheek before hustling off to the kitchen.

Grit swaggered back to the bench. “I think she has a thing for me.”

“Not likely,” Dra’kor stated wryly. “I think maybe she and Ja’tar are more than just friends …”

Grit’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding right?”

“Did you see the way her eyes lit up when she talked about him?”

“— No!”

Men’ak smirked and nodded his agreement, shaking his head in sarcasm.

“No, really?” a sheepish Grit replied.

The three mages spent the rest of the meal in relative silence. Each deep in thought about what the days to come might bring. Over the years, they had imagined this day, however, now that it was here, it was not as any of them had expected.

Grit had imagined a fine adventure, for Men’ak, it was a chance to explore the world he used to know. Dra’kor had hoped it would be a way that he and his mage brothers might reclaim some of the glory of the past. It was now beginning to dawn on them that all of their expectations had been wrong.

Men’ak groaned, puffing his cheeks and pushing his plate back to the center of the bench as he let a loud belch out. He wiped his mouth with the napkin and washed everything down with a long draw of mead. “I’m stuffed.”

“Me too! I can’t eat another bite. I’m heading back to my room to get my things,” Grit somberly added. “I guess this is it then.”

“Meet everyone in a few minutes?” inquired Dra’kor.

Both Grit and Men’ak nodded. Dra’kor watched as they walked out of the dining room. He wrapped his hand around his mug of honey mead and slowly sipped, tasting the summer in each mouthful. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice that Ja’tar had walked up behind him and pulled up a stool.

“I hope I’m not bothering you —”

Dra’kor looked up startled. “No, no, please join me. I was just mulling over the days to come”

“Ah! I’m jealous you know,” said Ja’tar in all sincerity. “I would go myself if the Guild would allow it; or more importantly if I could sleuth away without being missed. Back in the day, I loved the adventure of it all. Now I spend my time writing letters …”

“I believe you would,” Dra’kor laughed, “perhaps next time.”

Ja’tar smiled warmly. “Perhaps.”

“I wish we had more time. I feel rushed,” Dra’kor confessed.

“You are prepared as well as I can prepare you. Hopefully, you will need none of the spells we have practiced. You’ll do fine.” Ja’tar slapped Dra’kor on the back. “I’m glad we finally have a chance to work together.”

“Same.”

Dra’kor took another quaff from his pewter mug.

“Have you decided where we should go first?”

“Originally I was leaning toward the Five Peaks, but lately, I’ve heard of strange goings-on in the Three Rivers. I think we should start there, but the choice is really yours to make.”

“Mine?”

“Sure, why not? You have five realms to visit, how you choose and when …,” Ja’tar shrugged. “Some paths are … shall we say …more efficient for travel, but it probably doesn’t matter that much. We shall find what we find.”

Dra’kor leaned forward. “So, what kind of things do you refer to when you speak of strange happenings?”

“Nothing specifically wrong per se,” a reflective Ja’tar replied. “But we hear rumors. Mostly of random crop failings, strange diseases, animal attacks, and people being out of sorts.”

“And where is this community you speak of?” Dra’kor asked curiously.

“The community is three days to our east, level walking. I wouldn’t read too much into it, mostly it’s just complaining from the visiting merchants down in the village. I’d take some of it with a grain of salt. Tinkers are always complaining.”

Dra’kor raised a brow. “Could it be the plague?

Ja’tar shook his head and pursed his lips. “Doesn’t seem so. There are usually accompanying signs. You know, sores, that sort of thing.”

Ja’tar pushed back his stool and stood up. “Well, whatever it is, you and your team will find out soon enough.”

Dra’kor snorted his reply.

Ja’tar lifted a hand and slapped him on the shoulder. “You take care. It doesn’t do anyone any good if you three get sick —”

“Or dead?” Dra’kor winced.

Ja’tar somberly nodded.

He started to say something else, but stopped. Enough had been said. He turned and walked out of the hall. Dra’kor watched him go, sighed and drained his mug dry. He rolled it over in his hands, admiring the fine workmanship. He prayed that his mug didn’t end up on the shelf with those of all the other deceased mages.

He wondered how he would be remembered, what kind of thoughts the others would send into the mug to be replayed for eternity. He decided they wouldn’t be complementary. He had ruffled too many feathers as of late. Maybe he could redeem himself in this quest. He rolled the mug over one more time, set it down, stood up, took one last look around and walked out of the room.

Ja’tar was far more nervous than he outwardly appeared. The quest had become more than it was originally conceived to be. If some demon lord or, heaven forbid, a resurrected dark mage was ready to wage war, he and the Keep were ill prepared.

His worst fears were that all of the realms had been closed and therefore, all the mages that were travelers had shriveled and died when they were cut off from the source of magic. Since only a few dozen mages remained in the Keep, they wouldn’t stand a chance, especially if these three failed to return. Of course, if they couldn’t actually get out of the realm, how much trouble could they get into? He wondered.

Ja’tar met them right before the sun crossed the crest between Grenache and the Batstille Mountains, causing their edges to grow with bands of gold. They stood waiting at the main drawbridge right after the parapet. The twin stone ramparts towered high over their heads.

The three mages were dressed in worn, baggy peasant pants with loose-knit shirts tied at the waist, topped with heavy wool jackets. Each held a small burlap pack filled with the meats and cheeses that Gretta had given them, an oilcloth raincoat and a tied bedroll. They had hunting knives sheathed at their waist, tied at the thigh and well-worn leather boots.

Grit carried a small sword, Dra’kor had his oilskin slicker, Men’ak had his flute. They all had a few coins in their pockets and walking staffs to fill out their look.

“Well, don’t you make beautiful peasants?” teased Ja’tar.

Grit scratched at his collar. “Does this material ever stop itching?”

Men’ak reached up and cuffed him on the back of his head, “Spoiled ye are!”

Grit gruffly scowled back.

“I have something you will need for your journey,” a somber Ja’tar stated. “It is very important that you clearly understand what I am saying, so ask any questions you want.”

Ja’tar opened a small wooden box that he had been carrying and showed the three mages the contents. “These are your medallions. They are called the Sha’za, or Querd medallions. They keep you young when you are not in the Keep or on the grounds surrounding the Keep. The Ten cast the original spell over the grounds that keep us from aging, however the spell stops working a half-league or so past the gates.”

Ja’tar handed each a medallion.

“Put them on your neck and never lose or forget them. If you do, you will age, wither and die. The magic they contain is strong and none of you know the craft well enough to be able to maintain the spell, it takes years to master.”

Grit placed his over his neck, as did Dra’kor and Men’ak. Grit took a closer look at the tarnished metal pendant. “Doesn’t seem all that special … I can’t even sense any magic in the thing.”

“You probably wouldn’t,” explained Ja’tar. “You would have to know exactly what to look for and be very sensitive to the particular form of magic used. This form is very, very old.”

Dra’kor turned the medallion over in his hands, feeling like he had just found out some secret the Guild had been hiding from him for years. “Why didn’t we know about these before?”

“We only give them to travelers, there was no need,” Ja’tar answered with no further explanation, for it was the truth of the matter.

“Well, I guess we need to wear them then …,” Men’ak exclaimed. “I never imagined that I’d be a traveler.”

“Yes, and I cannot stress enough that you must not lose or take them off. The aging is not reversible as far as I know. You don’t want to end up old men like me,” Ja’tar joked, although it was not a joking matter.

“Well, I guess this is it,” Ja’tar announced to the group as he stuffed the box under his arm and clapped his hands. “Does everyone have their medallions? You cannot leave the Keep without them, you wouldn’t last a day.”

All three grabbed their medallions and held them out.

Ja’tar gave the three hearty handshakes grasping wrist to wrist punctuated with a, “Good luck, safe journey!”

Ja’tar added a few words of caution before they left in case they were headed straight away to Three Rivers. “If you travel by way of Big Drop Falls, which is now called Haagen’s Cross, take care, the water is still high and the river is treacherous.”

“— We will,” Grit promised.

Lastly, he handed Dra’kor a small thin ornate wooden box holding message parchments and a pen, “Write on these when you have something to report and burn them. I’ll get the message. When I burn them, they will reappear in the box. That way you’ll know that I received them.”

Dra’kor smiled as he took the package from Ja’tar. He was glad they were leaving. The stress of all the work, training and worry was gone, and all that was left was excitement. He was getting more impatient by the minute and was itching to hit the open trail.

Dra’kor stuffed the small box into his knapsack, checked the chain holding the medallion that was over his head and waved over his shoulder as he started down the rough road, “Let’s go, daylight is wasting and we have a lot of ground to cover before dark.”

Grit mumbled, “It’s barely even first light. What do you mean daylight is wasting?”

Dra’kor ignored the grumble, nodded at Ja’tar and gave Men’ak a big wide toothed grin. They also checked their medallions, adjusted their packs and took the first steps of their adventure, passing through the gate that Ja’tar and Zedd’aki had opened just wide enough for them to pass. They were even forced to duck under the portcullis, which Ja’tar had raised sufficiently for them to get on their knees and crawl under.

High above, in Tork’s Tower, a diminutive halfling in worn threadbare pants stood on his tiptoes staring out one of the turret windows. His oversized ears twitched nervously and he watched as the three magi walked down the path. So it was true, he thought to himself. The second sign, just as foretold.

He needed another sign, the last sign. It was said that there would be three signs that foretold the prophecy. When the third sign appeared, they would hide. All of them would hide. He turned and stared at the flights of tall stone stairs he had to climb down as they turned and disappeared from sight. He grunted as he took the first step. His knees crackled and his balance was unsure, causing him to cling tightly to the wall. Just keep walking down, he thought to himself. Tax hurried off to tell the others that the second sign had been confirmed.

Tax smiled. Soon he wouldn’t have to clean the stairs. His contract would be fulfilled and he would be free. Free! His family would be free. He chuckled to himself, for he was the last Guardian. There were no more. If he had wed and sired a son, his son would have been a Guardian too. His father was a Guardian, as was his father. For three generations they had watched and waited for the prophecy.

He wondered what would happen if the prophecy didn’t come to pass in his lifetime. Well, they couldn’t very well force him from the depths of the afterlife to keep working! He snickered, and let go of the windowsill, letting himself down another step. He paused and took a deep breath before he continued his trek.

Dra’kor, Grit and Men’ak slowly headed down the winding path toward the valley. They turned periodically and waved at Ja’tar and Zedd’aki who had gathered to see them off. After they were safely down the hill and out of direct site, Ja’tar and Zedd’aki ducked back under the portcullis and reentered the grounds of the Keep.

Zedd’aki elbowed Ja’tar. “You think they’ll be all right?”

Ja’tar paused, “I guess we’ll see —”

“I guess we will … You’re worried for them …?”

“I’m worried for us all, Zedd’aki. The boys will just be closer to harm than we will —”

“You really think it will come to that?”

Ja’tar’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I do,” he whispered.

“May the gods protect them,” Zedd’aki said, making the sign of AEgis.

They lowered the portcullis, pushed the iron reinforced gate closed, lifted the hefty drawbar back into place in the iron brackets and reset the wards.

Their plan had begun and the boys got out without notice.

After walking down the road for fifteen minutes, in silence, they crossed the small bridge over the converging creeks. They turned one last time to admire the Keep, just as the sun caused the sky to glow with the oranges and reds of morning.

High on the hill, in place of the majestic Keep, was a quaint rundown inn nestled up against a small cliff. Most of the glazing had been shattered and birds swooped in and out of the holes in the shingles. It looked dilapidated and deserted, the clapboard hung loosely and in some cases totally missing, exposing the old inn’s framing. The road was rutted, washed out and inaccessible because the planks on the bridge were rotted and missing. Even one of the support beams was cracked and dipped down precariously close to the water. Nobody would ever venture to cross for fear of his or her life.

If they hadn’t known better, they would never have believed that the huge, beautifully architected castle was behind the glamour and stood alone on the top of a rocky rise.

“Well, look at that,” said Grit, as his jaw dropped.

They presumed that the Guild had cast the glamour on the Keep, thereby, keeping the presence of the wizards forever a secret. They had no idea that it had been in place all these centuries. To Dra’kor, it was just one more thing that stuck in his craw. He was proud of what he was and the Guild’s attempt at minimizing it rubbed him entirely the wrong way.

Disgusted, Dra’kor rolled his eyes, threw his hands up and muttered, “Perfect! That just shows you.”

“I always wondered why we didn’t have more visitors. Now I know. Who would want to stay in such a rundown inn?” Grit said, as he shook his head in disbelief. “It looks uninhabitable!”

“Let’s get out of here —” Dra’kor spat as he turned and headed down the road not looking back.

Men’ak looked at the glamour on the bridge. It looked as though it would tumble into the river at any time. He quickly ran back to the other side of the bridge and up the hill a bit. He watched as the inn shimmered and turned back into the castle. He turned and ran to catch up with his friends, “Wait up!”

“The glamour was amazing!” Men’ak said, out of breath.

Dra’kor growled and cuffed him in the head.

Grit put his finger to his lips and shushed Men’ak. “Now is not a good time to be talking about that.”

Men’ak nodded.

They hurried to catch up with Dra’kor who had set a blistering pace, trying to put as much distance between himself and the Keep as was possible. He was glad to leave all that was the Keep behind him. He was anxious to see the world and prove himself.

A cheerful Grit said, turning to face Men’ak, “Feels good to be on the way, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” replied Men’ak, as he squinted, “and it looks to be a beautiful day!”

“Not too cold. Good walking weather I think,” Grit replied.

“How about you?” said Men’ak as he caught Dra’kor’s eye. “I can’t wait to get to the next town. Maybe we can meet some local ladies.”

“Look at you ….” Grit grinned, blushing a bit.

“I’m just saying,” a flustered Men’ak retorted. “It’s been a long time, that’s all.”

“Just the same, if I were you, I’d take care about messin’ with some farmer’s daughter. You might be seeing the business end of a pitch fork or a staff to the head,” Grit teased.

Dra’kor got very serious and quashed the whole mood. “We got a job to do lads. Let’s stay focused. We can celebrate after we finish.”

If we finish, he thought to himself.

“All right,” Men’ak pouted, “I suppose we should …”

They were making good time because it was downhill most of the way to the first village on their list. To Dra’kor, it seemed a little quiet. He had expected the road to be a little busier, even though it was spring. They kept walking.

The snow had been gone for a few weeks and the new grass and leaf buds were beginning to show. Wildflowers dotted the roadside and moss clung to the dirt between the rocks and trees. They were losing altitude fast as they ventured down into the lower valleys of the realm.

Grit stopped to study a couple plants alongside the road.

Men’ak stopped behind his friend and peered over his shoulder. “What are you looking at?

“Jackerwock root, I think.”

“Never heard of it,” Men’ak shrugged.

“You should have paid more attention in class,” said Dra’kor smugly.

Men’ak frowned, “What’s it good for?”

Grit stood up holding the plant, root and all. “It’s needed to change planes of existence.”

Men’ak shrugged, “That’s it?”

Dra’kor and Grit’s mouth dropped open. Neither of them could think of a response. Grit brushed the dirt and mud off the root and shoved it into his pack.

“We gonna stand here all day?” Men’ak groaned.

Dra’kor shook his head and threw up his arms. Grit mumbled something under his breath and they both watched Men’ak march off down the road.

The road was soon muddy from rain and runoff. And it wasn’t long before their shoes were covered in mud and soaked through the patten. Dra’kor swore under his breath. His feet were wet and cold. He wiggled his toes and they were so numb, he could barely feel them. He looked around a saw that his friends were thinking exactly the same thing. At that moment, it dawned on him. He shook his head at his own stupidity; after all, he was a Mage.

Dra’kor wove a very delicate weave to dry out his shoes and keep them dry. In no time, his feet were toasty and warm and the muddy water was staying outside his shoes. He thought about saying something to the others, but decided that he was rather enjoying their discomfort, which immensely improved his disposition for some strange reason.

The further they traveled, the more wooded it became. The Keep was rather far up into the mountains and at that elevation, the trees were sparse and stunted, but in the immediate area of the Keep, the trees grew tall and thick, aided by the ancient magic of the Ten.

Without the magic surrounding the Keep, the entire high mountain valley would be mostly barren. Now that they had traveled for several hours, the landscape returned to normal, but given their downhill direction there were soon thick aspen cluster and pine trees flanking the road, as well as the shrub oak and berry bushes that grew in the area.

Grit stopped occasionally and picked a handful of ripe berries, popping them into his mouth and enjoying the tart sweetness. Soon, his fingers were stained with reddish purple blotches.

The sun had already dropped behind the local mountains and dusk was quickly approaching. Dra’kor suggested that they find a place to stop for the night. They hadn’t traveled more than another half-league when they stumbled upon a nice grassy flat area alongside the trail and set out their bedrolls.

“Dra’kor, I don’t think we should camp this close to the road,” Grit said, as he scratched his head, “Remember what Ja’tar said about the highwaymen. We should find someplace a little more secluded.”

Dra’kor spat on the ground.

“What highwaymen? We haven’t seen a darn soul all day long.”

“I’m just saying …,” Grit replied as he tried to smooth out his blanket.

Men’ak agreed, “Better safe than sorry.”

Dra’kor scooped up his bedroll and tossed it over his shoulder, “Anything to keep you two from whining.”

He took off without so much as another word, forcing Grit and Men’ak to hastily gather their things and walk awkwardly carrying the haphazard bundles across their chests.

They continued their walk into the forest. The trees began to close them off from the last shards of available sunlight. Dra’kor spotted an outcropping of boulders and pointed. “Looks like a better place to me.”

Grit sighed as he dropped his bundle in the tall grass. “— Good! My arms are getting sore from carrying this stuff.”

The three carefully climbed over the rocks and explored the area. After a few minutes, they found a nice sheltered area, backed up on all sides by tress or rocks. Since the road was on the other side of the boulder field, it was unlikely that they would be found out.

The very small clearing at the bottom of the north facing rock field had just enough space for a few bedrolls and a fire. The trees almost completely hid the clearing and they would also provide a measure of protection from the icy-wind and elements.

“This will keep us out of view from the road, even with a fire,” an excited Grit added.

The ground was covered with pine needles and the three scraped the needles into piles using their feet. Once they had space for a fire pit, Men’ak gathered a few small rocks and made a fire ring. Dra’kor and Men’ak opened their bedrolls and placed them on top of the needles.

Men’ak laughed, “Probably be more comfortable than my bed back home …”

“No disagreement here,” Dra’kor laughed back.

Grit climbed to the top of the rock mound and checked for travelers, and then he disappeared down the front side. He quickly grabbed his bedroll and did a rapid circle of the camp picking up dead dried twigs here and there. Satisfied that they were alone, he returned to the camp with a cumbersome bundle of twigs and branches he had collected while exploring the area. After carefully arranging them in a small lean-to against a couple boulders in the fire ring, he used a spark of magic to start the fire and soon they had a warm campfire going.

Dra’kor and Men’ak had finished laying out their bedrolls and joined him as they huddled tightly around the fire, trying to warm themselves. The air had turned chilly as soon as the sun had set.

The three mages sat around the fire, chewing on the bread, cheese, and dried sausage from their packs. Grit had his blanket over his shoulders.

“Gretta treats us well,” Grit mumbled with his mouth full. The others just nodded their agreement.

The fire crackled and popped, filling the air with a great pine smell. As the flames licked the logs and the coals began to glow ruby red, the three adventurers rubbed their hands and legs, warming themselves as the chill of the night air settled into the valley. Grit smiled as he watched the cool night mist rise from the ground and swirl in the light breeze. A light orange glow colored the low hanging braches of the pines.

Grit grabbed a big handful of branches and tried to crack them over his knee. Men’ak noticed the wince on his face when the branches didn’t snap as expected. He stood up, placed the twigs against a big rock, and stomped down on them. He piled the smaller pieces on the fire and stacked the rest alongside the pit.

Men’ak opened his pack and pulled out a tiny copper pot. He placed it on the coals, and added some water from his goatskin bag to make a tea.

“I have to say. I’m a bit stiff from all the walking.”

“Me too,” added Men’ak. “I’d have thought that with all the battle practice, I wouldn’t be this sore.”

Dra’kor grunted and took another bite.

Men’ak pulled out a small wood box from his pack and hit it twice on his legs to settle the herbs. He opened the box, took out a couple small pinches of the fragrant mix, and dropped them into the simmering water.

The only sound they heard was that of the crickets, rubbing their legs, chirping, and in the distance, a lone horned owl called for its mate. Men’ak stirred the coals of the fire and added another load of larger branches, which popped and snapped sending showers of sparks toward the heavens. They sat for a long time staring into the flames, sipping their herb tea.

“Our first day,” Grit commented, nodding his head.

Men’ak nodded, “Yeah. Not exactly what I expected —”

“Me neither. I don’t know about you, but I expected the road to be busier,” Dra’kor said, with disappointment showing in his voice.

Grit gave the fire a poke. “Wonder where everyone is?”

“— Dead?” Men’ak suggested dryly.

“Halla! That’s not funny,” Dra’kor swore.

Grit pulled a small tin from his pack and stuffed some of the feather leaf into his pipe. He grabbed a burning stick and pulled heavily on the pipe until the leaf lit. He puffed on it, letting the calming herb settle his nerves. He handed the pipe to Men’ak, who gladly accepted it and passed it to Dra’kor who waved it off. Men’ak passed it back to Grit who sat comfortably with a big grin on his face.

Men’ak switched sides since his leg that had been facing the fire was getting uncomfortably warm.

“We are still pretty high up in the mountains for this time of year. Maybe we’ll see more people tomorrow.”

Men’ak pulled the hot tea off the fire using the sleeve of his robe as a potholder and passed it around. They each filled their small mugs with the piping-hot liquid and took small sips of the minty beverage. Grit pulled a small piece of the herb from his teeth and spit it into the dirt.

Dra’kor sighed, “Well, if not, we’ll be in town soon, should be plenty of people there —”

“What do you think the Guild is going to think of all this?” Grit interrupted, raising his stare from the fire.

“All of what?” Dra’kor echoed, not moving.

“All of this adventuring and walking the realms,” Grit replied. “You think they’ll care for it?”

“I don’t’ really care what they think,” Dra’kor angrily replied. “None of their business, as I see it.”

“— But when they do, I mean?” wondered Grit.

Dra’kor scoffed, “I don’t think Ja’tar is going to tell them.”

Grit’s jaw dropped, “Ever?”

“— From what he said …”

“I guess we’ll see,” Grit grumbled. “Hope we don’t get into trouble —”

“Guess time will tell,” Dra’kor agreed.

“Seems to me that they’re aloof and secretive,” Men’ak added, “and controlling.”

“Very controlling,” Dra’kor echoed. “From what Ja’tar said, he doesn’t care for it either —”

“You talked to him about the Guild?” Grit stammered.

“A little …,” Dra’kor nodded.

Men’ak wondered, “Any of you ever seen someone from the Guild?”

Grit and Dra’kor looked at each other before shaking their heads.

“They’re bossy,” said Grit quietly, shaking his head. “Nah, I never seen them. Have they ever visited us?”

“Who knows! Well, that Guild business is between them. I want no part of it,” Men’ak added as he took another small sip. “I’d just as soon they leave us alone.”

“Me too,” Dra’kor echoed. “Let’s drop the subject and not ruin a perfect day.”

“I was just wondering —” said Grit weakly.

“It’s getting cold. My feet are like ice. My shoes are soaked!” Men’ak vented. He shuffled closer toward the fire to thaw out. He blew his breath out into the air and saw it turn to a gray mist.

Dra’kor smiled and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Mine aren’t.”

Men’ak crinkled his face in disbelief as he looked down at Dra’kor’s perfectly dry shoes. “Really?”

Dra’kor showed off his boots and shrugged, raising his brow.

“Completely dry. Go figure.”

“Well, mine are soaked too,” Grit complained. He pulled his shoes off, putting them and his socks by the fire, along with his pattens. He fiddled with the socks, carefully draping them over a couple small forked twigs, and grabbed his bare feet, rubbing vigorously to warm them up.

Grit bellyached, while rubbing his tingling, cold feet. “How’d your feet stay dry with all that water and mud?”

“I can’t really explain it,” Dra’kor chortled, “It’s almost like magic.”

“Like magic?” Men’ak asked blankly, as he arranged his socks too.

Grit finally caught what Dra’kor was saying, “You bastard! You let us walk in wet shoes all day when …”

“When what?” Dra’kor asked, feigning innocence.

“When you … you … you knew …,” Grit sputtered, his face turning red.

Dra’kor’s eyes gleamed, “When you aren’t smart enough to dry your own shoes with magic?”

“Well, yes,” Grit spat, as he threw a part of a leftover roll at Dra’kor who easily batted it away.

“I can’t believe you let us …” Grit was almost speechless. “Aargh! I hate you …”

Men’ak pulled his shoe off his sore soaked feet and stared at the blisters on his heel and big toe. He picked at them and winced when he accidently popped the big one on his heel, “My feet are a mess.”

Grit nodded, “I have blisters too. I guess we aren’t cut out for this adventurer life.”

Dra’kor grunted and rolled his eyes.

“Well, I’m not used to wearing shoes, that’s for sure,” said Men’ak, with a big wide grin. He cast a mild healing spell and watched as the blisters faded away.

“Maybe you should go barefoot tomorrow?” Grit added as he did the same.

“I suppose I could,” Men’ak replied, “I guess then I really would look like a peasant!”

Dra’kor roared and soon all three were laughing about the day. Grit pulled out a box; removed some dice, and he and Men’ak played Kings Keeper for a bit. While they were busy, Dra’kor decided it was a good time to leave Ja’tar a message.

Dra’kor took out the small wood box, wrote a short note to Ja’tar, and tossed it into the fire. Finally, they all turned in. Dra’kor crawled into his bedroll, pulling the heavy wool tight to his head, faced the fire and watched as the coals flickered. He remembered to set a silent ward to wake him if anything bigger than a small dog crossed their perimeter.

Meanwhile, Ja’tar had eaten his late lunch and headed back to his room. He pulled a small wood box out of his cabinet. He set it in the middle of his writing table and opened the lid. The telltale song of an orb immediately filled the room. Ja’tar sighed. It had been a long time since he had really used his orb, but use it he must. He had to find out the extent of the damage. He set to work setting his wards.

He grabbed his orb with both hands. It was going to be a long night. He tried the first address. The orb remained blank. He tried another. It too was blank, nothing but the swirling gray fog.

Ja’tar knew his technique was rusty but he had expected to be able to at least view a realm. He tried a realm next to the Keep and had some limited success; however, there wasn’t anything interesting to see.

Buoyed by the success, he tried another address from the Book of Records. Blank. He slammed his fist on the table, causing the orb to wail. It seemed impossible because the log was marked a few short days ago, clearly showed the realm was open and accessible. After several frustrating hours, he gave up, put the orb away, and went to find Zedd’aki. They were in trouble.

Ja’tar found him eating dinner and after filling his own plate with turkey and stuffing, he briefly kneeled next to Zedd’aki and whispered in his ear, “We need to talk. Follow me.”

The two men moved to a more secluded spot near the enormous walk-in fireplace. After getting situated and eating a few bites, Ja’tar broke the silence.

“I tried to view a few realms,” mumbled Ja’tar, his mouth still full of turkey from the leg he was gnawing on.

“You said tried, so I presume you were less than successful?”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Ja’tar, licking his fingers. “I only got to fully view one, Five Peaks. They’re getting hammered by a bad storm.”

Zedd’aki continued eating, “How many did you try?”

“Altogether seven …,” Ja’tar replied, shaking his turkey leg.

Zedd’aki glanced up. “— and the others?”

Ja’tar sat quietly, and softly drummed his fingers nervously, “Closed I presume —”

Zedd’aki raised a brow, “So you saw nothing?”

“I wouldn’t say nothing, but they seem to come in and out of the orb’s influence, blocked or something. Can’t think of any other reason, but I don’t know the orbs very well. By the Ten, sometimes I couldn’t even view, let alone watch.” Ja’tar took another bit off his turkey leg and shoved a big fork full of gravy-drenched stuffing into his mouth.

Zedd’aki took another bite off his loaf of hot rye bread, and waved it in front of Ja’tar, “Don’t suppose you would care to speculate on what is going on?”

Ja’tar nodded but didn’t speak. He chased the crumbs around the table with his finger and drummed his fingers anew before casting small flame spells that raced from digit to digit, winking out of existence as fast as they were made.

Ja’tar swallowed his mouthful and shook his fork at his friend, “I think we are facing an assault, but I can’t figure out who or what is behind it. Nothing makes sense.”

“— Sense? Since when do these things ever make any sense?”

“There are usually patterns, or clues to follow …,” a very frustrated Ja’tar offered.

“Maybe we just can’t see the pattern from here. Maybe the boys will have better luck.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Ja’tar flatly, as he took a long draw on his cup of mead.

“So I’m thinking, why close all the realms? That makes them useless to everyone, mages and demons alike,” asked Zedd’aki just before stating his hastily drawn hypothesis. “What if they found a way around the magic?”

“Not likely,” Ja’tar mused, “Mages have been searching for a way around the rules of magic for eons.”

“All I’m saying is, nothing else makes sense. Now’s as good a time as any …”

Ja’tar nodded, understanding why Zedd’aki thought the way he did, after all, it was the only train of thought that made any sense whatsoever.

Zedd’aki pushed his plate back. “Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know. I’m thinking of going back to the Cave and see if I can learn anything that might help us.”

“You aren’t going alone again?”

Ja’tar sighed as he stood up. “No, my friend. I’ll take you along to watch out for me. It should provide mild … entertainment!”

Zedd’aki nodded forcefully as he watched Ja’tar leave the room.

When he returned to his room, the first thing he noticed was a small note of paper on his silver receiver dish. He picked up his spectacles and placed them on his nose before he grabbed the note and read:

“Nothing to report, haven’t seen anyone, it’s been quiet. I suppose you knew about the glamour on the Keep to make it look like a dilapidated inn?

I’m going to sleep. Maybe I’ll have something more to report tomorrow. - Dra’kor.”

Ja’tar held the note for a second before lighting it with the flame of the beeswax candle on his desk and watched it disappear in a flash of yellow-blue light. He cupped his hand over the flame of the candle and blew it out.

He stood in the dark for a bit, staring out the widow, watching the bright moonlight of the Ocht’or moon illuminate the tall pines. He looked in the direction of Three Rivers and thought about the boys. He wondered if they would fill his dreams this night.

So far, no one in the Keep noticed that the boys had left. He wondered how long he would be able to keep it a secret. If the Guild found out … he would have some serious explaining to do.

He stared out at the storm up in Five Peaks and remembered being caught in thunder snow once when he was very young. The snow came down so fast, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, and he had to cover his face because the sharp ice flakes actually stung. The thunder would boom, causing the snow to come down even harder. Later that night he remembered his mother having to apply a soothing balm on his raw skin. She said that the ice shards had actually cut his tender skin and that was why he was in such pain.

As he fell asleep, he dreamt of a woman with dark hair. She seemed to be trapped in a glass house, or be in some manner of serious trouble, and was calling to him. He tried to call out to her, but every time he tried, the image would blur and fade away. Eventually, the dream faded, he forgot about her and fell into a deep sleep.

A Night to Remember

The squad of catomen, patrolling the long narrow valley had smelled the wandering magi long before they heard them. The leader raised his sensitive nose into the wind and sniffed turning in the direction of the strong scent. A euphoric purr escaped its mouth as it leapt to the north, quickening its pace. The others quickly fell in behind.

Their easy feline gate quickly brought them down the vacant road near to the camp where the magi slept. Their lean black forms blended well with the surroundings hiding their motion, even under the moon’s soft-white haloed glow.

The White moon was already full up, shining over the land. In the spring, the White moon appeared almost twice the size as it did in the fall. That was when the orange moon known as Ocht’or was the biggest. The orange globe took its name from the ninth month of the thirteen named months in the year. The harvest month was aptly named marking the end of another year of toil in the fields. If the year had been kind, enough food would be picked and stored to get them through the six months of winter.

The lead feline looked up, it knew that the moon would be rising soon, causing the magi to stir. The Ocht’or moon was also known as the moon of dreams and to those who were sensitive to its siren call, provided vivid dreams and the sight. The catomen was worried about the sight. Although the moon appeared smallest this time of year, and the dreams less vivid, it hoped that none of the magi had the gift and that surprise would be on their side this eve.

They moved stealthily between the shadows, pausing here, sniffing there. The three slowly approached the rocky outcrop, checking the air, ears perked, eyes narrowed. Their bodies swayed gracefully as they carefully placed their oversized padded paws and climbed.

Quickly and silently, they scaled the rocky surface, powerful legs making easy work of the huge boulders and awkward jutting slabs of granite. They briefly paused at the top after peering over the edge and seeing the shadowy outlines of the magi sound asleep around a smoldering fire.

Dra’kor’s wards went off, disturbing his deep slumber. It took a few seconds for him to realize where he was and what was going on. That recognition caused him to waken with a start as the alarms sounded loudly in his head. He dismissed them and froze in his bedroll staring up through the pine boughs into the dull glow of a partially veiled Ocht’or moon, giving his eyes time to focus. He ever so slowly moved his hand down to his belt and checked his small blade making sure it was free from its catch. He stayed nearly motionless for several seconds holding his breath and straining to hear …

Nothing, only the dead eerie silence, with no crickets, birds, owls, or bugs filled the air.

The sound of Men’ak’s uneven breathing and Grit’s loud snoring broke the nothing. He looked left, then right, slowly moving his head to avoid making a sound. Under the canopy it was dark, almost pitch black, but not so dark that he couldn’t make out the thin night fog circling the trees. The fire was almost out and only a few ash covered coals remained, faintly flickering as the night mist kissed them lovingly.

He twisted his fingers quickly under the blanket and carefully sent out feelers to determine what had entered the perimeter. He had to know whether they were being threatened, or if it was just a raccoon, or fox. He sensed something, magical, but not. The response was so vague he thought he might have cast the spell incorrectly. He tried again to be sure, with the exact result. It seemed unusual to him that he couldn’t determine if they were in danger. His spell had always worked in the past and its sudden failure caused him great consternation. He felt his heart rate rise and could feel his forehead getting moist as his anxiety rose.

The largest of the beasts gazed out over the quiet campsite, tossed its head, growling and purring gruffly. The others turned their attention to the grand black cat and purred back. The leader shook his head and purred his response more forcefully. The other three nodded their agreement, dropped below the ridge and began to circle around the small camp maintaining the high ground.

Dra’kor rolled over ever so slowly to his side, pretending he was still asleep and forced a stammered snore. He reached for Grit using his blanket for cover and gave him a shake on his arm. Grit grumbled and rolled over, tucking his blanket tightly about his head. Dra’kor tried a second time, and also gave him a pinch using a little magic.

“What the …” Grit grumbled rolling over and half sitting up before he opened his eyes.

He was disoriented and groggy. Although it was hard to see in the pale moonlight, he woke quickly when he saw the terror in Dra’kor’s eyes. That piercing stare sent chills down his spine and froze him in place.

Dra’kor raised a nervous finger slowly to his lips to hush him and mouthed for him to wake up Men’ak. Grit cautiously looked around, but saw nothing. He slowly slid over to Men’ak and shook him, placing a hand over his mouth. Men’ak woke startled and tried to yell when he saw Grit place his finger to his lips with his empty hand. Now that their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, they both looked to Dra’kor who was motioning with his head up into the boulders.

Grit crawled on his belly over to Dra’kor and whispered, “What’s going on? You see something?”

“Not sure. Something big set off my wards. But I can’t find it, or tell what it is —”

Grit squinted at him skeptically in the dark. “Can’t?”

“No, my magic says nothing,” whispered Dra’kor without hesitation while shaking his head. “Shhh. Listen —”

“— I don’t hear anything,” Grit said, straining to hear.

“Exactly, me neither. No frogs, crickets, or birds; I hear nothing,” a worried Dra’kor answered back, “and that ain’t natural.”

Men’ak sat up quickly and pointed off into the trees. “What’s there? I think I heard a hiss.”

“Quick, everyone — over to me,” Dra’kor commanded, as he shot to his knees, his gut churning.

Both Grit and Men’ak tucked and rolled up next to Dra’kor. They both shifted positions until they were all sitting back-to-back staring out into the darkness, hands extended, and fingers crackling with power.

They all heard the growl and hissing at the same time. It was unearthly and made the goose flesh on their necks stand up. The sound echoed off the rock in the quiet night.

“Mountain lions! There’s more than one,” cried Grit.

He whiplashed his neck trying to look in three directions at the same time. “See anything?”

“Quickly Grit, light the fire,” Dra’kor yelled, knowing they had already been found out.

Men’ak sputtered weakly out of fear, knowing damn well that lions wouldn’t answer. “Sh-show yourselves …”

Grit scrambled as he threw a big bundle of sticks and branches into the pit and just as fast, he uttered his incantation causing the bundle to burst into flame.

The sudden burst of firelight silhouetted three muscular feline beasts that quickly retreated just out of view, hiding amongst the shadows of the towering yew trees. Their oversized yellow eyes glowed in the fire light, and their long fanglike teeth clicked as drool slid down their chins. Low howling cries came from them as they sensed easy prey.

“Wild cats,” shouted Men’ak.

Grit hastily let loose a fire bolt into the woods, which exploded in a loud boom shooting sparks in all directions. “No! By the Ten, catomen!”

“Cato-what?” Men’ak blurted. “Wha …”

“I think I got one,” an excited Grit laughed.

The beast roared as the bolt caught the backside of its rear leg, knocking it backwards deep into the trees. The sounds of cracking branches circling to their left let Grit know the demon still lived.

“Oh, by the Ten! It’s not dead yet. Why isn’t it dead?” he screamed at nobody in particular.

Grit quickly threw back his bedroll, shot to his feet and followed his first bolt with another, which exploded off in the wood, lighting the trees and surrounding area with its blue glow.

A loud sound from behind made Grit drop into a low crouch. He whirled around, spinning on the ball of his foot. He saw the beast mid leap from the corner of his eye, so he dropped a shoulder and somersaulted out of the way. The frustrated cat flew over the spot where the young mage had been a split second before, snapping at the empty air. The catomen quickly skidded to a stop and turned, arching its back and flexing it long claws.

Dra’kor had let loose an energy ball at the beast, but missed when it suddenly stopped and changed direction. The ball went careening off the rocky crag and fizzled out as it sped off into the night sky.

The beast charged at Dra’kor causing him to desperately dive to the right, but he overcompensated and overshot his mark. The catomen reversed directions at the last second choosing instead to attack Grit. Grit swore under his breath as he tried to change directions but his momentum carried him forward down to his knees as he tried to stop.

He pitched himself to the side and rolled up against the base of an ancient pine tree. The beast came straight at him and only a quick twist to the side allowed him to avoid the fangs and claws as the beast hit the tree head on, and crumbled to the ground as its neck snapped to the side and its jaw hung agape. The beast’s head was so close, Grit almost gagged at the vile smell of rot coming from the creature’s breath.

Momentarily stunned by the collision, the catomen stumbled awkwardly as it shook its head to fix its blurred vision. Grit grabbed a handful of pebbles at his feet, cast his delayed explosion spell on the rocks as he rolled out of the brush, and dashed across the clearing toward his friends.

The demon growled and charged again. Grit spun around and threw the small pebbles into the catomen’s face as hard as he could. The beast snapped at the small insignificant rocks, swallowing a few in the process. A fraction of a second later, they exploded, poking holes in the beast’s face and throat. The catomen collapsed to the ground and gurgled; barely an arm’s length away from a cowering Grit. It pawed at the dirt trying to take one last breath, its lungs filling with blood, as its claws extended in a last desperate try to rake the mage.

Grit sat stunned for seconds as he looked at the nearly five inch long claws at the end of the dead catomen’s paw. He swallowed hard and looked around.

Men’ak seemed a little dazed at first and just sat staring at Grit and the catomen, shifting his view from one to the other as if the whole ordeal made absolutely no sense to him.

He heard the rustle in the trees first, snapping him out of his trance. Instinctively, he rolled sideways, flipping over to his back as one of the howling catomen jumped from the woods right at him. His magical bolt caught the beast in its chest as it pounced. The lightning danced over the catomen’s frame before it landed, knocking the wind out of Men’ak who was still half wrapped in his bedroll.

Men’ak’s eyes went wide with horror and he choked out a scream as the twitching beast tried to regain its footing.

First, its single lemon-sized yellow eye opened and stared straight into his soul, and he thought it actually grinned. He kicked up and pushed himself backwards, trying to get away.

Even though it was wounded, the beast continued attacking. By the Ten, Men’ak thought to himself, that blast should have ripped the chest of the beast wide open. It pulled itself ever closer as it tried to claw and bite the mage. Only Men’ak’s grip on the bedroll covering kept him from serious damage by the claws, which seemed to get snagged in the thick loosely woven material.

“Why won’t you die,” he screamed, horrified beyond comprehension.

Men’ak shouted a spell as he dropped the bedroll at the last second and placed a hand on both sides of the demon’s head. Absolute terror filled his mind as he loosed the exploding ball right into the demon’s head, which finally burst after shaking violently for several seconds, splattering icky gore all over the camp.

Men’ak frantically pushed with his legs until he was free of both the convulsing beast and his tattered bedroll. He rolled over to his stomach and hastily shimmied in the dirt until he reached Grit. He quickly righted himself and sat up so his back was up against Grit’s back.

“Thought I was d-d-dead,” he shouted over his shoulder as his voice quivered. He wiped the gore from his face with the sleeve of his robe. It smelled foul, stung his eyes and burnt the little hairs on the inside of his nose.

Meanwhile, Dra’kor had his own problems. Two beasts were stalking him from opposite sides of the boulders. He had a single hand up in each direction. He knew that he would soon have to choose one or the other. He couldn’t kill both. He watched as the beasts crouched low, preparing to pounce.

He followed their lead and kept his center low, his balance on the balls of his feet so he could change directions quickly if he had to. He kept moving, turning slowly from side-to-side, his oilskin coat flapping in the light breeze.

The elder catomen that held the higher ground arched its back and hissed; the fur at the nape of its neck stood straight up. It leapt left and right, gracefully maneuvering over the large granite boulders. The second beast was closing in now from the flat, taking it’s time, sizing up its prey. It moved deliberately to cut him off from his friends. He watched the powerful muscles on the beast’s legs as they rippled and twitched.

The crouching catomen, high in the boulder field, attacked first, racing down the boulders in a smooth fluid motion that caught Dra’kor completely by surprise. He marveled at how quickly the sure-footed beast had crossed the distance over the ragged and uneven terrain.

In the last instant, he feigned left, but jumped to the right side and the beast sailed past, swiping a claw at him, but narrowly missing, raking across the back of his heavy coat. Its momentum carried it far to the other side of the camp.

Dra’kor knew he would only get a single chance, so he filled himself with the power as he spun around to face the second creature and let a lightning bolt free. He hoped he had made the right assumption that the beasts were attacking in unison.

His hunch paid off and the bolt caught a very surprised demon in the face, as it stood full up on its hind legs preparing to maul him. The demon cat pranced on its rear legs, using its front legs to claw at the dancing lightning that was devouring its maw. An agonizing howl escaped its lips when it came to realize that the magical stuff would not be easily removed.

It fell to its back, scraped its head with its paws, and swung its huge head from side-to-side finally dragging it through the dirt before Dra’kor plunged his small sword he had freed from his belt, into its rib cage. The beast twisted violently, causing Dra’kor to lose his grip as it toppled over.

Dra’kor took momentary advantage of the distraction and jumped up into the boulder field as high as he could in a single leap using one of his hands to aid in balance and turned quickly. The last catomen was getting ready to spring and he had no spell prepared. He reached down, grabbed a big sharp rock with both hands, and held at the ready.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going down without a fight,” he growled at the beast through a bare-toothed snarl.

Grit saw his friend in dire need and leapt into the fray to lend a hand. As the last foe jumped into the air, Dra’kor hoped for the best as he raised the jagged rock, ready to land a wicked blow to the creature’s head, hoping to catch an eye. But a strong arm came out of the night holding a blazing blade that cut into the beast’s side like butter and spilled its entrails over the ground. The dead beast thudded as it hit the rocks hard. A shaking Grit stood slightly crouched, glowing sword in hand, with blood and guts to his elbow. He staggered on unsteady feet before he fell to the ground shaking uncontrollably, the small sword falling from his numb fingers.

Dra’kor let the sharp rock fall from his hand and watched as it clattered and bounced down the rocky slope, coming to rest near the fire pit after a short roll. He and Men’ak raced to Grit’s side and together they took up the defensive position called Three Elk - Heads Down. Grit struggled to get to his feet as the initial shock of the battle wore off and picked up his sword, which was still dripping with the green blood of the demon beast.

The three stood back to back at the ready and surveyed their camp. The four dead catomen had done much damage, but they had been lucky. None had been bitten. They suffered bruised egos, scrapes and cuts over their arms and legs and they were a motley sight for sure, their clothes ripped and their supplies strewn about, but they would live to fight another day.

“Where the hell did they come from?” a panting Men’ak queried, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “I … I thought those were beasts of the lower planes — what did you call them?”

“Catomen, and they’re from the first plane. Didn’t you ever pay any attention in class?” Grit schooled Men’ak sarcastically.

Men’ak shook his head negatively as he tried to pull in another deep breath.

Grit wiped his sword clean on the gleaming black coat of the disemboweled beast. “It looks like Ja’tar was right. There is much more going on. First plane beasts shouldn’t be here.”

Dra’kor reached down and lifted a barely recognizable bedroll from the dirt. He turned it over and handed it to Men’ak.

“Here, I think this is yours,” he said, holding the shredded cloth by thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks,” said Men’ak acerbically, as he tossed it into the fire.

“How did you know?” Grit asked Dra’kor.

“Well, my bedroll is over there and yours is …”

Grit scowled, “No, not that, I mean about the beasts. How did you know?”

“Oh, I set wards before we went to bed,” Dra’kor declared with a self-righteous smirk on his face. He knew that his foresight had saved them. He felt smugly proud and puffed out his chest a little.

“By the Ten, we are lucky you did. I didn’t even think of setting wards.” Grit shook his head at his own stupidity as he slumped to the ground. He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand.

“We’re so stupid!”

Men’ak nodded.

“You know we should be dead,” said Grit weakly.

“— This is so different from the training we got,” Men’ak bemoaned. “I froze. I was petrified! We aren’t prepared for this. Ja’tar should have —”

“How could you train someone for this?” Grit said, cutting Men’ak off and coming to Ja’tar’s defense.

Men’ak whined, “We should head home. We’re not ready for this kind of thing —”

“What’s done is done,” Dra’kor sputtered under his breath. “We live, and now we know. We’ll need to be more careful, keep watch in shifts, set our wards, and always be at the ready.”

Both Grit and Men’ak stared blankly at him as if he had just grown two heads.

“And you were worried about highwaymen!” Dra’kor quipped.

Men’ak frowned, eyes wide, “You think there are more of these — catomen out there?”

Dra’kor nodded as he scanned the camp perimeter, “Indubitably.”

Dra’kor grunted as he pulled one of the beasts off of his bedroll by the feet and rolled it to the side.

It was an ugly thing, cat-like in the face, but with razor-sharp teeth and an over-wide mouth. The large ears were swept straight back. The single yellow eye in the middle of its forehead was the size of a lemon. Dra’kor kicked it over. He examined it carefully.

Men’ak ran a hand over the back of Dra’kor’s coat. There were four parallel cuts that raked across his back cutting all the way through the heavy material.

Dra’kor looked back at Men’ak. “What?”

“Your coat is nearly ripped in half —” Men’ak said.

“What? Would you look at that! It’s amazing we beat them,” Grit whistled. “Did you see the size of their claws? They were …”

Dra’kor slipped his coat off and put a hand through the gaping holes, wiggling his fingers on the other side.

He grinned, “— I didn’t feel a thing.”

“You have all the luck,” Grit replied.

Dra’kor put the coat down and began examining the dead creature. The thick muscular rear legs, long claws meant speed. Small front legs, but the same big claws, balance maybe. It had protruding boney spines that looked a bit like some kind of armor. The beast looked to be about the weight of a man, but he didn’t know if it was male or female because the beast had no genitalia. For that matter, Dra’kor didn’t know if it was full-grown or not. He pulled out his hunting knife and carefully removed the rear talons and put them in a pouch.

“What are you doing?” said Grit, staring intently.

“I’m collecting these to show Ja’tar when we get back,” Dra’kor said. He pressed down hard on the knife rocking it back and forth, as he sawed through the bone and cartilage.

Grit smiled, “That’s a great idea. He’ll never believe us!”

Dra’kor wiped his blade and shoved the long claws into his pack after wiping the gore from them on the grass. “Oh, he’ll believe!”

“Let’s clean up the camp. Salvage what we can and try to get a little more rest before morning,” Dra’kor scowled. “We need our strength. Anyone need healing?”

Grit nodded and Dra’kor laid his hands on the lad and cast his spell. Grit bared his teeth and could feel the magic as it worked, mending the deep cuts he had on his leg.

Men’ak nervously paced back and forth in front of the fire, randomly reorganizing the fire pit. “R-r-rest? Hell, I can’t sleep now!”

“You better have Dra’kor take a look at that,” Grit said, as he pointed to the big red stain that had appeared on Men’ak’s arm.

Men’ak looked down at his arm. With all the excitement, he hadn’t even felt the wound. Now that it was over, the burning sensation was starting to spread. Men’ak started to shake, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he fell to his knees, passing out.

“Some hero,” grunted Grit.

Dra’kor slid Men’ak’s sleeve up and saw the deep gash, practically to the bone. The cut, which spanned two hands, was as clean as if a fine knife had done the damage. Those claws were as deadly as they looked. Dra’kor quickly took up the position, held the wound together with both hands as he dug deep for another healing spell. He pinched the flesh together at the end of the wound and cast his spell as he slid his hand down the gaping cut. The scar would be permanent, a constant reminder of this night to remember.

Men’ak’s eyes shot wide as the magic jerked him conscious. His face contorted as the flesh began to meld together. Soon a welt appeared, and a scar formed.

Dra’kor looked up dizzily from what he was doing to see if Men’ak was okay. He removed his hands and watched Men’ak gently caress the fresh scar. It would still hurt like hell for a while.

Dra’kor stumbled over to the fire, weakened from the healings. He sat down hard on a big boulder and took a deep breath.

“Grit, you can take the first watch, and don’t forget to set wards,” Dra’kor scolded, shaking his finger at the two younger mages. The two lowered their gaze and nodded solemnly.

It didn’t take them long to clean the camp. They dragged the dead catomen off into the woods and kicked dirt over the blood and gore, most of which had already soaked into the earth. Grit piled plenty of dried wood on the fire and made another sizable stack next to the ring, enough, he hoped, to last the full night.

Dra’kor stood stiffly, walked over to where he had set his coat, and retrieved the shredded garment, bringing it near the fire. He was aggravated, this was his favorite coat, and he had had it for centuries. He rolled it over in his hands, examining the damage as he wove a spell that neatly repaired the leather and the wool fibers of the lining. He watched as the fibers untangled and knit together. He would have to rub in some oil or fat when he had the chance, but for now, it was as good as it was going to get. Dra’kor looked at it approvingly, running his hand over his handiwork. He paused for a second and wove a spell, adding a second enchantment to make the fibers stronger, just in case —

Dra’kor slid the coat on and shivered as the night air sucked the heat out of his body. For a while, adrenaline kept him warm, but now, he stomped around the fire a bit to get his circulation moving before he nestled down against the rocks, cast a spell to heat them, and closed his eyes. It was going to be a long adventure if things kept up the way they were going. He thought to himself, the boys had done well. In fact, in spite of everything, he was having the time of his life.

He didn’t really sleep any more that night, but he did rest a tad. He heard Men’ak and Grit argue for a while before they calmed down and put more wood on the fire. He nodded off for a bit, but soon, Men’ak was shaking his arm telling him it was his turn to take the watch.

Dra’kor crouched in front of the fire, warming himself as he watched his two friends doze off. The battle with the catomen had sobered him up. This wasn’t going to be the grand adventure he had imagined, but it was going to be an adventure, that’s for sure. If they survived, they would have impressive stories to tell. He laughed to himself. In the end, all you have is your story.

He was a little repentant for how he had treated Ja’tar. Turns out the old man had been honest with him about most things, but he had been too self-absorbed to notice. He was going to have to eat a little crow when he got back to the Keep. Ja’tar deserved better. He wondered what stories Ja’tar would tell. Although he didn’t know much about the times of Ror, given what he did know, the things that Ja’tar saw and survived … well, he would just have to share a few mugs of mead with the Old man when they got back.

For a while, he sat near the fire reflecting on the events of the day. Although he was generally pleased with how they had responded, a couple things really bothered him, bothered him to the core of his being. First, he thought that his magic would do much more damage. A lot more damage. When he thought about it, only a single beast had died from magic, the one Men’ak had released a fireball directly into. The rest had died from wounds of steel or the exploding rocks that Grit had used. This gave him pause, because he just couldn’t explain it.

The second thing that bothered him was he wondered why he couldn’t tell what kind of entity had invaded his wards. If he couldn’t rely on his wards to tell him the truth, they eventually would err and either kill innocents, or end up dead for not perceiving a threat. Neither of those two outcomes appealed to Dra’kor and he vowed by the Ten to figure out what went wrong.

He would have to ponder these questions. Considering that he had cast the biggest energy bolt he had ever dared conjure into the beast, he expected that it would have been vaporized, not just wounded. Worrisome. That’s what it was, bloody worrisome!

When the first hint of daylight appeared in the east, Dra’kor woke his friends, who both, in spite of their grumbling, slept just fine. They moved like old men, stiff and sore, they joked and teased each other mercilessly for the better part of the morning. They snuffed out the fire and after eating some cold bread and warm tea, they slung their packs over their stiff shoulders and took off down the road.

Well after the wizards had left the camp, a heavily robed man stepped out of the shadows. He looked around the camp where the fire pit still smoldered and walked into the woods. He stood staring down at the stack of dead catomen.

“So my friends, what kind of trouble did you get yourselves into last night?”

He knelt down on his haunches and petted the largest on its head lovingly as he examined their bodies.

“Ran into a mage or two I see. How unfortunate for you ….”

The robed-one opened the chest cavity of one and noticed the missing talons off the largest feline lying next to the one he was examining. The blast pattern was immediately identifiable. He took a sniff, ran his fingers over the wound, and licked his fingers. “Ah! So I see our friends took a few souvenirs. I must say I am shocked that one of them even remembered that spell. That certainly does bring me back …”

The stranger rubbed his chin. “I wonder what Keep wizards are doing so far from home. It’s not like them to wander about, you know! I suppose I will have to keep my eye on them.”

He stood up, licked his fingers clean and wiped the blood from his deformed grotesque hands onto his robe where it was immediately absorbed.

“Well, I suppose I should send you home. Your master will be missing you …”

He held his hands wide and chanted in an ancient guttural tongue. Soon, smoke gathered at his feet. The smoke thickened, boiled, and a very small crack appeared in the dirt as the ground quivered. Dirt fell into the fracture as it widened. The ground rumbled at his feet and slowly the fissure continued to grow until it was several arms long and an arm wide. The fiery red glow from far below shimmered and putrid, yellow ochre smoke billowed from its depths. He stared deep into the abyss with his unblinking black pupil-less eyes and took a deep breath of the foul sulfur-laden air.

He turned to face the catomen and continued to chant, weaving his hands in the shape of a long forgotten rune. His hands blurred as he retraced the rune repeatedly. The catomen slowly dissolved into swirling clouds of dust and were sucked down into the crack.

“Goodbye my friends. I will call on you later,” the hooded man said, in a gruff unemotional voice as he lowered his still glowing hands.

He finished chanting as the crack sealed itself. He stood there for a few seconds and then he was gone, disappearing in a cloud of purple black colored smoke.

The three friends had left the camp early in the morning with the expectation that it would be easier going before the mud thawed. Besides, they wanted to put as much distance between the memories of the previous night and themselves as they could. They set a brisk pace that loosened their muscles and warmed them after a cold night of sleeping on the bare ground.

They chewed on dried biscuits and a few slices of cheese as they took their first steps, trying to warm up after a cold night. They tried to walk as quickly as they could, but given the efforts of the previous night, their progress was disappointing.

Grit shifted his pack to the other shoulder. He stopped and bent over to rub his thigh with his free hand. Dra’kor and Men’ak kept walking and he had to run to catch up. “By the Ten, I’m stiff …”

“You could have waited,” he pouted as he winced.

“Could have,” Dra’kor stated, matter-of-factly.

Grit took a few more strides before he mumbled, “I didn’t think the fight yesterday was that strenuous, but by the Ten.” He swore as he stumbled along trying to keep up.

“I’m sore too,” a hobbled Men’ak said. He was favoring his leg that the catomen had ripped open. It still ached even though he had been healed the night before. He would have a huge scar to show for his adventure. He smiled to himself. The ladies loved scars, especially if they were attached to a life and death story.

Men’ak grunted as he took another step. “I think I must have pulled something last night —”

“You’re just getting old. And you’re out of shape from too many slices of ham and roast,” teased Grit.

Men’ak grinned widely and rubbed his stomach, “I just have a healthy appetite ….”

“For a horse,” Grit kidded. “I noticed you completely ignored the part about getting … old.”

“What do you mean getting,” winked Men’ak as he gave Grit a shove. “Eight-hundred ain’t old … now Ja’tar, he’s old!”

Men’ak nodded his agreement, and grinned, “Yep, he’s old, but I believe he’d kick your arse!”

They stopped walking, looked at each other and broke into loud guffaws. Grit laughed so hard, he almost toppled over as his feet slid over the ice that had formed in the puddles on the road.

“True, True! But you’re no spring chicken yourself,” Grit countered, bumping his shoulder into Men’ak.

“Ouch! Hey! Watch it,” Men’ak joked.

“At least I’m not limping like a one-legged sailor,” replied Grit, doing his best impression of a bowlegged sailor.

“No, you’re not; you’re just hunched over like — an old man. Face it, you’re old and I mean old, as in a little long in the tooth,” Men’ak said, continuing the banter and shoving Grit off into the grass.

The three wizards walked down the trail in the direction of Three Rivers. The sun was up and the dew almost off the grass. The road was even starting to dry out a bit now that they weren’t so deep in the forest. They still had to stick to the side because the ruts were so deep from wagons using the road when the mud was fresh.

Grit looked to the sky, “Bad storm up north —”

The others turned and briefly looked.

“We might be in for a soaker late this afternoon if the clouds keep gathering,” nodded Men’ak, scratching his head.

“Well, we’ll look for a place to stop early if need be, but I’m all for making it as far as we can,” Dra’kor offered his opinion.

Grit swat at the irritating mosquitoes buzzing around his head. He pulled the hood of his light shirt up tight around his head, trying to keep from getting bit. “— Damn bugs!”

“Why don’t you weave a spell to keep them off?” Men’ak suggested.

Grit made a little motion with his fingers by his ear. “It’s the sound they make that drives me daft, more than their bite. I hate that irritating whine in my ear.”

“Ah, springtime in the mountains …” Men’ak chuckled.

“Hmmm —,” an annoyed Grit huffed.

They reached a somewhat level spot in the road and could see the mayfly hatch coming off the slow pools alongside the river. The busy insects buzzed as thick as a swarm of bees around a hive. The fish were rising and having a hay-day feasting on the tasty treat. Grit looked longingly at the rising fish wishing he had time to rig a string. Nothing beat fresh fried fish for breakfast, especially when cold dried bread and cheese was all you had.

He thought about Gretta and the breakfast they’d be eating in the Keep and sighed. Adventuring wasn’t for him he decided. He enjoyed the creature comforts too much.

Men’ak laughed as he was forced to duck out of the way of a wayward swallow that narrowly missed his head after diving in and out of the cloud of insects. The bird zigzagged back and forth, chasing its morning meal.

It looked like it was going to be a very nice warm day. The sun was out, the sky was clearing and there was next to no wind. They had already shed their heavy jackets and thrown them over their shoulders. Grit tied his over the top of his pack.

Grit looked back over his shoulder. “Did you get any rest after the battle?”

He directed the question to Dra’kor out of curiosity because so far this morning Dra’kor hadn’t said much to either of his two friends.

“Rested my eyes a bit,” Dra’kor answered curtly. “I wouldn’t call it sleep.”

“You think we’ll run into more of those things?” Men’ak moaned, shuddering at the thought.

“Hope not,” Dra’kor answered tersely.

“— But if we do?”

“Then we do,” stated Dra’kor flatly. “Why?”

“What’s up with you?” a red-faced Men’ak blurted out, unable to hide his irritation, “You haven’t said ten words to us since we left this morning.”

Dra’kor spat as he stopped in the middle of the road. “Why in the name of Duvall does something have to be up every time I’m quiet?”

“Uh, cause you’re never quiet!” Grit answered sarcastically, “and lately —”

Dra’kor was a bit put off. “And lately what?”

“And lately you’ve stopped talking to us, that’s all —”

“Look. I have a lot on my mind,” said Dra’kor apologetically, “I just don’t feel like talking right now. This has all been a bit much. When I sort all this out, I’ll let you know. Aye?”

“I guess we can leave you alone for a while, but we need to talk about this sooner or later,” Men’ak mumbled. “You’re our leader —”

Dra’kor sighed, shaking his head and throwing up his hands out in frustration. He hung his head and let his shoulders droop as he muttered to himself. “Leader? Pfft!”

By default, he was the leader, but Dra’kor wasn’t sure he actually deserved or wanted the job. He slowed down and let the others lead for a while. He followed behind about fifteen paces.

He was content just to follow for a bit. He kept playing over the fight of the previous night in his head. He was sure that they had not responded properly. He really needed to concentrate on what happened if he expected to learn anything from their bumbling. As soon as he figured it out, he would talk to the guys. He owed them that. Grit was right. He had been in a foul mood since they left.

Tinker

The three friends had been walking the better part of the morning when they spotted a merchant rolling down the rutted road in a rickety tinker’s wagon pulled by a haggard old plow horse.

As it crept closer, the three could see that the wagon was decorated with pots and pans, buckets and assorted farm tools, all hanging haphazardly around the outside. They heard the clanking and loud clattering as the clapboard-sided wagon pitched and bounced over the well-grooved road.

The wagon’s roof was covered with odd shaped metal shingles and the painted shutters over the single small window were closed and rattled melodically as the buckboard creaked and groaned. The sides were painted garishly with red, blue and green dyes that were well weathered and chipping, although the fine filigree trim was still holding up well to the weather. Dra’kor shielded his eyes and squinted, trying to get a better view.

An old heavyset man adorned with a full long beard, and dressed in a heavy wool coat, sat in the driver’s seat, his large-brimmed hat down shielding his eyes from the sun. He was puffing on a pipe as he shook the reins urging the horse forward. Dra’kor could smell the sweet smoky leaf in the air as he approached.

The three magi stopped walking and stood at the edge of the road as the wagon approached. He pulled alongside the three men and gave a yank back on the reins bringing the wagon to a staggered halt. The three cautiously stepped to the side of the wagon, their guard up.

The tinker looked over the three and decided that dark haired, square-jawed man was the leader, because his beard and hair were well trimmed and his oiled jacket was of as fine a quality as he had ever seen. The big one with the tattoo and shaved head was probably a scofflaw or hired protection. Barack noticed the knife strapped to his leg, the sword tucked at his waist, and the scar that traced down his cheek. The little man, well — he just wasn’t sure about him, maybe a merchant, or most likely, a farmer.

“Well met,” the tinker called out in a friendly hoarse voice nodding his head at the one he figured was the leader while waving.

“Well met,” the magi said in unison, returning the greeting enthusiastically as they approached the wagon.

“I’m Barack. Where ye be headed?” the merchant asked, pushing his hat up so he could see more clearly. His long auburn hair, touched with gray, poured out from underneath forcing him to grab it and tuck it back out of the way. He squinted as his dark brown eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight.

He looked well weathered to Dra’kor. His nose was wide and his cheeks were well tanned. The thick beard he sported was full and mostly gray, and almost completely obscuring his mouth. An unruly mustache practically covered his upper lip and hid most of the broad smile on his lips.

“We’re headed to Three Rivers and eventually Five Peaks, we have business in both towns,” Dra’kor replied.

“I’m Dra’kor, that’s Grit and he’s Men’ak,” he said as he introduced his travel companions.

“Well gents, I’m afraid you can’t get to either right now,” the merchant said, shaking his head thoughtfully. He took another long draw on his long curved pipe and blew the herb-smelling smoke high into the air before he broke into a long hacking cough.

Grit put his hands on his hips. “Why not?”

“The ferry’s down, been down for a while too. No way to be crossin’ that river without the ferry!” Barack said, nodding in the direction from which he had just come after wiping the cough induced tears from his eyes. “Peaks is snowed in.”

The merchant grunted as he bent forward and haphazardly wrapped the leather reins around the well-rusted iron rail, grabbed and set the brake, and lashed it tight to the buckboard. He turned around and stepped down from the wagon, his big belly getting in the way. He grunted from the effort and winced as he stretched his legs for the last step to the ground. He removed his heavy jacket revealing the garish garb he wore and threw it up on the seat.

Grit smirked as he looked at the tinker’s bright blue baggy pants, yellow puffy shirt and bright red silk vest. He had tall black boots and a garish brass-buckled leather belt. It was quite a sight. He grinned to himself because it reminded him of the jesters and magicians he had seen as a child that entertained the local nobles. They often arrived by ship and most often, they would do a trick or two for the lads that worked the docks.

Barack pulled his hat off and wiped the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief he had pulled out of his vest pocket. He grabbed his long hair and wrapped it into a knot. “It’s getting warm.”

“It is,” Men’ak said, smiling. “It’ll be another nice day I’m reckoning.”

“Might, but it’s still early.”

The tinker took a couple staggered, stiff-legged steps toward the magi and winced as his legs cramped up; he steadied himself with a white-knuckled grip on the wagon, and forced himself to stand straight.

“AEgis is I’m stiff,” he grumbled, bending over and rubbing his legs. “I’m too old and I’ve been sitting on that buckboard for far too many hours.”

“I hear ye,” said Grit, understanding how he felt. His own legs were burning from the previous night’s engagement with the catomen.

“You say the ferry’s down?” Dra’kor said, trying to dig deeper.

“Don’t rightly understand it myself, but they’ve been having big trouble with the beasts thatta way,” Barack motioned with his arm. “Started gettin’ real bad last fall and hasn’t let up. Maybe that has something to do with it, but I’m just speculating.”

Dra’kor found that more than a little odd. “Isn’t that unusual for this time of year? It’s gettin’ to be planting season and all …”

“Yup, unusual to say the least. Looks to be deserted on the far side of Haagen’s, but I didn’t stop to check ye know. Reckon I don’t rightly know why they ain’t fixed it yet. ‘Twas down two-three weeks ago too,” the merchant replied deep in thought, tapping the bowl of his long pipe on his hand to settle the leaf and stroking his beard as he thought back.

“Three weeks ago? That’s a long time,” Men’ak observed. “You think they know it’s down?”

“Tis,” the merchant agreed. “Damn long time I reckon. It’s possible, I suppose, that they don’t. Them Three Rivers folk don’t seem to wander much. Maybe they just doesn’t know, but I’d a thought that the ferryman lived nearby and would a reported it.”

Barack pulled an ember can out of his pocket and opened the perforated lid. He removed one of the small coals out using a set of tweezers and used it to light his pipe. He put the coal back and poked it down before putting the lid back in place.

“That’d make sense to me,” reasoned Grit.

“Did you say beasts? What kind of beasts we talkin’ about here?” Dra’kor probed.

“Aye, I did say beasts, and big beasts they are! Big wolf-like critters, really fierce,” he said eyes wide and he started shaking his head. “They stand almost as high as a man.”

“You don’t say …,” Men’ak muttered.

“They showed up right after the harvest last fall. Not safe to be traveling or be outside anymore, especially at night.”

The tinker tapped the mouthpiece of his long-stemmed pipe on Dra’kor’s chest. “I’m surprised you’re out on a walk about.”

“I suppose we shouldn’t be, but we didn’t know about the wolves. Beside, we’ve not seen any,” said Dra’kor, as he looked at Grit and Men’ak who nodded their agreement. “But we’ve only been gone a little over a day. We haven’t seen any back home though.”

“Well, I guess not,” the grinning merchant said, chuckling as he removed his wide brimmed hat and wiped his brow again, “cause if ye did run into them, they’d be the last thing you’d been a seeing, and we’d not be talkin’.”

Men’ak leaned forward, eyes round.“They’re that bad?”

“Worse,” sighed Barack as he walked a couple steps to the side of his wagon and pointed. “Look at the side of my wagon, see them deep gouges? I hear them trying to get in every night. They ain’t like normal wolves …”

Men’ak he ran his fingers over the deep jagged gouges. “What you mean? Wolves is wolves!”

“Well, that’s not rightly so. First off there’s their head. It’s damn near twice as big as it should be and they’re twice as tall as they should be too,” he said using his hand to indicate the size. “Damn near four-foot tall at the shoulder, some bigger. Fast as hell too, they can even walk upright a little, sometimes, I swear it!”

“That don’t sound like any wolf I know,” said Grit in disbelief, snickering as he waved the merchant off.

“Well, I seen em,” Barack stated indignantly. He was mildly put-off by Grit’s arrogant attitude.

“Yet you feel safe in there?” Grit raised his brow, motioning at the wagon and giving it a shove with his hand.

“I do now, but not that first night. That first attack, they caught me a bit by surprise. I was cleaning up by a stream when they came out of nowhere; only Dora here saved me, letting me know that hell-spawn was coming. I was soaked head to toe and nary a stitch on!”

Men’ak smiled at the thought and was mesmerized by the tale.

“I didn’t have much choice, but to hide inside the wagon, they came out of nowhere. I barely made it through that first night. They nearly shredded the door and they were clawing through the window. Lucky for me they was way too big to fit through the window.”

“Sounds like quite the ordeal,” nodded Dra’kor.

”’Twas! After they left, I spent the better part of two days reinforcing the place, made heavier shutters and latches,” he said pointing to the metal on the shutters and the door. “Doubled up the wood on the door, even added more planking to the roof — after I wedged it up and made it steeper.”

“You’ve done a lot of work,” Grit said, eyeing the roof.

“You bet! Thems metal shingles is brand spanking new! Added those my last trip to Five Peaks last fall, got them off an old smithy named Bart. He said he had no use for them. Wolves don’t like ‘em none. They stopped jumping on the roof after that —”

Grit looked at how high the roof was and just couldn’t imagine a wolf jumping that high.

Dra’kor took a couple steps to the rear and examined the door. Three thick metal straps were riveted in place. The work was passable. “Those straps have anything on the back side?”

“Have five heavy brackets inside. I bar the door with a heavy oak plank when I goes to sleep, same with the shutters,” the merchant said, proudly.

“Know it don’t look like much, but the wood is thick, and not rotted. I cut the trees myself,” he said bragging. “I’m a might poor excuse for a smitty, but I know enough to get by. To do real work I’d need bellows and a forge. You can only do so much with a fire and an anvil,” he sighed, wringing his hands nervously. “Mostly I just use my gear to repair stuff and lend a hand around farms and such that don’t have a blacksmith handy.”

“Huh!” Dra’kor said. “Not bad —”

“She’s real sturdy now, she’s held up many a night,” he said, smacking the side of the wagon with the palm of his hand.

“You’ve been attacked more than once,” blurted Grit in disbelief. “Why don’t you head off away from this place?”

“Aye, almost nightly now. But it’s safe enough inside if you can get past the howling and rocking of the wagon,” the merchant said, thumping on the side of his home. “Besides, where else would I go? Can’t exactly leave the folks around here in need. They expect me to bring the news and supplies around.”

“Suppose not,” Grit replied. “Still —”

“— Howling?” Men’ak echoed a bit under his breath.

“Well, ain’t exactly howling, but that’s what I calls it anyhow,” Barack replied, hearing the comment.

Dra’kor asked, furrowing his brow, “What you mean, it’s not exactly howling?”

“As I was saying, it don’t sound like no wolves I never heard. They kind of moan, almost sounds like they’s talkin’ to one ‘nother,” Barack said, as he scratched his chin.

Grit and Dra’kor stared at each other.

“I find that if I stabs them through the shutters,” he said, making a stabbing motion with a long small blade that appeared out of nowhere, “they lose interest quicker.”

The merchant grinned.

Grit mumbled to himself, “Sounds pretty unbelievable —”

“It’s the plain truth, though, the gods as my witness.”

Men’ak was suspiciously. He knew that horses and wolves didn’t get along. “How did your horse escape all the attacks?”

“Damndest thing, I tell ya. They seem to leave them alone. Seems to me they only attack people. Never seen anything like it,” he said, shaking his head.

Men’ak shot a look at Grit. They didn’t notice that Dra’kor was nodding and paying very close attention.

“Them wolves, they’re finicky beasts all right,” he said. “Only seem to like eating folks, not critters.”

“You’re joking, right?” Men’ak twisted his face.

“Swear to the gods! I have to tie the horse up at night though … The horse, he don’t like ‘em one bit. Scares the wits out of the dumb critter. He’ll pull the whole cart over if you let him.”

“So you just tie him off?” a dumbfounded Grit asked, patting the horse on his nose. The horse nuzzled his hand and let out a small whinny.

“Aye! I just tie him up to a tree or run a line round a big boulder. He bucks and whinnies when he senses em,” said Barack seriously, before he broke into a big grin and laughed. “Almost took off down the road with me in the wagon that first night … that was some ride.”

Dra’kor grinned at the thought. “You see ‘em only at night?”

“Nah, they’re around in the day too, not as often though. Horse senses em, gives me time to climb in the back. Though I have to set the wheels good and I put in a second brake. Here, let me show you,” he said as he pointed to a metal contraption under the axle.

“You ever try to outrun them?” Dra’kor asked, as Grit examined Barack’s work.

“Nah. Can’t. They’re real fast, too fast for Dora here,” he said patting the horse’s rear. “I just go inside and lock the door; they lose interest after a bit ….”

“Dra’kor, you should see this,” said Grit, pointing to the brake. “It’s very clever!”

“Thanks. Where’d you say you were from?”

“Didn’t, but we hail from up river past the old inn,” said Dra’kor, as he peered under the wagon. “What’s that contraption by the front axle?”

“That’s my own invention,” said Barack proudly. “Well, actually I stole it from some folks way down south, about a two moon journey. Makes the front wheels pivot so you can steer better.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. That’s a great idea,” Grit said, grinning widely.

“Thought so myself the first time I saw it, so I rigged one up with a piece of iron,” Barack said, as he gave the axle a tug, showing how it pivoted on the axis. “Know much about wagons?”

“A little,” Grit answered. “I worked the docks in Edu’bar when I was a kid.”

“Edu’bar?” Barack grumbled. “Rough place —”

“Agreed,” Grit nodded.

“Huh!” exclaimed Men’ak, as he bent over and peered under the wagon. “Looks down right useful —”

“Learned a lot from those folks, they showed me how to put metal banding on the wheels. Keep ‘em from wearing and breaking on the rocks. I made the bands myself when I had the time and nailed ‘em on.”

Grit examined the wheels closely now that the merchant had pointed it out, “Sounds like you were fortunate to run into those folks.”

“Clever folks, I’ll give ‘em that.”

Dra’kor looked at Barack. “Where’d you say yer from?”

“Just left Grettle Notch up in the Northlund a week ago … but the road’s my home.”

“Isn’t that up by Stonegate?”

“Tis, but along a different road, skirts far to the east, maybe five or ten leagues. Know the place?”

Dra’kor shook his head, “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Pleasure is right!” Barack laughed. “They have some of the best working girls I’ve ever had the pleasure to spend an evening with. Got one hell of a tavern too.”

Men’ak blushed.

“Almost as good as Edu’bar,” he said while winking at Grit.

Grit nodded with a big grin on his face as he recalled the days.

“You said you were about a day’s walk out? You weren’t talkin’ about that run down wreck under the cliff?”

“That’s the place. We live just down the road a bit,” confirmed Grit. “Pretty much in a wide spot in the road.”

“Anyone live in that inn?” asked Barack curiously.

“Not that we know, it’s been vacant as long as I remember. It’s pretty run down. I used to play inside when I was a kid,” said Men’ak, crinkling his face. “Some vagabonds stayed there for a while, although it could have been gypsies, and I think they pretty much tore the place up when they left. I think they burned a bit of it too —”

“Oh, a pity to let a big place like that go south …” the disappointed merchant commented.

“Sure is. Say, any news from up in Five Peaks?” Men’ak wondered.

“Nah, nothin’ really new. Same as everywhere I suppose. It’s been a damn hard winter, spring crops failing, attacks on people for no darn good reason. Everyone’s a feared, barricades themselves in. Don’t go nowhere —”

“We hadn’t heard much news in our parts. Any plague or sickness we need to keep our eye out for?” Grit probed, sounding worried and concerned.

“Not that I’ve heard. I wouldn’t worry too much, but that don’t mean nothin’,” Barack laughed. “You live and then ye die, plain and simple.”

“Suppose it don’t matter,” Grit adding a chuckle.

“Well, we better get going if we’re to get somewhere safe for the night,” Dra’kor said. “It’s been nice chatting with you. Safe journey!”

The merchant pulled out a big burlap bag from under his bench, “By the way, you boys smoke leaf? I have good stuff, reasonable.”

“We don’t smoke,” Men’ak said, as the others nodded. It was a lie, but they stuck to their story, not wanting to waste their coin.

Barack opened the bag and pulling out a respectable-sized plug.

“It’s good chewin too — want to try some?”

“No thanks, sorry …” said Dra’kor, waving off the offer.

“Huh! Don’t meet too many folks don’t enjoy a bowl now and then …. You monks or something?” the merchant asked, a little surprised.

Grit shook his head. “Na, why do you ask?”

“Well, monks always seem to have a problem with leaf for some reason unbeknownst to me. They don’t seem to have any issues with wine … or ale though,” he smiled

“We’re not exactly monks, but … it’s kind of … it’s a long story,” Grit said, scratching his head. “We really do need to go …”

“Same here,” Barack agreed, shrugging off the whole conversation. “Oh, I’d hole up the night in a tall tree if I were you. You’re way too far from both Five Peaks and Three Rivers to get to either by nightfall on foot.”

Barack grunted as he used his free hand to lift his leg up to the running board. He climbed back up onto the wagon pulling a thick blanket along the bench to rest his bottom on. He set his feet on the running board and adjusted himself.

“Thanks for the suggestion, Barack. Safe travels!” Dra’kor said, stepping back.

Barack unlatched the brake, picked up the reins and gave them a shake, “Safe travels! H-yah, horse.”

Dora let out a whinny and tossed her head and the wagon lurched forward. The three magi watched as the wagon slowly rolled down the road and disappeared around the corner. They heard Barack singing an old Bard tune at the top of his lungs.

Saw three maids walk down the street,

I asked them for a treat.

The maid with hips the size of mine,

With yellow hair so fine,

She pulled her skirt up near her knee
and said no treats for free ….

“Well,” Grit exclaimed, “he seemed nice enough.”

Dra’kor nodded, “That was helpful. We finally met someone who’s out on the road and knows something.”

“I know! I was beginning to think that the realms were deserted,” joked Men’ak.

“He seemed knowledgeable about what’s going on … It sounds like things are getting pretty bad out here,” Dra’kor reasoned, “but I’ll reserve the right to question some of the stories he’s telling. We’re going to have plenty to report to Ja’tar tonight.”

“Knowledgeable …?” chuckled Grit, “— that seems a little much. I think he’s a touch delusional.”

“You think so? I thought he was completely sane given the circumstances …” Dra’kor said, surprised at Grits response. “Things seem pretty dire out here.”

“You can say that again,” said Men’ak, a bit disheartened. “I was hoping for the better … this isn’t exactly what I thought we’d find.”

Dra’kor waved his hands menacingly and filled his voice with sarcasm. “What were you expecting, dark mages walking around in plain sight? Dark demons on the prowl,”

“Well, no … I was hoping we didn’t find anything at all,” a chided Men’ak replied, casting his eyes to the ground. “I figured this was just Ja’tar’s way to get us grumblers out of the Keep.”

“Really? Well, I don’t think Ja’tar would waste his time training us if he didn’t already have a pretty good idea of what we were going to find,” Dra’kor said, coming to Ja’tar’s defense. “I don’t think we really understood enough to judge him the way we did, and I do think he knew a lot more than he let on —”

“I suppose so …,” Men’ak grumbled.

“Wonder about those wolves he kept talking about. Sounded kind of strange to me. So you don’t think he’s delusional?” Grit asked Dra’kor, but also back glanced at Men’ak.

Men’ak laughed, “Walking wolves —”

“Delusional? No, I don’t think he is delusional at all,” said Dra’kor flatly. “On the contrary, but I don’t think they’re wolves either.”

Grit was caught by surprise at Dra’kor’s reply. “No?”

Dra’kor sighed heavily and shook his head, “I think that’s what he’s calling them because it’s the only thing that makes sense to him.”

“Huh? What do you mean, Dra’kor?”

“Well, I don’t know how to exactly explain this, but I fear we are dealing with something the ancients called wolven,” Dra’kor speculated.

“Wolven? I’ve never heard of them,” said Grit, with a confused look on his face. “You sure?”

“Although I can’t say for sure, I think so. I remember talks of these creatures from years ago. According to lore, wolven are these hunters that were used in the time of Ror. They’re part wolf, part man, and part demon, concocted by some dark mage to track people, armies, and magi,” Dra’kor crossed his arms and offered up the little he knew.

“I thought he was exaggerating when he said they walked on two legs,” Men’ak exclaimed. “I can’t believe —”

“No, they existed all right, just not in the last millennia.”

Dra’kor face showed his frustration. He had a suspicious feeling, that the whole world was spinning out of control right before his eyes.

“They actually walked on two feet?” Grit said, as his mouth fell open in surprise.

“More or less … it’s like they can stand on their rear paws to fight, and take a step or two if they have to …,” Dra’kor elaborated. “But they’re still basically wolves.”

“Huh! Where’d you learn that?”

Grit was more than a little surprised that Dra’kor actually knew something about the strange beasts. Grit was a little bothered that Dra’kor knew about them and he did not, after all, they had been best friends forever and had almost the exact same training and classes.

“Back a long time ago in my studies of the Ror battles. Just something I remembered when Barack started describing them,” Dra’kor admitted, devoid of emotion.

Grit looked Dra’kor in the eyes. “Should we be worried?”

Silence filled the air.

“— Well, should we?”

“At the time, they scared me half to death. I had nightmares for years,” Dra’kor slowly confessed, his defenses collapsing. He shuddered at the memories.

“You were young at the time?” Men’ak guessed.

“Yep, maybe ten or twelve winters old, had only been at the Keep for a couple years. Everything we studied gave me nightmares —”

“Me too,” Men’ak mumbled.

“Maybe you don’t remember it right?”

“No, Grit. I remember this. I remember this very clearly, even today …,” Dra’kor said, resigning himself to having to relive the nightmares. He shivered, recalling the fables he had been told.

“Do you remember anything else?” Grit asked, “It could be important.”

“I remember a little,” Dra’kor said, recalling the lessons of long ago, but ignoring all the stories he had heard. “I think Zedd’aki taught the class. He said they hunt in packs and wield no magic. I suppose they can be killed just like any other beast, but they’re tough as ironwood.”

Men’ak looked down the road in the direction the tinker went. “Well, if you’re right — all I’m saying is that he seemed unusually calm about the whole matter for having seen them up close.”

Grit nodded. “If it were me, I’d be shaking in my shoes and I sure wouldn’t be rattling around the realms in a wagon. That’s for sure.”

“I think he’s calm because he’s rationalized what he’s seen into something that fits in his world. If he admitted the truth to himself, he’d probably be a babbling idiot. We have to remember, he hasn’t lived for centuries or been trained to accept magic,” Dra’kor reasoned.

Men’ak was enjoying the conversation and was entirely intrigued. “Ah, so the fact that he beclouds a wolf that walks and has a head twice as big is purely a coping mechanism?”

“Yes, that’s pretty much sums up what I think it is …” Dra’kor confirmed. “The only way he can cope is to pretend it’s nothing.”

Men’ak mumbled to himself.

“What was that, Men’ak?” Grit asked. “I didn’t hear you —”

“Nothing, “I’m just talking to myself.”

“Well then, either way, wolven or not, we should stay alert.” Dra’kor emphasized. “Alert —”

“How do we do that? We don’t have a horse to warn us …,” Grit chortled and grinned sarcastically.

Dra’kor gave him a bewildered look.

Men’ak stated the obvious, “We’ll just have to be vigilant and keep watch, that’s all … besides, it sounds like we might have a hard time getting to Three Rivers … ferry being out and all.”

“Could be a problem,” Grit agreed.

“From the warnings that Ja’tar told us, the river is extremely treacherous at Haagen’s,” Men’ak echoed, repeating verbatim what Ja’tar had told them two days ago.

“We’ll figure it out when we get there. You think we’ll reach it today?” Grit asked Dra’kor.

“Not if we stand here all day gabbing …,” Dra’kor complained.

“— But what if we can’t get across the river?” Men’ak fretted.

“I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it …,” Grit joked. “Or not —”

Men’ak rolled his eyes in disgust.

Dra’kor sighed and looked up from the ground, “Guess we’ll have to wait to find out, but we better get going, daylight is wasting. You heard what he said about the wolven, they’re more likely to be out at night.”

“I miss the Keep …,” Men’ak blurted wishfully.

Grit echoed, “I hear that.”

“Well, the sooner we get going, the sooner we can go home,” Dra’kor stated, understanding exactly how they felt, for he also missed home.

“Tonight could be a long one if Barack is right …,” Grit admitted as he took a step down the road and looked back over his shoulder.

Dra’kor followed, “We’ll need to stop well before nightfall and figure out where to spend the night. I don’t really want to spend a cold night high up in a tree.”

“Sleeping in a tree? Of all the …,” Men’ak swore releasing a slew of expletives as he adjusted his pack and followed the others.

Dra’kor looked at Men’ak and chortled.

“What?” said Men’ak indignantly, his eyes glowering.

Grit was worried and nodded as he looked around frantically, “We better be on the lookout for these wolven, if they are as fast as Barack says, then we …”

Dra’kor watched Grit. He was a tad concerned that his friend was beginning to buckle under the pressure. “Calm down, Grit. No need for us to overreact yet.”

“We should set some wards,” a very anxious Grit stuttered.

“We should,” Dra’kor agreed. “Are you going to do it?”

“I guess I could,” Grit answered hesitantly, “Unless you want to?”

Dra’kor shook his head and waved him off.

Grit started chanting as the three started back down the trail. Dra’kor listened as Grit chanted, and smiled to himself. Grit had set about a dozen different wards. Unless the wolf could shape-shift, make itself small as a bird, fly and dig underground, he was pretty sure they would have plenty of advanced warning if a pack of wolven happened in their direction.

Haagen’s Cross

The three magi felt a new sense of urgency after their conversation with the Tinker and made quick work of the downhill trek that led to the falls. The closer they got, the narrower the canyon became and it wasn’t long before they heard the rumble and saw the mist rising in the distance.

Grit scanned the tall walls, watching the shadows and dark crevices. “Canyon’s getting narrow,”.

Dra’kor nodded, “A good place for an ambush.”

“Ambush?” said Men’ak nervously. He immediately began frantically looking around, trying to follow where Grit was looking.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Dra’kor said, with a grin. “Demons don’t usually climb walls.”

Well, they actually did, but Dra’kor didn’t see any reason to share that little tidbit with his friends. After all, they were already nervous and adding fuel to an already smoldering fire seemed like a bad idea.

Grit looked at Dra’kor and nodded, feeling a bit better, but couldn’t help himself and continued scanning the tall jagged crags.

“— But highwaymen with crossbows do,” he added, causing Grit’s head to snap around.

Dra’kor sniggered and shook his head. “Have we seen anyone besides the tinker?”

“What?” Grit asked, not understanding. Dra’kor rolled his eyes.

They turned the last corner and saw Haagen’s Cross for the first time, a narrow spot in the ravine surrounded by steep cliffs and mountains. It was an amazing sight, the mountains rising high on both sides, the three rivers merging into one just before the falls, which tumbled over the side of the steep drop-off before settling into a quiet lush valley with a long narrow deep blue lake.

Near the edge of the Big Drop falls were the broken down remains of a stone bridge, which at one time must have spanned the chasm. The far side held the remains of the other half, which could be seen arching out over the water for a good ten paces. The massive cut stones were far too immense to have been moved by men and Dra’kor immediately concluded that it was the bridge built by the ancients, from the map.

“Now that … is really something,” Grit muttered to himself.

Dra’kor nodded, “It must have been the one destroyed after Ror.”

Men’ak spat as he bowed down to pull a stalk of grass from the ground and shoved it between his teeth, chewing on the sweet tender growth. “What a waste.”

“I’d have thought the Guild would have rebuilt it after the war,” Grit said.

“One would have thought,” said Dra’kor flatly, as he examined the markings on the nearest stone. “Look, that appears to be written in — Torren!”

Grit leaned over for a better look. “I wonder how old it is?”

“Old enough to have been forgotten, I’d wager,” Men’ak replied.

“Ja’tar mentioned the bridge when he talked about Three Rivers,” Grit recalled. “Didn’t he?”

“He did,” Dra’kor nodded, “and he said it had been rebuilt.”

He had certainly mentioned the falls in great detail, so he must have seen the place himself. It was curious that he failed to mention that the bridge was never rebuilt. Dra’kor decided he would ask the old man himself when the opportunity presented itself.

The tall all red granite cliff walls of the ravine rimmed the falls, and separated the rivers into two forks. The farthest canyon went due east, deep into the Moran Mountain range and the middle river headed up southeast toward The Rock of Ages. The nearest fork, the one that they were traveling, formed a steep sloped ridge on the near side between the river and the other two canyons that ran south, back from whence they came.

In the center, where the rivers converged, was a set of rocky crags officially known as Symmetry Spires, carved by the turbulent water over many centuries. The Twins, as they were affectionately called by the locals, jutted straight up out of the water for nearly three hundred rods, their shear red granite and blackened basalt-veined walls sparkled in the sun. The Twins were not more than six or seven ox carts wide each, and looked like fingers of the gods, swirled and smooth reaching up for the heavens. The tallest had an ancient evergreen tree growing at the top, roots wrapped down the sides and dug into fissures and cracks that meandered across the otherwise smooth surface. The other, a full four men shorter, was flat on top and barren.

Although the river narrowed as the three separate rivers converged, it was still twice as wide as a strong man could throw an egg-sized stone. The three friends stood and marveled as the fierce current rapidly carried the spring runoff thundering over the polished edge.

“T-t-that water is running fast,” Men’ak marveled.

Grit leaned over, picked up a small stick, and gave it a toss into the middle of the stream. He watched as it was quickly washed over the rim. The water was moving very fast, but there weren’t any rapids in this section, the water was far too deep and the path worn smooth over the ages.

“Looks frigid,” Grit added.

“There’s the ferry, just like the tinker said,” Dra’kor remarked, pointing across the gap.

The ferry, which only amounted to a small log raft about four-paces square, complete with corner posts and rails, was loosely tethered to the guide rope and gently swayed in the shallows of the far shore. The large jute guide rope, almost the size of a man’s wrist, swung in the soft breeze. It was held aloft by several very huge logs that were wedged and buried deep in the dirt at each end. Dra’kor walked up to the near support post, grabbed the line and tugged hard, testing its tautness. It barely moved, even after he had thrown his weight behind the effort and hung by his arms.

On closer inspection, the far log looked like it used to be a tree that had caught the business end of a lightning strike. The support logs were tied back to several huge stakes hammered deep into the dirt, some anchored to wagon-sized boulders for additional support. The rustic raft, maybe large enough for a small wagon and horse, was bobbing as the river surged. The man-sized logs were roughly-hewn, probably by an adze, to provide a more level surface for the wagons and animals.

“Let’s go down by that big slab and get a better look,” Dra’kor said, pointing to a jutting rock just below the lip of the falls.

The three magi walked past the ferry and stepped down onto a precarious slab of rock that cantilevered out over the chasm, affording the group a clear view of both the falls and the valley far below.

“I’m not going out there,” Men’ak shouted belligerently as he tried to be heard over the thunder of the falls. He took a couple steps backwards until he was satisfied he was on firm ground. He just couldn’t understand why a sane man would want to walk out on a teetering rock. Seemed like tempting fate to him and he wanted no part of it.

Dra’kor and Grit waved him back, but he just shook his head, refusing to follow. They shrugged and ventured slowly out onto the large jutting rock slab, which was anchored to the cliff, and watched as the water crashed far below, each wearing the largest of grins. They looked back and saw Men’ak at the far end of the slab keenly watching them.

The falls were almost thirty men high by Grit’s estimation, although the mist obscured most of the bottom, where the water pounded the rocks relentlessly. Only the center section fell straight into a deep waiting pool at the base. The sides were fraught with obstacles, strewn boulders and were broken into multi-tiered falls that fought each other causing huge towers of water to jump and dance as water leapt from terrace to terrace, seeking the valley floor. Large logs and debris were jutting haphazardly from the rocky mess, having been washed down during floods and the spring thaw.

They could just barely see the town of Three Rivers nestled in the small valley far off in the distance, but trees on the ridge near the town were blocking them from having a clear view. Mostly, they saw the small furls of smoke that lifted from the roofs and spread out across the valley following the light breeze out of the mountains.

“Are you sure that’s T-t-three Rivers?” Men’ak stuttered.

“I guess. It isn’t what I expected. Where are the towers and the buildings?” Dra’kor asked. “It looks like a simple little village, nothing more —”

Men’ak shrugged, “Maybe we can’t see the old town from here. Maybe it’s over that ridge or something.”

“That makes no sense at all,” Grit said. “Why would you move a town of that size? Ja’tar’s map showed it in the center of the valley. Didn’t it take up almost the whole valley?”

“— I thought it did,” Men’ak tried to recall.

“Who knows, maybe something happened. It has been almost a thousand years …,” Dra’kor grumbled, as he looked down the road. “I still don’t know why you’d build a small town of log cabins next to a fabulous city built of stone.”

“Guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Grit said. “Maybe it’ll all get explained once we get there —”

The three stood on the road where it split. Downhill, the heavily rutted and boulder-strewn road continued on, creeping along the steep side of the cliff, and slowly working its way down to the lakeshore. The other stopped at the precipice and continued along on the other side of the falls.

Men’ak looked down river and examined the small map he had sketched out at the Keep. “Wonder if that’s Finger Lake?”

“Suppose it must be,” said Dra’kor, as his eyes followed the shoreline. “That’s how I recall it looking.”

After circling the lake, the path headed up into the Winseer Mountains toward Five Peaks, following another meandering stream that dumped into the lake’s far end. The trail on the opposite side of the ferry wasn’t nearly as worn, or rutted. It wound its way up over the cascading hills one switchback at a time and disappeared from sight.

Dra’kor pointed to a trail winding up the far side of the lake that headed off to the east, “That must be the way to the Northlund. It must use the same road as to Stonegate.”

“Maybe we can head there after we are through here. I mean, if we can’t get to Five Peaks and all,” Men’ak grinned sheepishly.

Dra’kor snorted. “Why not!”

Men’ak stepped hesitantly toward the edge.

“By the Ten, that is one huge waterfall,” Grit exclaimed loudly with a whistle. He stood precariously near the precipice, with his overcoat flapping in the cold breeze blowing down the ravine, “I haven’t seen a big waterfall since I was a kid, but they sure weren’t like this back home in the Lowlands!”

“Lowlands are pretty flat, aren’t they?” Dra’kor concurred.

Grit nodded.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Men’ak yelled his reply, cupping his mouth, however he was too far away and no one heard.

Dra’kor shook his head in amazement and leaned close to Grit, “It’s really something. I think my favorite part of this whole adventure is getting to see things like this. You know? When we were stuck in the Keep we never saw anything.”

Grit shot his friend a big gap-toothed grin.

“I agree. No wonder the travelers rarely come back.”

Now that the sun was cresting and the golden light was filling the canyon, the mist formed a set of twin rainbows that glimmered against the cerulean sky. Dra’kor pointed, “Water nymphs!” As he saw the small delicate creatures diving in and out of the swirling clouds. Their small, perfectly formed figures glistened in the sunshine illuminated mist.

Grit nodded, seeing them too, and shielded his eyes as he took in the beauties of the falls. He found it difficult to break his stare, but eventually he raised his gaze to the raft.

Men’ak still stared, lost in a private fantasy.

Grit pointed at the deserted raft on the other side of the ravine. “What do you think that pile of stuff is on the raft?”

“Can’t tell from here,” Dra’kor said, squinting into the sun. “Maybe if we climb up higher, we could get a better look.”

They cautiously climbed up off of the granite slab and walked the dozen or so paces back uphill to the site of the ferry, gathering Men’ak along the way.

“Can’t I just stay and watch the nymphs for a little while?” Men’ak moaned.

Dra’kor frowned, and gave him a tug up the hill. Men’ak roughly ripped his arm free, but followed.

“We need to get a better look at that ferry,” said Dra’kor, as he looked around. “Maybe I could stand on one of the posts; can you guys give me a lift?”

“I can climb up on the rocks and get a lot higher,” Men’ak suggested coyly, as he eyed the serrated rocks abutting the narrow road. “I used to scramble on the rocks by the Keep a lot when I was younger … before they forbade it, of course!”

Dra’kor looked Men’ak’s way, “Of course —”

Men’ak sneered, ignoring the dig. He walked up to the rocky cliff and examined it, scratching his head. “This shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I thought you were afraid of heights, can’t look over the edge?” said Grit mockingly.

“No, I just don’t see where standing on a piece of rock that looks like it’s gonna fall is a good idea,” replied Men’ak curtly, as he mumbled under his breath, “I don’t dance naked with demons either, no matter how cute they are —”

“What was that?” Grit growled as he turned red, just catching the end of Men’ak’s remark.

It irritated him that Men’ak wouldn’t stop kidding him about the revelry of the solstice last century when he drank too much spiced wine and ended up dancing with demons without even knowing it. He had to admit that Men’ak probably saved his life, but why couldn’t he just let it go? He supposed getting caught naked with several demons was a bit funny. But how was he to have known they weren’t tree nymphs? They looked like bloody tree nymphs.

“Nothin’, just talking to myself,” grinned Men’ak, rolling his eyes at Grit.

He carefully placed his boot-clad foot between two rocks and began his climb, grunting as he pushed himself up. The boots were ill fitting and they rolled on his foot as he tried to stand on the small chunks of rock that sparsely covered the lower portion of his climb. He thought about removing them. After all, as a young mage he never wore shoes. He stood quietly for a second as he figured out his route. He moved his hands and feet meticulously, carefully placing them, testing and finally putting his weight on the new hold. He only allowed himself to move one foot or hand at a time. It was best to always keep three points on the rock, just in case!

He slowly scaled the small crag, gaining a couple bodies height above his friends, by squeezing himself into a narrow crack and using his feet, wedged sideways as footholds to shimmy up the flaky rock. The rock wasn’t very solid and he lost his footing more than a few times, as his foot forced the rock to crumble under his weight. At one point, both his feet slid out from their small perch and he was hanging on for dear life by just one hand on a rocky knob. Luckily, the drop was only a bit more than head high, so even if he had fallen, he would have lived to talk about it.

“Don’t try to go too high,” Grit shouted, stepping back from the rock face as loose scree and rocks tumbled down onto the road, just missing his head.

Dra’kor, having seen Men’ak slip, hastily wove a blanket of air on the ground to break his fall, just in case.

Men’ak searched and found a wide spot for his feet and turned around to get a good look out over the river, “It looks like there are bodies,” he shouted down as he leaned out holding on with one hand, the other cupped to his mouth. He had a good vantage now, about five rods above his friends.

“What?” Dra’kor hollered, trying to be heard above the falls. He cupped his ears.

“Bodies —” yelled Men’ak loudly in a hoarse voice.

“Bodies?” Grit mouthed surprised, turning to Dra’kor. “Men’ak says there are people? Are they alive?”

Dra’kor shouted up, “Alive?”

Men’ak shook his head slowly as he hollered his answer. “Not that it looks like, but I could be wrong.”

“See anything else?” Dra’kor yelled back, placing his hands on either side of his mouth, trying to be heard over the roar of the falls.

“I can see the town a bit better. I don’t see anyone around outside, but it’s still a far ways off. Looks mostly deserted to me, but they have a wall around the town. Maybe they’re off in the fields.”

Men’ak’s reply came back in broken pieces over the roar of the rushing water.

“Maybe. See any smoke?” Dra’kor shouted.

Men’ak shook his head while pointing to his ear, and slowly descended as the others watched. He jumped down the last three feet and wiped his hands clean on his robe after he landed.

“How do we get to the other side,” Grit asked Dra’kor.

“We could walk around the lake,” Men’ak suggested. “It looks like a fairly level walk — once we get down to the shore.”

“I’d rather not …,” said Dra’kor, vehemently. “I just don’t think we can afford to lose another day or two. I reckon the lake is over two leagues long each way. That’s a lot of walking just to get back to where we are.”

“I suppose you’re right,” commented Grit begrudgingly as he scratched his head. “Anyone have another suggestion?”

“We could fly,” Grit exclaimed.

Dra’kor frowned, “Bad idea. Levitation over water is extremely unpredictable and it is a very long way to the other side!”

He quickly added, “Especially moving water.”

“Just saying …,” Grit grumbled. “Maybe we could freeze the water and walk across.”

Dra’kor rolled up his sleeves and cast a spell. The water near his feet froze, but before it could spread from the shore, water washed up over the top and melted it.

Dra’kor shook his head, “I think there’s too much water and its moving way too fast. We’d be washed off the ice as the river upstream flowed over the top.”

Grit reluctantly agreed, he knew Dra’kor was right. “How do you think they got the guide rope across?”

“I bet they used a cross bow, shot a small rope across and then pulled the larger after,” Dra’kor reasoned.

“Wish we had some rope …” Grit mumbled.

Men’ak’s face lit up, “We could try to summon the raft to this side.”

Dra’kor nodded slowly, “It’s worth a try.”

“You better do it,” Grit added awkwardly. “You have a better touch for these things. I’d probably destroy the raft.”

Dra’kor nodded and extended his hand, weaving his spell. The raft trembled and moved a few feet before stopping. Dra’kor tried a second time.

Dra’kor threw his hands up, dispelling the magic.

“I can’t. The raft is securely tied and I can’t work the knots without being able to clearly see them.”

Men’ak was disheartened. “It was a good idea, too bad it didn’t work.”

Dra’kor eyed the heavy jute rope. “Maybe we can hang from the rope and crawl across.”

“It’s a long way,” Men’ak observed, stepping down off the rock. “I’m not sure my arms would hold out.”

“I think I can make it,” said Grit, as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “If I can free the raft, we can cross together.”

Grit looked across the rope and rubbed his hands together. He thought back to his childhood when he used to help his father at the docks in Edu’bar, a small coastal village far south from the Winseer mountains on the northern tip of the I’jean Sea. He frowned. He used to be able to cross a rope to a ship hand over hand, but that was a long time ago. His father had made him practice until it became second nature. As a child, he had practiced walking the plank, climbing the ratlines and shimmying up the masts. He had felt the icy cold slap of the ocean more than once when his grip or balance had been lost. It was a long time ago, but the memories were still vivid.

His father was a burly man, a simple dockworker. He worked hard for Grit and his mom. Always up before light and often working well past dark. Grit recalled how strong he was and remembered the thick calluses that covered his gnarled hands. He knew his father loved the ocean and he had spent many a year sailing the nine seas, but as he aged, his hips went bad and he could no longer pull his weight on board and had to settle on a career as a dockworker. They had spent many an evening sitting at the end of the dock staring out across the ocean watching the red sky at sunset while his father puffed on his pipe filled with leaf.

Before Grit had shown the skill, he worked the docks with his father, loading and unloading the merchant vessels as they visited. It was good honest work. He helped carry the bulky wooden crates and wheelbarrows, filled with goods from the Far West. They used two-wheeled carts and their strong backs to move the merchandise from tall, three-masted ships along the decrepit wooden docks to the warehouses, where they were loaded onto long wagons, hitched to teams of oxen and taken off to sell in the markets of the realms. Grit smiled. He fondly remembered how heavily callused his hands were and how muscular he had been from all the heavy work.

He had watched as the sailors with their tattoos and gold rings talked gruffly, shoving each other in jest, their elaborately tattooed torsos telling personal stories. They would toss him a coin if his work was good, and once in awhile, when his Da wasn’t watching, they’d sneak him drinks of strong rum, and sometimes, a few puffs from their pipes. The strong leaf used to make his heart race and his head spin.

He remembered the working girls, eager to help lonely sailors unload unneeded coin and the one they called R’chel that he had spent most of a summer’s wages on. He was a wharf rat, plain and simple.

Late at night, after the work was done, they would sit around a fire and tell tall tales of the places they had visited, the adventures they had lived and their near death escapes. They sang songs and drank … too much, but again, that was a sailor’s life. He often imagined that he too would be one of the ocean adventurers when he grew up.

Having the skill changed all that and at a ripe age of fifteen, his father took him to be tested when strange things started happening around the house, things that defied explanation. Zedd’aki had taken one look at him and within a few days, he was in a caravan, making his way into the deep mountains with five other boys. That was where he met Dra’kor.

Grit was lost in thought and didn’t even realize that Dra’kor had been speaking to him. “What?”

“Nothing … I’m talking to Men’ak,” Dra’kor said, giving up.

Men’ak wasn’t paying attention either. “Huh?”

“So, did you see any smoke?” Dra’kor repeated. “In the town, I mean …”

“Oh, so that’s what you asked? I couldn’t hear. I think I saw some, but I can’t be sure. The mist is pretty thick,” Men’ak replied.

Dra’kor frowned. He expected smoke. This time of year, the chimneys should be smoking in the morning. No smoke most likely meant no people, or no survivors. He placed his hands on his hips and stared in the direction of the town. This trip just kept getting better!

Grit took off his jacket and set his pack down on the ground. He also removed his hat, setting it and his jacket on top of the pack before spitting on his hands, climbing up the support pole and hooking a leg over the rope.

Grit felt his muscles cramp almost immediately. He grunted and let himself down. “I think I better stretch.”

He picked up a nearby rock, stretched his shoulders and arms before he jumped up, and shimmied out on the rope. The rope began bouncing almost immediately as he got out over the water, about fifteen feet out. The cool breeze was swinging him back and forth, although the guide rope was quite taut. Compared to a mooring line, even one pulled tight around a bollard by a couple strong sailors.

“Be careful,” Men’ak shouted, when one of Grit’s legs slipped off the rope.

Grit crooked his elbow over the rope and rested for a little while, flexing his hand to rid it of cramps. He had only gone about six paces before his arms began to ache, and the rope was digging something fierce into his leg behind his knee as the thin material of the leggings provided little to no cushion. He hung upside down moving a foot at a time, working himself hand over hand, each handful of rope, harder to hold than the last. He kept at it until he was about halfway across and had a better view of the raft.

“It looks like there was a big fight,” Grit yelled back, craning his neck to shout back to the shore.

“What?” Men’ak shouted back, putting his hand to his ear.

“There’s been a fight! It looks like the guy on the raft was attacked by …” his voice trailed off as the roar of the falls became too loud for the two on shore to hear.

“What’d he say?” Men’ak yelled into Dra’kor’s ear..

“I think he said that there was some sort of skirmish on the raft —,” Dra’kor said, straining to hear. Dra’kor grabbed the guide rope and leaned out over the water, trying to hear.

Men’ak’s eyes widened. “Who with?”

Dra’kor shrugged, “Couldn’t hear, but who knows?”

Grit continued his trip across the gorge and was getting closer to the water as the rope stretched under his weight. The rope was cold and wet, making it hard to maintain a good grip. To top it off, he couldn’t see because the mist was condensing on his face and droplets were sliding down his cheeks, blurring his vision. He tried to wipe his eyes clear with his free hand. Suddenly his other hand cramped and slipped free of the rope and he found himself hanging upside down by his knees, his head almost in the water.

“Bloody halla!” he screamed as the blood rushed to his head.

He desperately reached for the rope above, which caused it to bounce and sway, digging painfully into the back of his knee. His legs were tired from all the walking and he had been mid-stride across the rope and only had a single leg over the rope. He tried to swing his other leg over, but missed. He grimaced at the pain when his full weight pulled down on that joint as he swung wildly.

“Damn! He’s slipping,” a petrified Men’ak yelled, pointing at Grit.

“Hold on Grit,” he shouted as he nervously paced in front of the guideline. “What’ll we do?”

“Maybe we can help him using the craft,” Dra’kor suggested, trying to think of an appropriate spell.

“How?” a panicked Men’ak screamed, looking back and forth between Dra’kor and Grit.

Dra’kor tried to throw out a spell of air to help support him, but before he could complete the spell, Grit’s leg gave out.

He flailed, trying to grip the rope, catching it with his right hand, but his feet were in the water and the drag of the current was pulling him sideways. He hung by one hand for a second, and in spite of a valiant effort, his grip failed, one finger at a time, until he flipped backwards, plunging into the icy water. The two friends saw him fall, but were helpless to do anything about it.

Dra’kor threw his hands to either side of his head and gasped.

“Grit!” They yelled in unison as they frantically waved, watching his head bob once before he was washed over the falls. The last thing they saw were his legs kicking out of the water as he went over the edge. He never even had a chance to scream.

“By the Ten, he’s gone over the falls …,” cried Men’ak, eyes wide as he ran to look over the edge. He couldn’t keep his lips from quivering.

Dra’kor and Men’ak ran down the trail, tripping over the boulders buried in the rutted road. Men’ak fell flat on his face and slid in the mud. He grunted and jumped to his feet ignoring the scrapes and bumps he just received. They reached a level spot and peered over the edge, looking for their friend. They looked up and down the falls, trying to see through the thick mist. They couldn’t see Grit anywhere. They yelled out for him and listened for a reply.

Grit had felt his grip going so he took a deep breath as he fell. Nothing could have prepared him for the icy blast of cold water that hit him as he fell into the mountain-fed stream. His head popped up once and he saw that the rope was no longer above him. He gulped for air and was pulled back under and although he tried to swim upstream, the current was too fast and his heavy clothes were weighing him down. He knew he was going over the falls, no doubt about that. He felt himself falling and he wove a spell of breathing and a ward of protection around his body just before he hit the water below.

“See him? Well, do you?”

“No, you?”

“I-I … think I see … no, is that him?” said Men’ak excitedly, as he pointed. “There —”

Dra’kor looked where Men’ak was pointing, but saw nothing. “I don’t see anything.”

“There!” Men’ak shouted, waving his arms.

“I think we’re chasing shadows …,” Dra’kor said. “He’s got to be downstream by now!”

Dra’kor and Men’ak rushed back to the support post, grabbed Grit’s pack and ran down the steep hill as fast as they could to find their friend, this time taking care to keep their footing. They cried out his name, praying for an answer, but no reply came.

The bottom of the falls was rocky and the water rushed and frothed as it splashed and splattered over the huge boulders. They scrambled along the shore, beating back the tall willow and rush while looking in between the massive jutting rocks. The cold hollow reeds stung as they snapped and whipped in the wind. In a matter of minutes, they were soaked to the bone.

Dra’kor wiped his face with his wet robe and peered through the mist through blurred vision. He was fraught with worry, and dumbfounded about what to do next. He cursed. He didn’t even know if Grit could swim. He started to shiver uncontrollably and his beard was icing up.

“We need to get out of the water,” he yelled at Men’ak as he harshly rubbed his hands together trying to warm them. “We’ll freeze or get sick if we don’t. I can’t feel my fingers!”

“But …” Men’ak whimpered, his eyes red from the tears.

Dra’kor set his hand firmly on Men’ak’s shoulder, “Grit would want us to —”

Men’ak nodded and moved cautiously over the cold icy rocks, making his way back to the trail. His footing slipped and he fell over sideways, slicing his head open on a rock as he plunged into the icy knee-deep water. He flailed trying to find his footing as the rushing water pushed his feet out from under him. He flipped over to his stomach and swallowed a big gulp of the icy liquid, causing him to cough violently. He tried to push himself up, grabbed an enormous boulder and stood up, his head shooting out of the water. Blood slid down his forehead where the rock had sliced into his skin. He stood unsteadily, swaying. His skin was pale blue; the color was washed from his face. Men’ak was shivering uncontrollably and his breath was short and raspy. He couldn’t feel anything and stumbled awkwardly through the cold water to the shore. Dra’kor had seen him go under and was rushing over to help.

“You better cast a spell and dry yourself off,” Dra’kor shouted as he was already casting one for himself and grabbed a handful of Men’ak’s robe, hefting him up out of the water.

Men’ak nodded and slowly worked the magic with his stiff, cold fingers. Soon, steam was rising off his clothes and the color started returning to his face. His teeth stopped chattering and his breathing was returning to normal.

“I’m … s-s-so … cold!” Men’ak sobbed.

Dra’kor reached for him, turning his head over. “You’re bleeding!”

Men’ak’s eyes glazed over. He pushed Dra’kor back, wiped his head with his hand, and stared at his blood-covered hand.

“Your forehead’s cut. You got a deep rock bite. I think I better heal you,” Dra’kor said, as he reached for his friend.

Men’ak let Dra’kor lead him up onto the shore. He sat on a rock while Dra’kor examined his head, placed his hands on each side of his skull and began chanting. Men’ak winced as the healing took hold. His knees trembled and he began to pitch forward, his eyes fluttering up into his head. Dra’kor had to set him down on the ground before he toppled from the boulder.

“You’re a little dizzy from the blow to your head. You need to rest a bit!” said Dra’kor softly.

Men’ak shook his head and struggled to regain his feet, “I’ll be okay. We need to find Grit —” He staggered sideways and grabbed at the reeds to keep his balance.

The stream was fast, as spring runoff was near its highest. The current was relentless. In spite of their willingness, they couldn’t risk venturing farther out into the churning waters, so they instead turned their attention to searching the shoreline. The two ran back and forth along the trail trying to spot their friend. They didn’t see any trace of him.

Dra’kor yelled for him, “Grit! Grit!” However, he heard no response, saw no head, no clothes, and no signs.

Men’ak searched the stream by the falls and Dra’kor ran downstream to the inlet of the lake and waited.

After searching for almost an hour, the two exhausted friends collapsed on the rock-crusted riverbank.

“I think we have to assume that he didn’t make it,” a remorseful Men’ak sobbed, as he dropped his hands into his lap.

“Maybe we missed him,” Dra’kor said, trying to be optimistic as he rolled to his back. “He could have made it over the falls and just been washed downstream before we got down from the top. Either way, he’s on his own now. He knows where we are headed. If he’s okay, he’ll meet up with us somewhere along the way —”

“Maybe, but what if he’s hurt or …” Men’ak weakly replied, placing his face in his lap and sobbing. “I just … just —”

“Just what?” Dra’kor asked, sitting up.

“I just didn’t expect this, us, you know. I didn’t think it was going to be this — hard.”

Dra’kor sighed, “Ja’tar tried to tell us. I guess we weren’t ready to listen. We’re a bit pig-headed, you know!”

Men’ak nodded as he sobbed.

“We need to get back up top and try to get across; it’s starting to get dark.” Dra’kor said, ignoring Men’ak’s sobs.

“— and get ourselves killed?” Men’ak blurted bitterly, looking up with puffy red eyes.

“What choice do we have?” Dra’kor said, trying to be objective. “If night falls and those wolves catch us out here …”

“We could go back.”

“We still need a place to spend the night,” Dra’kor reasoned.

“Can’t we head back tomorrow? I want to go home.”

“Grit would want us to continue —” said Dra’kor solemnly. “Otherwise his loss is for naught. I think he would want us to venture on.”

Dra’kor got up and started the long walk up the steep trail to the top of the waterfall, struggling up the road. He dragged Grit’s pack, unable to lift it in addition to his own. Men’ak sat cross-legged on the rock while Dra’kor labored up the road. He wasn’t sure he wanted to continue. What was the point?

Dra’kor stopped about halfway to the top and turned around looking at Men’ak still sitting on the rock. “You coming?” He called out as he gasped for breath.

Men’ak didn’t answer. He stood up, looked down both directions of the road, turned and silently followed Dra’kor. Dra’kor waited for his friend to reach him, wrapped an arm around him and gave him a warm embrace, “We need to stick together.”

Men’ak nodded weakly and slowly started the struggle up the hill.

When they reached the top, Dra’kor removed his coat and pack. “I’ll go across. Give me your belt.”

“What do you need the belt for?”

“I have an idea,” Dra’kor replied.

“Isn’t there some other way?” Men’ak sulked. “Let’s go to the Five Peaks. If something happened to you —”

“I think we should stick with Three Rivers,” said Dra’kor forcefully.

“Why?” sulked Men’ak, keeping his eyes cast down.

“Well, for one, the tinker said the roads aren’t clear yet from the last spring storm. Secondly … well, I have a feeling,” Dra’kor said. “It looks like a storm is brewing up in the Five Peaks Area, remember? We saw it this morning when we were higher up.”

“I suppose,” Men’ak grumbled. “Are you sure we can’t use magic to get across?”

“Well, I suppose we could fly, right? Oh, wait … I don’t know that spell,” spat back Dra’kor frustrated. “Don’t know how to walk on fast moving water either. Do you?”

Men’ak gave him a blank look and handed him his leather belt. Dra’kor climbed up on the pole and stretched out across the rope. He lashed himself to the rope using his belt, making himself a cradle around his chest. He looped Men’ak’s belt over and slid one his legs through. He flipped upside down and worked his other leg into the loop.

He hung there for a second, and slowly and methodically pulled himself across the gorge. The two belts dug deeply into the soft flesh of his back and thighs, but at least he didn’t have to worry about plunging into the icy water, although he kept his legs wrapped tightly around the rope just in case.

It took him a long time before his progress became apparent because he had to adjust the belt after every couple of feet, but better slow than not. He reached the raft, kicked out of the belt around his feet, and lowered himself to the raft, his weight pitching around as the raft tossed and turned.

After he had a fair footing, he stepped over the railing, removed the first belt from the guide rope, moved it to the other side of the guide support, and reattached it to the rope. He did the same with the second belt after he slid back into the first. He kept sliding the belts along until he reached the middle of the raft. He removed the belt, fastened it around his waist and tied himself to the raft with one of the spare ropes lying on the deck. The other belt he lashed around one of the posts located on each corner so he wouldn’t lose it.

It took him a couple minutes to get his balance as the raft snaked to and fro, and he almost fell in, landing hard on the wet wood deck, scraping his knees and palms as he fell just shy of the edge, one leg slipping into the icy water. The small raft pitched and rolled, and was undulating as the water surged and waned with the flow over the rocks.

Dra’kor grabbed the railing and steadied himself. The first thing he noticed once he was secure was the two dead wolven, confirming his belief that the beasts were indeed what the tinker had been talking about. He had never seen one up close and as far as he was concerned, even though the beast was dead, he figured this was close enough and he prayed to never meet one out on the open road. He shuddered as he noticed the long fangs and razor-sharp claws.

One of the wolven had been run through with a long spear; the other was in a death clutch with a man. He assumed it was Haagen. Dra’kor removed the spear and it made a sucking sound as he twisted it hard and yanked it free. Next, he examined Haagen, who had run the beast through with a small sword, piercing the beast’s chest and driving the sword up into its lungs. The sword was still gripped in the dead man’s white knuckled hand. It appeared that the beast had managed to rip Haagen up and that he had bled out, but not before he killed the creature.

Haagen’s eyes were white, glazed and sunken deep into their sockets. His face was contorted, probably from the horrors he had faced before death. His long white hair was matted with blood and gore and his tongue was black and swollen. A long scar graced his heavily weathered face from his forehead to his chin. It was a prominent feature, although the beard covered a good portion. It didn’t look recent.

Dra’kor cautiously pulled the beast loose, both repulsed and afraid, as if it would spring back to life and take a swipe at him. He noticed the deep gashes in the chest of the man, cut right through his stiff heavy leathers. His entire body was full of cuts and clawed gouges, although it was difficult to tell what killed him for sure because the warm days were unkind and were quickly rotting the body. Dra’kor imagined that the man fought valiantly, but in the end, he had succumbed to his injuries, bleeding out. Too bad, he would have loved to sit down with the man over a couple ales.

Dra’kor wondered why no one had come to collect his remains; surely, he would have been noticed to be missing by somebody. The wounds looked to be at least a week old, probably older. Dra’kor strained as he used the spear to leverage the two wolven over the edge of the raft, which rocked unsteadily as the beasts were swallowed up by the cold mountain water and washed over the falls. He lashed the spear to the railing, figuring it would come in handy if he and Men’ak ever met the wolven in person. He pried the sword free and strapped the scabbard over his shoulder.

Dra’kor began pulling the raft across the river, grabbing the thick rope on one side of the raft using the leather grips that were laced over the rope, and pulling hard until he reached the other. He loosened the leather grips, slid them back over to the other side, and repeated the motion.

It was hard work and blistered his less-than-callused hands. The raft was difficult to pull through the eyelets in the anchor posts as the strong current stretched the rope tight and pressed hard on the cast iron rings. Dra’kor’s arms strained. They ached and he knew that he would be sore the next day, but he kept going.

The water fought the progress and surged, the day’s runoff was at its peak as the sun melted the winter snow high in the mountains. The water kept trying to drop the raft over the falls, mostly because Dra’kor was unused to balancing on the raft. He kept overcompensating, causing the corners to dip under the fast flowing water, which pushed the corner even deeper, making the raft pitch wildly. Once the weight countered the current, the raft pitched upwards and leveled out, smacking down hard on the water as balance was restored.

When he reached midstream, he was only a scant three or four feet from going over the edge. He paused to catch his breath and rub his aching biceps, thinking about what Grit might have thought as he felt his grip fail. Not much sense in wondering, he thought, what was done was done. I’m sorry Grit, but I just can’t think about you now. Not and survive!

Although the raft pitched precariously and it took him far longer than he had figured, as the sun crawled across the sky forcing the ravine back into the shadows, he eventually made the shore where Men’ak was waiting. He seemed to be in a better mood reveling in the fact that Dra’kor had made it across and back.

“Come on over,” he called out to Men’ak, “we need to hurry, daylight is fading.”

“You made it!” Men’ak exclaimed excitedly, his spirits improving. “I was concerned; the raft was really being tossed around out there.”

“It’s not too bad. Lash the packs to the tie downs and give me a hand,” Dra’kor commanded as he shook the cramps out of his hands.

Men’ak grabbed the packs and took a step into the cold water and onto the raft through the small gate. He looped the rope across the gate and firmly secured it to the end pole. He set the packs into the middle and tied them down on the iron eyehooks used to secure the wagons. They used some scraps of rope that were looped around the railings to lash Men’ak to the raft by his waist.

Men’ak pointing to the dead man tied to the corner rail of the raft. The man’s gray face was contorted in agony and Men’ak instinctively knew he had died a slow painful death. He shuddered at the thought that he and Dra’kor might meet the same fate. “Who’s that?”

“I think it might be Haagen, assuming the falls were named after him, or his family,” Dra’kor stated flatly. “Here, give me a hand pulling us across. We should be able to make it in half the time.”

Men’ak and Dra’kor pulled the raft back across the river, both using both their hands to tug on the leather straps. Finally, they reached the far side and tied off the raft on the small dock. The trip back went more smoothly because they could keep the rope moving and Dra’kor had already figured out how to keep the raft from pitching so much.

Men’ak unleashed the packs and threw them onto the shore.“What’ll we do with him?”

“Too late to bury him, we need to find some shelter for the night. I don’t think we can make town before dark,” Dra’kor said, thinking out loud. “We better set some wards. Grit’s wards won’t do us any good.”

Men’ak nodded solemnly and went about setting up his wards, while Dra’kor put his overcoat on and gathered their things. Dra’kor reached down and removed the heavy cord necklace made of bone and stone tied around the dead man’s neck. He shoved it in his pocket. Maybe someone in the Three Rivers would know about the man. They stepped off the raft and walked up the hill a ways, leaving Haagen leaning against the railing, lashed tightly under his arms —

“I feel badly about leaving him here,” said Men’ak sadly, looking back at the raft.

“I do too. But we need to git! We’ll come back and bury him later if we have time,” Dra’kor said, agreeing with his friend as he picked up his pack and flung it over his shoulder.

Men’ak nodded and the two started up the trail toward the town. They hadn’t traveled very far before they heard the distant howling of wolves echoing in the air off in the hills.

Men’ak stared out across the valley. “Wolven? Oh, by the gods! Did you hear that? The wolven are coming!”

Dra’kor’s eyes narrowed as he shrugged, “It could just be wolves … or it could be wolven. Let’s calm down, and stay focused.”

“I think we better figure out a place to stay for the night,” a worried Men’ak uttered. “Those howls sound too close for my comfort.”

“I couldn’t agree more …,” Dra’kor echoed, looking around. “It’s better to be safe — now, focus!”

The two spread out and searched the mountainside, trying to find a place to stay. The landscape was desolate and sparse, and the trees weren’t well-suited to climbing and spending the night aloft.

“Doesn’t seem to be a good place to hole up for the night,” Men’ak said, concerned because the howls were getting closer. He kept looking off into the forest in the direction of the howls, “we could make a run for it to the town —”

“It’s too barren here,” Dra’kor mumbled, “but there’ll be even less to hide us once we get into the valley.”

“We could go back and stay on the raft in the middle of the river,” Men’ak suggested.

“We could,” agreed Dra’kor, “but I’d hate to backtrack if we didn’t have to!”

Men’ak understood his reasoning, but he was fresh out of suggestions, “What do we do?”

Dra’kor scanned the horizon and was dumbfounded about what to do when he was struck with an idea.

“Why don’t we stack these rocks into a hut against that hollow in the hill?” he said, pointing to a small steep-walled gully on the slope. “We could spend the night inside. It won’t keep us warm and we won’t have a big fire, but it’ll probably keep the wolven out.”

Men’ak wrinkled his face. “You think that’ll work?”

“Hell, I don’t know! But — it’s the only building material we have and we can use our magic to help move the stones and maybe use some of these dead trees for the roof. It’s either that, or run back to the raft and spend the night floating in the water away from shore. It would be a long wet night.”

“I guess it’s worth a try. The sun is setting fast —” Men’ak observed. “I don’t think we have much time.”

“Well, we better get working,” said Dra’kor convincingly.

The two mages cleared a small circle a little more than two paces across in the gully and began moving the hefty boulders around the ring. The first ring went quickly, because they used the largest stones. After that, the work went slower, because the boulders were still good-sized, but much farther away. At least they weren’t concerned that the wolves would be able to move them.

Dra’kor mumbled his spell and waved his hands at the next boulder, which shuddered before lifting off the ground. He moved his hands, directed it to where he wanted the rock to be placed and carefully set it down on top of the others he had already set. He hadn’t even completed half the wall and already his knees were getting weak and his forehead was dripping from the exertion.

After a short while, they had the first three rings set and the wall was almost three feet high. Dra’kor moved their packs into the middle and found a big flat rock to use as a door. He rolled it into the middle, figuring to set it in place after they finished and had crawled inside.

“I’m not sure I can keep up this pace,” Men’ak said, as he steadied himself, trying to clear his double vision.

“I’ll keep it up till I drop,” Dra’kor stated flatly, “either that or we’ll end up getting killed or —”

Men’ak nodded and strained to lift another boulder into place, sweat rolling down his cheek. He lost his concentration and watched the rock quiver midair and then drop, tumbling down the hill. He swore under his breath and ran after it.

Dra’kor finished raising one side to four layers of rock so that the roof wouldn’t be flat and the back of the structure would be high enough to sit under. Meanwhile Men’ak had found a couple long logs from some trees that had been downed by a storm and he was hacking the branches off with Dra’kor’s sword. Dra’kor joined him after he finished what he was doing, and together they removed the remaining branches before they laid the stripped logs and some of the larger branches across the rocks to make a sturdy frame for the roof.

Dra’kor moved a few more boulders to the back so that they would only have to guard the front. Men’ak took a breather while Dra’kor finished the back, lining the logs with outsized stones, anchoring them to the wall.

Next, the magi worked in unison, stacking awkwardly-shaped flat moss rocks across the logs and branch frame, creating a makeshift rock roof. It wouldn’t keep the rain out, but it would keep the wolves at bay. The two continued to stack smaller flat rocks on top of the bigger boulders forming a more tightly knit roof.

The roof poles moaned as the weight of the rocks came to bear, forcing the magi to magically enhance them and make a center pole to help support the weight. Dra’kor crawled into the shelter and wedged a short thick pole he had cut to length with the small sword under the center support. He used his back to lift the poles while he slid it into place in a notch he had cut into the bottom of the log with his sword.

They prayed it would be good enough because the light had faded and they couldn’t see well enough to continue. They inspected their handiwork in the dim light using a light globe because the White moon hand not yet risen.

Men’ak pulled his hands through his hair. “You think it’ll hold?”

“It’ll have to,” nodded Dra’kor as he turned to face the ever louder howls. “Do we have enough wood inside for a fire?”

“I think so,” said Men’ak. “I filled one whole side with all the smaller branches we trimmed off the logs —”

“— Good,” Dra’kor nodded. “At least we’ll have a little warmth without having to use magic.

They quickly gathered some more dried wood from around the new campsite and tossed it inside. Dra’kor had taken Haagen’s spear and his small sword before they left the raft and he carefully placed those in the small stone fort.

Men’ak’s head shot up.

“My wards just went off,” he cried, terrified. He stood straight and scanning the dark hillside.

“Quickly now, into the fort,” yelled Dra’kor, crawling in the small entrance. “It’ll have to be good enough —”

“Hurry, hurry!” Men’ak moaned as he pushed Dra’kor through the small door. “Move! Th-th-they’re coming. I can h.h.hear them …”

The two mages clamored to get inside the small tight entrance, crawling on their bellies. They grunted as they both struggled to get the large keystone boulder in place across the small opening.

“Watch your hands,” Dra’kor yelled as he pushed the heavy boulder into place and ground it into the dirt securely.

Dra’kor grabbed the sword and faced the door. “Men’ak, why don’t you try to light a fire? Maybe it’ll scare them off …,” he shouted forcefully as he pointed the blade at the door.

Men’ak stacked some small twigs off to one side of the room using the wall as part of the fire ring and sent a spark of magic into the pile. The twigs burst into flame. Men’ak’s hands were shaking as he tried to stack some bigger branches onto the newly started fire.

“Not too many,” Dra’kor cautioned. “We don’t want to burn the roof or ourselves. Besides, we need to make our supply of wood last.”

Dra’kor could see the sweat draining down his friend’s face. The whites of his eyes showed brightly in the orange-yellow light of the fire.

“We’re gonna make it through this,” he said reassuringly to Men’ak.

Men’ak nodded and removed a few of the larger branches. He knew he had to calm down. His heart was racing and he was having a hard time taking a deep breath. He tried to breathe slowly, holding each breath.

It didn’t take long before they heard louder growls coming from outside, and heard the wolven pacing and circling the stone camp. They startled as one of the wolven jumped up on top of the fort and began clawing at the rocks. Dra’kor took the small sword and shoved it up through the openings in the rocks, hoping to get lucky. On the third try, he heard a yelp as the blade sliced into one of the beasts.

The beast howled loudly, sending shivers up Men’ak’s spine. He was against the rear dirt wall, shaking in fear.

“What’ll we do?” Men’ak moaned.

One of the wolven was trying to crawl into the entry and was ramming the heavy stone with its head. The rock teetered with each hit.

“Men’ak, make sure that stone doesn’t fall,” Dra’kor growled over the barks and howls.

Men’ak just sat there, not moving, his eyes wide with fear. Dra’kor shuffled over to him and gave him a smack on his arm, “Snap out of it man, we aren’t going to get through this if you don’t start acting like a mage!”

Men’ak stared blankly at him, causing Dra’kor to slap him harshly across his face, “Move it! Now!”

Men’ak seemed to snap out of his paralysis and jerked to the front door putting his weight against the immense rock. The wolven backed up a bit and threw itself against the boulder again, digging in with its rear paws, almost knocking Men’ak over. A sharply clawed leg pawed through an opening on the side narrowly missing his arm and causing him to jump in the opposite direction.

“Hack at the leg when it comes through.” Dra’kor grunted. “Use your knife!”

Men’ak pulled his hunting blade out of its sheath, fumbling with the catch. He held it at the ready in a visibly shaking hand.

Meanwhile, Dra’kor had his own challenges. He rolled past the fire and stabbed at another beast that was trying to dig its way in through a hole in the wall. Dra’kor hacked at its leg and snout as it tried to root its way into the fort. The wolven’s long fangs hung over its mouth and its tongue whipped about as it jammed its face into the rocks trying to bite the mage. It howled in anguish as Dra’kor sliced off part of its nose and tongue with a fierce downward swipe of his blade.

None of this made much sense to Dra’kor. He knew that the beasts were smart and were coordinating their attack. He was confused because the beasts were taking heavy losses.

Why didn’t they just hunker down outside and wait until he and Men’ak starved? Rationally, the only thing he could come up with was that the beasts were consumed by some blood lust or compulsion that drove them to attack. His eyes went wide as he wondered if a demon or dark mage was spelling them from outside the hut. He calmed down, reasoning that if either of those were around, they would have attacked directly. That didn’t preclude the fact that the beasts could be under a spell. He would have to store that information away to use at a later time when he —

Dra’kor snapped out of his contemplation and thrust his blade up through the holes in the roof, trying to cause as much damage as he could.

“I don’t think I can hold the rock over the door much longer,” cried a desperate Men’ak as he threw his shoulder against the face of the rock and hacked down on a leg that had poked through. A loud whimper followed by a howl made Men’ak cringe as his knife bit into the woven’s front leg.

“Hold it as long as you can. If he knocks it over, hit him with wizard’s fire!” Dra’kor shot back.

Men’ak nodded and pushed against the boulder again with his shoulder. The wolven hit the rock hard and Men’ak toppled over backwards as the rock fell in. The wolven shoved its head into the small room and snapped at the air, trying to dig with its legs and push itself into the room through the small opening. It was just too big to fit, the toppled boulder blocking its way.

Men’ak prepared his spell and released it into the wolven’s face. It exploded in a shower of sparks knocking the wolven back, but not doing any mortal harm, “I thought Zedd’aki said you could kill these things,” he screamed as he prepared another spell and let it loose. “The magic doesn’t do anything.”

“Try again … Zedd’aki said they didn’t have any magic and could be killed. Maybe he meant they had to be killed with weapons …,” Dra’kor shouted as he rolled over to give Men’ak a hand.

The huge wolven charged into the opening again, but this time, he was met by the sharp iron blade of Dra’kor’s spear, which he plunged deep into the beast’s eye. Dra’kor growled and pushed the business end deeper into the eye socket, straining every muscle in his arms and back.

The beast shuddered and howled, trying to shake the blade free, but its head was wedged in the opening and Dra’kor held strong, pushing the blade deeper as the beast struggled. The wolven snapped at the air as blood leaked out of its mouth. Finally, it convulsed and died, completely blocking the door.

“Zedd’aki must have not been clear in his lesson, you can kill them with a blade,” growled Dra’kor as he yanked the spear free. “Forget about the magic, use your iron!”

“Doesn’t seem as if they have any magic … that must have been what he meant,” panted Men’ak, tired from the struggle. He jabbed the small blade ineffectively through the holes in the rocks.

Dra’kor grunted as he used both hands to drive his long blade up through the rocks, impaling another of the beasts, trying to dig its way in. Gore and blood ran down the sword, covering his hands and arms, dripping into his face. He shoved with all his might as the beast pitched from side-to-side trying to free the blade. Dra’kor struggled to maintain his grip as the sword was ripped from his hands and he was forced to lunge for it, lest the beast pulled it up and out of the stone keep.

Suddenly, as quickly as it started, the battle stopped. The two winded magi sat in the small stone ring, facing outward at the ready. Their hands, arms and clothes were sticky and covered with sweat and gore. They panted and listened to the low guttural growls coming from outside the stone camp.

“You’re a mess …,” Men’ak commented, looking at Dra’kor.

Dra’kor looked up from the fire with a grimace on his face, “You smell …”

Men’ak took a few seconds to toss some more wood onto the fire, which had burnt down to a pile of coals and ash. The branches quickly lit and illuminated the camp allowing them to assess the damage. One dead wolven was above them on the roof and the larger was wedged in the door.

“You think they’ll attack again?”

Dra’kor shrugged, “I’m not sure why they attacked in the first place —”

“— Huh?”

“It doesn’t make any sense to me — They couldn’t get in.”

“They’re just stupid beasts,” Men’ak grumbled.

“I don’t think so, according to legend, these beasts are smart; smart and cunning.”

“Then why?”

“Like I said … I just don’t u-understand it, but I think we’ll be all right for the rest of the night.”

Dra’kor took the boulder they used to seal the door and smashed it down on the demon wedged in the entrance, crushing its head to a pulp and sealing the door. It took him three tries to completely mash the wolven into the ground. With each drive of the boulder, the sound of cracking bone and the squishing sound of flesh filled the air as the skull split and the beast’s brains oozed out over the dirt.

The small hut filled with a foul odor that caused Men’ak’s mouth to salivate.

“Damned by the gods, that reeks worse than a rotted dung rat …”

Dra’kor looked up from what he was doing and nodded his agreement.

Men’ak thought that he would lose the contents of his stomach, as the wolven’s brains continued to ooze out the crack in its skull, but only managed a few dry heaves. They had not eaten since before dawn and fortunately, his stomach was empty.

The two magi sat, spent from the struggle, “That was close …” Men’ak said.

“Too close,” nodded Dra’kor. “But again we survived.”

“I’m still shaking,” said Men’ak, raising a quivering hand. His head ached and his vision was blurred from all the excitement and stress.

“We managed,” a relieved Dra’kor, sighed. “That’s all that matters.’

Men’ak was skittishly, and eyes were wide.

“Do you think they’ll be back?”

“I don’t know,” Dra’kor said, shaking his head. “But now we know they can be killed and that magic can’t help us much.”

Dra’kor paused before he continued, “Then again, I think that magic can help us hold them at bay until we can land a killing blow with our weapons. That may be important if we are ever caught in the open when they attack.”

Men’ak nodded, agreeing with his friend.

Dra’kor reached over and grabbed his pack, pulling out the package that Gretta had prepared for them. He wiped his hand clean on his soiled jacket before he removed a couple pieces of cheese, some dried sausage and two half loaves of bread.

“How can you eat?” Men’ak grumbled as his stomach turned.

Dra’kor shrugged and handed some to Men’ak who waved him off.

“I don’t think I could eat without retching,” Men’ak said, turning a little pale at the sight of the food.

Dra’kor nodded and put the items back into the cloth and returned them to the pack. Dra’kor’s stomach was grumbling and his mouth watered as he took a bite of the dried sausage and bread. He was famished, but chewed slowly savoring each bite. He washed it all down with some water from his goatskin. He felt the warmth of the food in his stomach and his strength began to return.

“Maybe I will have some after all,” said Men’ak weakly, reaching for the pack after the smell of the spiced sausage reached his nose.

The magi sat in silence, eating their cold meal as the wolven circled around the stone fortress, growling every once in a while, but keeping their distance. They paced and howled in frustration, knowing that they couldn’t get at the men inside. They could smell them and that drove them insane with blood lust.

They pawed at the ground and bared their teeth at each other, howling at the moon. They rushed the little stone fort, but after a few accurately placed trusts of Dra’kor’s spear, they seemed to have lost interest and given up for the night.

Dra’kor tried to console Men’ak. “Do you think you could sleep?”

“Uh, that howling gives me the willies. I don’t think so! You?” Men’ak replied shaking his head.

“Probably, or least I can rest,” Dra’kor nodded. “Can you watch over things while I take a break, rest my eyes for a bit?”

“Sure —” Men’ak breathed. “I’ll take the first watch.”

Dra’kor curled up in front of the small fire, put his head on his pack, covered himself with his blanket and closed his eyes. He tossed a little before getting comfortable, but soon he was sound asleep and snoring loudly. Men’ak sat, bathed in the dim firelight, nervously twitching at every sound. He stared, watching the firelight flicker on the rough stones. His eyes slowly closed as he stared into —

The air was brisk and a full White moon shone high in the sky, but provided little comfort or light inside the rock fortress. A cool breeze blew through the holes in the stone making Men’ak shiver. The erratic gusts made the fire spark and glow brightly as it surged and waned.

Men’ak woke Dra’kor after several hours and Dra’kor groggily took over the watch. He yawned, “Anything happen while I was asleep?”

“No. It’s been quiet these last couple hours, I think they either left or are asleep outside. Earlier I heard something walking around, and a few growls, but nothing else for hours,” said Men’ak, yawning, his eyes half closed.

“Try to get some sleep,” a dreary eyed Dra’kor said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Dra’kor watched as Men’ak fell asleep. He threw a few small twigs on the fire and pulled out the message box. He stared at it for a long time, not quite sure of what he should write.

He looked up through the rocks and branches at the Ocht’or moon, its dull orange glow cast an uneasy edge to the night. He glanced over at Men’ak who was tossing and turning as the dreams grabbed hold. Even though he was awake, he could feel the moon’s pull, he didn’t dread the dreams the Ocht’or moon brought … not like Men’ak.

Dra’kor dug in Grit’s pack and pulled out the small kettle. He filled it with water and some of the ground tealeaves from the tin and placed it over the coals. He closed the water skin and returned it to his pack. He found his cup and set it on a rock alongside his pack. He opened the linen-wrapped box and rested it on his lap.

He opened the ornate hazel-colored box, pulled out a thin velum sheet, and held it between his dirty fingers. He could see the flames of the fire through its translucent fibers and could see an intricate pattern of ancient glyphs laid into the parchment.

Dra’kor held the note closer to the flame and examined the intricate glyphs and runes in the parchment. He was amazed at the complexity. Even after tracing the patterns for several minutes, he wasn’t sure that he understood how they would work. It was a curious blending of the basic elements, combined in ways he would have never imagined. He had to give the ancients credit. They were incredibly clever and versed in glyphs.

Dra’kor had thought that he knew a lot; after all, he had been sorting and categorizing spells for centuries. Many of the spells he came across were from times right after Ror. He found them to be the most interesting. He wished he had his tome of glyphs with him. He kept meticulous notes on anything he found that was unusual. Some day he hoped to be able to dissect them and find ways of putting the knowledge to good use.

He turned the box over, placed the sheet in the center of the box, and thought for a few seconds. He opened the ink, dipped the quill and began to write a note to Ja’tar.

We lost Grit at Haagen’s Cross on account that he went over the falls. We searched for hours but found no sign of him. At least we didn’t find him splattered on the rocks at the bottom of the falls. Men’ak and I made it across safely.

We ran into catomen and wolven, but survived both battles. The wolven killed Haagen and the ferry is down. We had to build a small fort out of stone and logs last night. The beasts came out of nowhere and attacked. We used weapons we took from Haagen to defend ourselves. They seem intelligent, but it appears that blood lust can drive them to attack even when there is no way for them to win.

A tinker said that the beasts showed up three months ago. People are terrified. Also of note, crops are failing throughout the realms. It seems that nothing planted in the fields grows.

Another thing, the tinker says the wolven aren’t interested in the horses or cattle, only in killing people. I find that curious!

We should be in Three Rivers tomorrow if our luck holds out. We worry that in the morn, the beasts will be waiting outside our door. We have but a single spear and a short sword. We should have been better prepared. If you send others out after us, make sure they have good weapons!

Tell Zedd’aki he was wrong, magic cannot hurt the wolven or catomen; they can only be killed with iron blades, or so it would seem - Dra’kor

He held the note up and read it from start to finish. Satisfied, he blew on it, helping the ink to dry. He tossed the note into the fire and watched it burst into flame with a sparkling of blue and red sparks. When it was totally gone, he stirred the coals with a branch and put a couple larger pieces of wood onto the fire.

He looked down at the small stack of branches that were left and figured he would be sitting in the dark the last hour or so before dawn. He sighed as he thought about Grit and wondered what had become of him. He rubbed the rest of the sleep out of his eyes and stared into the dancing flames. It was going to be another long, long night. Two days out, he thought, and already we have lost one of our party.

Ja’tar was in his study examining old tomes when the translucent note appeared in the matching box. There was a soft chime and a bright flash before the note coalesced in the box. He set down the book he was reading, walked over to his desk, and stared at the parchment.

He picked up the dirty note, noticing the stains and blood. He slid his glasses to the end of his nose and quickly read the message. He set it in the middle of his desk and stared at it for quite a while, before reading it a second time.

He pondered what Dra’kor had meant by his message, catomen and wolven can’t be harmed by magic. That phrase stuck in his craw because it made no sense, no sense at all. Of all the creature of the lower planes, these were the easiest to destroy. He would have to talk to Zedd’aki about this in the morning.

He was certain that he had taught the boys the correct spell. Could they have forgotten so soon? Possibly, he supposed, but he deemed it rather unlikely. They had practiced that spell for days; surely one of them would have remembered it. So, there had to be an entirely different problem. He wondered what it could be.

He set his head into his hands and wept. He wiped his nose. All this weeping was uncharacteristic of him and he didn’t understand where all of this uncontrolled emotion was coming from. As soon as he had thought about it, he quickly erased it from his mind.

He was out of ideas. Now, Grit was gone. He walked to the fireplace, let the note slide from his fingers into the flames, and watched as it slumped over a log. It charred at the edges before it burst into multicolored flame, the final glowing ashes flickering dull orange before disintegrating and being carried up the flue. He blew out the candles and went to bed.

Dra’kor didn’t notice that the parchment had returned. He had already closed the finely carved box and set it into his pack after carefully wrapping it with a linen cloth. He sat, sipping on some hot tea, lost in thought.

It had been a frantic couple of days. He didn’t have any other adventures to compare it to, but he assumed that most adventures ended up with this much confrontation, although he could be wrong. If things kept up at this pace, he and Men’ak would be exhausted before the week was ended.

Soon, the fire had burnt down, and only the coals remained. He wrapped his blanket tightly around his frame and rubbed his hands together. The sword was cold to his touch now and he no longer gripped it as it sat balanced across his lap. He sat. He thought. He worried.

Three Rivers

It was still dark when Men’ak woke with a start, jarred awake by a disturbing dream. He stared up through the patch quilt roof of their temporary camp and watched the bright Ocht’or moon as it was getting ready to set for the night. The fire had gone out sometime during the night and he was shivering, seeing silver frost on his blanket. He glanced over at Dra’kor who had nodded off and had his head slumped to his chest, eyes closed, the long iron sword draped across his blanket-covered legs, and his large floppy leather hat was pulled down hiding his face. Men’ak listened, and all was quiet. He rolled over and sat up groaning from the stiffness in his bones.

He saw that there was still a short stack of wood, piled up against the outer wall, so he reached over and placed a few twigs in the center of the fire ring. Being too impatient to blow on the few tiny coals that barely glowed red buried in the heap of grey white ash, he let a small magical spark jump off his finger. The tinder he had placed underneath lit quickly; the new flames dancing across the dried wood.

He crawled up close to the newly lit fire and rubbed his hands and legs as the flames grew. Soon the fire began to warm the surrounding air enough that his breath no longer fogged as he exhaled. He was surprised at how comforting the dancing flames could be, it was such a simple thing.

His hands had warmed up enough to stop tingling and throbbing, but his feet were still numb. He would have stood up and stomped his feet to get the circulation moving, but the roof of their lean-to was just too low, so he backed away from the fire a little and set his feet flat on the warm rock they had built the fire on. He wove a little spell and sent a rush of heat into his toes, which throbbed and stung like pins and needles as they thawed. He glanced over at Dra’kor, snoring loudly, and decided to let his friend rest a bit longer, there certainly wasn’t any pressing need for him to be awake this early. The night was still, and for the time being, they were safe.

He glanced over at the dead wolven; its head crushed in by the large rock boulder and shook his head in amazement. He reminisced about the Keep, thought over what he had been through the past three days, and chuckled to himself. It sure had not been what he had expected. He grunted, realizing that he hadn’t really had any idea what to expect, but that being said, he was sure that this, was not it.

Had they talked themselves into this? Well, he didn’t know for sure, but he gave Ja’tar cachet for seizing on the opportunity whether he orchestrated the game or not. They had been outplayed, plain and simple. Had he romanticized the journey? He was embarrassed to admit it, but supposed it was so. He swore to himself in guttural Torren.

He had fallen in love with the idea of walking around the realms on a magnificent adventure being greeted with open arms by the peasants of the surrounding villages. He blamed Dra’kor as much as himself, since he was always preaching about how they should get out and interact with the people more. He had been sold a bill of goods, and he had bought in with gold coin!

He threw a few more branches on the fire and sighed. He wondered what had become of Grit. He couldn’t believe they had lost him and hoped that he wasn’t lying on some riverbank slowly dying. Damn! He could still see his dread-filled face as he plunged over the edge. He wondered how long it would take to rid himself of that image. Between the image of Grit falling, the catomen and the wolven, he was amazed he could sleep at all!

With all their magic, they still failed to save him. Failed! He found it amazing that people actually survived at all in this inhospitable place, given that they had no magic to help themselves. He just couldn’t grasp how self-reliant they were forced to be or how careful they would have to live life. A broken bone, a septic wound, all could be fatal. He couldn’t count the number of times he had been healed for one reason or another.

In a way, he had great respect for the mountain people, although he hadn’t met many since his childhood, and that was so long ago, it seemed more like a dream than reality. But, those he had met at the Keep seemed to be very independent, like Gretta.

Dra’kor jerked awake when the fire snapped loudly and looked around the small fortress wide-eyed. He relaxed after seeing everything was all right, yawned and rubbed his eyes. “I must have dozed off for a few seconds …” he mumbled. “Couldn’t have been long, the fire is still pretty high.”

Men’ak chuckled a little and stirred the coals with a stick.

“What?”

“Nothing —,” Men’ak smiled, “— just had a thought, that’s all. It’s been an eye-opener of a trip.”

“I hear that! Is everything quiet?”

“Yes, it’ll be dawn soon. Another day filled with opportunity to get — killed.”

Dra’kor frowned at the sarcasm.

“Moon’s almost down,” Men’ak said, peeking through the cracks in the rocks.

“Do you want to get an early start for Three Rivers?” Dra’kor asked, stretching and moving closer to the fire.

“I don’t know …,” Men’ak grumbled. “Do you think that’s wise? Beasts might still be out there and we wouldn’t be able to see them until it’s too late.”

“Suppose we could wait for the sun to come up a bit. Having better light might be a good idea,” a still sleepy Dra’kor agreed as he yawned.

“Light would be good,” said Men’ak, as he briskly rubbed his legs. “Warm sunshine would be a bonus.”

Dra’kor rolled his eyes, but just the same, he cuddled up next to the fire.

“What’s the hurry?”

Dra’kor rolled to his side and tried to stretch out. His back hurt, his legs were stiff and his neck was tight. Sleeping in a small cramped stone hut was not something his body was used to.

“I’m just a little anxious to get into town. I can’t wait to spend a night in a real bed,” he chuckled. “And be behind a nice sturdy wall.”

“Here! Here!” Men’ak echoed, agreeing with his reasoning.

Men’ak pictured a stuffed feather bed in a room with a big fireplace. He longed for his small room at the Keep. At least it was warm and dry and there was plenty of food. Here on the road, he was always hungry.

“Do we have any food left?” Dra’kor reaching for his pack. “I’m very hungry for some reason —”

“— Not much left, but I suppose we can eat Grit’s.” Men’ak offered up, looking through his own pack and only finding a few small pieces of dried sausage and a hard roll.

Dra’kor looked up and saw a tear in Men’ak’s eye. “I supposed we could,” he said solemnly. “I’m sure he’d want us to have it,” he quickly added.

Men’ak nodded as he pulled Grit’s pack close, “You’re probably right. Grit would want us to have it.”

He hefted Grit’s pack and slid it across the floor to Dra’kor. They both stared it for a time, not feeling quite right about taking his possessions. Finally, Dra’kor leaned over uneasily and grabbed the leather bag, setting it between his legs. He untied the rawhide cord and flung the cover back. The smell reached him first as he rummaged around for the bread and cheese.

“Well, will you look at that,” Dra’kor grinned, pulling out a tightly wrapped package. “Maybe Gretta does have a hankering for Grit. She packed him smoked fish!”

Men’ak burst out laughing and contorted his mouth, making a face that let Dra’kor know that he was as surprised as he was.

“No wonder the wolven were after us,” he roared, “they were really after the fish!”

“Can you blame them?”

The two looked at each other, knowing they were thinking the same. “The catomen too!” they both roared at the same time.

“Nothing says - ‘here kitty-kitty’, like smoked fish!” Men’ak said, laughing so hard he cried.

They both wished their friend were there with them. They missed him dearly.

“I miss him —”

“Me too, Men’ak! Me too.” Dra’kor chipped in.

“You think we’ll ever see him again?”

“No telling, but I hope so.”

Dra’kor unwrapped the cloth and split the fish in two, grabbing the spine and pulling the meat free. He handed the half with the bone to his friend and watched as he turned it upside down and set it on an oval flat rock. He pulled off a chunk and popped it into his mouth.

“Mmm!” moaned Men’ak, licking his fingers. “I’m starving!”

Dra’kor grinned, “Grit’s gonna be angry when he finds out we’ve eaten his fish.”

“Mad as a hive of bees hit with a stick!” Men’ak said.

Dra’kor nodded as he ripped off another bite, placed it on top of a torn corner of flat bread and shoved it into his mouth.

After eating the fish, some bread and the last bit of cheese, Dra’kor scraped the cloth clean of every morsel using his hunting knife and licked his fingers, trying to get every remaining flake.

“That was so good!” he cheerfully mumbled with his mouth full of the last bite.

“Too bad it’s all gone,” Men’ak sighed.

They packed their things. Now that the food was gone, Dra’kor managed to wedge Grit’s pack into his, which would make it easier to carry and leave him with a free hand for his sword. He handed Men’ak Grit’s water skin to put into his pack. The sun had crept over the horizon and filtered sunlight was beginning to poke its way through the rocks into the make-shift lean-to.

“Ready?”

Men’ak had the spear pointed at the door. “Sure. Ready as I’ll ever be — I suppose!” He jabbing the dead wolven with the business end of his weapon assuring himself it was truly dead.

Dra’kor strained as he moved the heavy rock out of the way and wove a spell to fling the dead wolven out of the entry. The magic hummed deeply as it pushed the dead beast a few feet. Mostly it just stirred up the dirt. He backed down the entry, wedged his feet against the beast, and pushed with all his might, turning the beast to the side and making just enough room to wiggle through. He used his boot to push dirt and rocks, along with most of the gore, out of the way.

Dra’kor turned around and held his sword in front, as he crawled on his belly out of the lean-to, trying to avoid the gore puddle from the dead beast. The beast was still partially blocking the door and Dra’kor could smell the taint and feel the rough fur as he slid past. It made his stomach sour.

“Hold your breath when you crawl out — the beast reeks!” he said.

Men’ak quickly followed and soon the two were standing in the clear morning air looking over the damage they had inflicted the night before.

The dead wolven on top of the lean-to was lying on its side, mouth open, tongue to the side. It was larger than it had appeared from inside the fort and looked exactly the way Barack had described it. There was another lying dead about ten feet from the fort, a fatal wound sliced across its neck.

“We got three of them,” said Men’ak.

“Don’t remember the third, but it was probably luck with the blade when we were just stabbing through the rocks.

Men’ak said nothing. He just stood staring at the dead beasts.

“Barack was spot on when he described the wolves,” Dra’kor said, nodding at the beasts.

“I thought he was daft!”

Men’ak jabbed at the wolf-like beast with his spear, pushing it onto its side a bit more so that he could get a better look at the paws.

“Damn! Those are huge claws,” he said, pushing them around with the tip of the blade.

“Teeth look like they could do serious damage too,” Dra’kor uttered under his breath, recalling the shredded leather vest that Haagen wore, although he wasn’t sure if it was the teeth or claws that did the damage. Either way, the animal was a terrifying foe and he wouldn’t want to have to defend himself with just a knife and a prayer.

Dra’kor stood up straight and took a good look around. He didn’t see anything moving on the hill or in the trees, so he extended his hand and sent out magic feelers. He didn’t know if they would work on the wolven, but figured they might since Men’ak’s wards had fired the previous night. His magic didn’t find anything.

“We better get a move on,” he said, shrugging, “nothing else for us to see here. Seems like the other beasts went home, but I wouldn’t count on it staying that way.”

“None too soon for my liking!” said Men’ak, as he cleared his throat and spat. He slammed his boot into the dead wolven just for malice before turning to go.

The two magi started the climb up the steep part of the trail toward the top of the small mountain pass that led down to the valley on the other side. They cut across the mountain at an angle, not following the series of steep switchbacks the wagons used. When they crested the top, they had a clear view of Three Rivers down in the valley below. It wasn’t as big as they expected, but it had a couple dozen buildings and a few small homes. The entire compound was surrounded by a tall wall of sharpened logs. By Dra’kor’s estimation, the logs were at least twice as high as a man was. Tall enough to keep out most creatures of the night, and those that could get in, well, it didn’t matter anyway!

As best they could tell, they couldn’t see any movement, but they were still a long way off. They started down the wagon path that zigzagged across the mountain from the low pass. The switchbacks were tight and it seemed that they were making little progress for how far they walked.

“We’ll never get there at this rate,” Men’ak said, as he kicked at a loose rock on the road.

“We could try to go across country,” Dra’kor suggested as he stepped off the road.

They tried walking straight down the mountain, but found that they couldn’t keep their balance and the steep rocky slope made their knees hurt and they risked twisting an ankle.

“This is rougher that I thought it would be,” said Dra’kor, as he flung his arms out to keep from slipping as his foot got stuck between two boulders.

“Guess we need to take the road,” Men’ak grumbled as he stepped back onto the road at the next opportunity.

Dra’kor nodded, “It’s a lot steeper than it looks.”

At least on the road they were keeping up a good pace. They hoped to make the town by midday. Dra’kor paused to take a swig of water and looked back up the trail. They had actually made good progress, but because the mountains were so big and the countryside so open, it felt like they were going nowhere.

They had gone far enough that they could no longer hear the falls and even the mist was obscured by the trees. The air was crisp this time of day and the scent of fresh pine filled the air. They were almost to the valley and the forest had thinned out, mostly scruff pine, pinions scattered about, and sometimes a white pine. Only a tall pine here and there dotted the lower landscape, the rest had been cleared and the sharp tops of stumps were seen dotting the landscape. A small creek crossed their path and it was lined with aspen and willow, but the water-hungry trees didn’t venture far out into the valley, they stayed on the slope where they would gather more moisture when the storms crossed the mountains.

They paused for a short time, sitting on a couple big rocks while Dra’kor refilled his water skin and dipped his hat into the small creek. The cool water felt good on his head as he poured it over and rubbed it through his hair.

“Nice valley!’ Men’ak said, staring out across the expanse.

“As good as they get I reckon,” Dra’kor replied.

Dra’kor noticed a small trench dug into the hill where the creek widened. He saw a sluice gate made of wood that kept the water from being diverted into the trench. He followed the trench with his eyes and saw that it led down into the valley where the earth had been plowed.

Dra’kor stared out into the valley. It was mid-morning and he fully expected the fields surrounding the town to be full of folks tending the crops. There were no wagons, no oxen, and no tools. It was still early in the spring, but it seemed unusual to see rows of tilled fields with no green. He knew that farmers got up early. His Da had plenty of farmers working his Lord’s fiefdoms and he vividly remembered being up before dawn and working his chores during the years when his father had desired for him to learn about his kingdom.

He had hated the work at the time, but had grown to understand what his father had been trying to instill in him, by making him work hard manual labor. His father knew well that those at the bottom supported those at the top and if they were content, there was a lower risk of revolt. The best way to understand another man’s toil was to spend a few months in his shoes.

Men’ak’s wards went off at the same time that Dra’kor heard the howl, “Wolven!” They both shouted at the same time. They ran as quickly as they could down the slope, looking for a flat spot they could use to fight. Men’ak moved too quickly cover Dra’kor’s back. They slowly rotated in a tight circle, scanning the horizon for movement.

It was mere seconds before they spotted the first beast in a full run heading straight for them. The muscular beast was covering the ground three, four paces at a bound.

“By the Ten! Look at how fast they move,” said Men’ak, his eyes wide in awe. “We don’t stand a chan —”

“Here it comes,” Dra’kor shouted, maneuvering to face the beast.

Men’ak pushed his spear forward as the wolven jumped for Dra’kor’s throat and caught the beast in its chest with the spear. He held the back of the spear on the ground, leveraged the beast’s forward momentum, using the spear as a lever and hefted the beast overhead, and threw it onto its back behind them. Every muscle in his body tightened as he strained to keep control of the weapon, which bent to the point where he was certain it was going to shatter.

Dra’kor quickly moved in with his sword and drove it deep into the beast’s throat before it could gain its feet, while Men’ak turned to scan the horizon as another two wolven ran in to join the fray.

The two smaller wolven circled slowly, teeth bared and fangs dripping with drool. They growled as they tried to herd the two magi. They darted in and out, nipping at their legs, trying to hamstring the lads.

“Don’t let them corner us,” Dra’kor yelled.

Dra’kor spun an explosive fireball and let it fly at the nearest beast. It exploded in its maw, knocking it backwards off of its feet, but didn’t really harm the beast at all, as it rolled over and shook its head.

“Those don’t seem to do much,” Men’ak cried out.

“No, but they distract them,” Dra’kor shouted back.

Dra’kor swung his blade back and forth in front of his waist as the wolven stalked and feigned charging, only to reverse directions and circle back around. Dra’kor lunged, nicking the beast’s rear, eliciting a yelp.

Men’ak shouted, “Dra’kor, I have an idea. Use the rocks!”

“— How?”

“Lift them and throw them at the beasts. We know magic won’t harm them, but rock is physical and you killed one yesterday using a rock.”

Dra’kor shrugged, “It’s worth a try —”

Dra’kor used his empty hand to weave a spell and lift a good five stone weight boulder high into the air. He motioned with his arm throwing the boulder at the nearest of the wolven. It slammed into the beast from behind, breaking its back. The beast howled loudly and tried to run away using its front paws to claw at the ground as it dragged its rear quarter. Dra’kor rushed in and using both hands and hacked down on the head, splitting the skull open.

“It worked,” he yelled back over his shoulder at Men’ak who was fighting the other wolven that had attacked when Dra’kor had moved to kill the crippled beast.

Dra’kor cast a spell onto his sword and sent it flying into the last of the beasts. The sword impaled the beast and Men’ak finished it off with a deathblow into its mouth with his spear, giving it a wicked twist at the end. The beast twitched and quivered as it died.

Men’ak yanked his spear free and wiped it on the glossy coat of the demon dog. Dra’kor retrieved his sword and did the same.

“No time to waste. If they know we are here, we are sure to face more. We need to move, now!” Dra’kor grunted as he tried to catch his breath.

The two magi, already tired from the fight and covered with sweat, took off running down the valley toward the village. The steep road jarred their knees as they landed on their heels, trying to run full out down the trail. Their legs felt like lead and they stumbled as they ran.

“Throwing the rocks worked well,” Men’ak panted.

“That was a great idea!” Dra’kor wheezed back, complimenting his friend. He pumped his arms as he ran and concentrated on not twisting an ankle or jamming his spear into the ground.

For the first time, Dra’kor thought they had a fighting chance against the wolven, as long as they weren’t attacked by too many at a time.

“Run!” Dra’kor shouted. “I see more coming out of the woods.”

“I can’t run anymore …,” Men’ak said, slowing down and stopping. Dra’kor took a couple more strides before he stopped and looked back seeing Men’ak bent over panting. He shuffled back up the hill.

Dra’kor bared his teeth, “Then I guess we face them here —”

The pack of wolven slowed as they approached, which was just fine with Dra’kor. It gave them time to catch their breath and strategize.

“— We should use the rocks; try not to wear ourselves out.” Dra’kor growled hoarsely, his throat dry from running.

Men’ak nodded but didn’t reply.

Dra’kor wove his first spell picking up a rock from behind the wolven and bringing it down hard on the beast farthest from the pack. The first missed, just glancing off the beast’s front quarter. The beast’s head whirled as it searched for its would-be assailant.

Dra’kor picked up another boulder and took his time, lining up the trajectory before he let it loose. The rock made a hollow cracking sound as it connected with bone. The wolven collapsed to the ground as the boulder smashed its skull.

Men’ak was busy weaving his own spell when the nearest attacked. Men’ak was distracted by his spell casting and didn’t react in time. He threw up his arm into the beast’s face and the wolven chomped down hard, sinking his fangs into the soft tissue of Men’ak’s arm. Men’ak screamed out in horror, as much as in pain.

“By the Ten, Dra’kor! Help —!”

Dra’kor whirled around and saw his friend on his back with the wolven tearing at his arm, throwing its head left and right as Men’ak screamed.

“— Hold on!” Dra’kor screamed as he bounded over a boulder and charged.

Dra’kor took two big strides toward his friend before he was cut off by another of the beasts.

Men’ak fumbled with his free arm, trying to grab his baselard. His hand slipped off of the knife’s handle as the beast tossed its head, tearing deeper into the tendons in his arm.

Men’ak grimaced and tried again, reaching the blade. He pulled it free, worked the razor sharp curved blade up to the wolven’s throat, and with a quick pull of his hand, slit the beast’s throat. The beast howled, letting Men’ak’s arm loose as it tried to get free of the blade, but Men’ak hacked and sliced as if possessed. The howl quickly turned into a gurgle as the beast rolled over dead.

Men’ak scampered away, clutching his bleeding arm.

Dra’kor rolled a summersault as the largest of the beasts prepared to jump and felt his sword slide into the meat of the wolven’s chest. He twisted the blade twice from side-to-side before yanking it out and rolling over to his friend who was clutching his injured arm.

Dra’kor flung his hand out to his side and beckoned a group of boulders to rain down on the three remaining beasts. The rocks slammed the beasts from multiple sides while Dra’kor’s eyes glowed red as he filled with rage.

The last of the wolven charged and lunged for Dra’kor’s exposed neck a split second before Dra’kor rolled to his right. Men’ak, cradling his injured arm against his chest, took one giant step and whirled around, his other arm fully extended holding his curved blade out in a white knuckled grip. The blade slid silently across the beast’s throat and cleanly severed the artery to its brain. The cut was so quick, the beast didn’t even feel it and continued its attack, but bled out before its jaws could clamp down on Dra’kor’s throat.

Dra’kor grabbed the jaws and yanked them open, his hands getting impaled on the sharp eyeteeth. His hands shook and trembled from the trauma of the attack. He ran to Men’ak’s side as he collapsed into the dirt. He grabbed his hand and gently talked to him. “Hold on dear friend. I’ll heal you ….”

He wove a spell and fed the magic into the mage who was pale from blood loss. The wound slowly sealed itself and started to scar over. Dra’kor had to take a short rest before he could continue. He was exhausted and couldn’t focus. He feared he would do more damage than help if he continued. He looked down, and for the first time, noticed that he was also bleeding. He turned his hands over and saw the clean puncture wounds that the beast’s teeth had left. He chanted and bent his fingers trying to cast his spell. Already he could feel his hands getting stiff, a few more minutes and he wasn’t sure he would have been able to finish the spell.

He pulled out an oilskin and held it to Men’ak’s lips. “Here, drink. You need to drink,” Dra’kor beckoned.

Men’ak took a few small sips, choking as the cool water slid down his parched throat. Dra’kor bent over and continued his healing. When he finished, he set his friend up against a rock. “Sit still for a while …” a concerned Dra’kor requested. “You should start to feel better in a few minutes.”

The healing had kicked in and Men’ak’s color had returned. “Thanks for saving me —,” he said. “That’s twice I owe you.”

“Forget about it,” said Dra’kor humbly. “Do you think you can walk?”

Dra’kor was trying to be gracious, but it just wasn’t in his nature. He had never been one to accept another’s gratitude or thanks. It just felt wrong for him to do so when he knew he was just doing right.

“I can try …,” Men’ak said, as he struggled to get to his feet, but fell over. “I might need a few more minutes,” he said, grimacing from landing on his bad arm.

“I’m afraid I’m going to be worthless if we are attacked any time soon —,” he apologized.

“We’ll manage, at least I hope we —” said Dra’kor unconvincingly.

The two magi sat on the bare ground resting for a couple minutes. Dra’kor cleaned his sword and Men’ak rubbed his arm.

“How do you think people without magic survive?” Men’ak blurted out.

“They manage, I suppose,” Dra’kor responded. “I suppose they grew up not being able to rely on it and had to learn better weapon skills than we have —”

“I just can’t figure out how they manage to stay alive …,” Men’ak grumbled. “If not for our magic, we’d …,” his voice trailed off not being able to finish the sentence.

“Well, that’s neither here nor there —” Dra’kor said, standing up. He reached over, grabbed Men’ak by the collar, and lifted.

Men’ak pushed himself to his feet with his good arm, leaning a bit on his spear. “— We can go now. I’ll be okay,” he sighed, resigning himself to dealing with the pain.

The two continued their walk down the road toward the town. They set a good pace, but not so fast that they’d become winded. Men’ak’s arm was starting to feel better and he no longer coddled it. He held it out in front, then to the side, constantly flexing his fingers, stretching out the newly mended muscles and tendons.

He took out his goatskin water bag and took another long drink. He was feeling well enough to try to heal himself and so he fed a thin thread of healing magic into his arm and his sore hip. He grimaced occasionally as the tendons and muscle healed, but he didn’t yell out or show any outside indication of the pain he was in.

They broke free of the trees at the bottom of the valley and saw the town across the open field. They momentarily paused at the edge of the fields. They started to head for the town, and could just make out people waving at them from the top of logged fortifications. It appeared to them that the town had erected walls around the main buildings, probably to keep the wolven out. They couldn’t make out what the townsfolk were yelling, but it was obvious that they were trying to get their attention.

The two magi waved back.

“What do you think they are saying?”

“Who knows?” replied Dra’kor. “I guess we can ask them in a few minutes.”

“Looks like they are getting very excited,” Men’ak said, pointing at the people shouting from the top of the makeshift battlement. “Looks like someone is waving a big white flag!”

Dra’kor was the first to figure it out. “They’re shouting a warning,” he yelled at Men’ak as he started to run. “Let’s hurry —”

Men’ak looked around and saw a pack of wolven running down the side of the valley to the north. Men’ak broke into a full run and pointed. “W-w-wolven!” he cried.

The two mages were running full out heading for the town. They could clearly hear the voices of the people yelling for them to hurry. Dra’kor saw archers at the top of their walls standing ready with bows loaded and drawn.

The wolven were gaining on them, trying to cut them off from the town. Men’ak’s chest felt as though it was going to explode. His lungs ached and his vision was blurring from both the pain and the lack of air. He felt himself starting to slow down.

“Keep running!’ Dra’kor yelled, grabbing Men’ak’s arm and helping him along.

Dra’kor looked back over his shoulder and saw that the beasts were only a hundred or so paces behind them. He knew they weren’t going to make it. He saw the looks on the faces of the people on the battlement, the fear, the hope. So he kept running.

The archers on the wall let loose a volley of arrows that came precariously close to Dra’kor and Men’ak. The two hoped that their aim was true. The second volley caught a few of the wolven, knocking them to the ground, but a group of three still chased. Dra’kor pushed his friend toward the gate and turned to face the beasts alone. He stood firm with his small sword in one hand and his long dagger in the other and set his feet.

The arrows from the next volley took down another of the beasts, as Dra’kor stared into the yellow eyes of the remaining two. The two beasts jumped in unison, going for his throat. Dra’kor rolled to one side landing on one knee. He used all his momentum and strength to swing his sword, cutting clean through the belly of the beast as it flew over the location where his head had been scant seconds before.

He felt the magically enhanced, razor-sharp sword slice cleanly through the beast and without even a second’s hesitation. He stepped up and drove forward with his dagger, plunging it deep into the beast’s eye socket. The beast howled, shuddered and collapsed in a pile. He yanked his hand free, rotated on the ball of his foot to face the other wolven as it reversed its direction, and prepared to leap.

“They’re too close, I can get off a shot,” someone shouted from the top of the wall. “I’ll hit ‘em if I try to get another —”

“— Hold your fire,” another growled.

The beast leapt and Dra’kor dove into a somersault, reversed to the side and with a long sweeping action sliced with his blade, just nicking the animal’s flank. He spun around and set his feet wide, preparing to leap either way. The beast was in a low crouch, snapped its teeth and bared its fangs growling. The fur on the wolven’s nape was hackled as it glared with its bloodshot yellow eyes. Dra’kor growled back, waving his sword, keeping the beast at bay.

The wolven charged left, but changed direction at the last second, coming in from the right. Dra’kor had only a second to extend his dagger. The weapon slid into the skin of the wolven’s neck, but failed to mortally wound the beast, which snapped at Dra’kor’s hand, narrowly missing. Dra’kor fell backwards and did rolled immediately to his feet, at the ready.

The beast came in again, fast. This time Dra’kor tumbled to his left and tucked his blade from his side as the beast pounced. It landed square on the blade, its weight pushing the blade between the ground and its body as it slid down on the blade, crushing Dra’kor.

The people on the battlement went still as they watched the event unfold. They stared out into the field as Men’ak ran to his friend. He hefted and pushed the wolven over and saw his friend lying there, not moving. He shook his arm.

“Dra’kor! Dra’kor!” He shouted frantically, falling to his knees, putting his head to his friend’s chest.

“No!” He cried out when he couldn’t rouse his friend. He pounded his hands in the dirt, consumed with grief, “not Dra’kor too!”

Dra’kor coughed and gasped a big breath of air, rolling to his side. Men’ak grabbed him and pulled him to his lap, “I thought I had lost you, you fool mage.”

“I don’t die that easy …,” Dra’kor whispered into his friend’s ear with a weak smile.

Dra’kor pushed himself to a sitting position. “— That hurt,” He mumbled as he pushed himself to his knees and heard the jubilant shouting and the sound of bows clapping on the wall.

The two magi looked up and saw that everyone on the battlement was shouting and dancing. They saw the tall wooden gates open and three men ran out to help them into the town. They held pitchforks and sickles and warily scanned the horizon as they ventured out.

A dark brown dog rushed out and started barking loudly at the dead wolven. It jumped in and out and from side-to-side, baring its teeth and growling between the yelps and howls. It rushed in, snapped at a leg, and swung its head from side-to-side trying to rip the leg off.

“Bones! Bones! Get out of there,” a man yelled, chasing the dog away.

“Bloody well done!” One of the men shouted as he clapped Dra’kor on the back, causing him to wince.

Soon they were joined by a handful of folks, men and women alike, all shouting at them at the same time.

Someone shouted at Men’ak, grasping his hand, “Well met, welcome to Three Rivers!” he said, shaking his hand vigorously. “B-Bloody good fight!”

The man with the wide gap-toothed grin wore a large, sweat-banded straw hat and a pair of well-worn britches, threadbare at the knees. His boots were unlaced and the leather almost bare at the toe. He held a pitchfork and his hands were callused, tough as leather. Men’ak was sure he was a simple farmer, although he could have been a carpenter. The man pulled on his hand and Men’ak shot to his feet.

“You’re the first people we’ve seen in over three months, didn’t think you were gonna make it!” the third winked.

Dra’kor turned to look to see who was talking to him. The man with the well-aged and tanned face seemed a little tipsy to Dra’kor and he thought he smelled ale. He wasn’t old, but he had a touch of gray in his hair. Dra’kor tried to remember how normal people aged, but he had so little experience with it, he decided to not even try.

The man’s clothes were in better shape than the other two and his hands were less rough than the other two. The pants were clean, unusual for a common worker and he had a set of leather suspenders keeping them up. The shirt was collared, not open necked. Dra’kor wondered if this man was the leader, although he wasn’t sure why you’d put someone who smelled of drink by midmorning in charge.

“Well, don’t stand there gabbing,” an old woman scolded. “Them beasts could be back at any time.”

“Let’s get you inside,” someone said, as the townsfolk grabbed the two strangers and after throwing their arms over their shoulders, helped them limp through the heavy wood gate.

A small lad, not more than four, peered out from between the men and darted away from his mom, rushing over to get the knapsacks and half-carried, half dragged them in. Men’ak watched as the mother grabbed the boy by the ear and gave him a good swat while giving him a piece of her mind. She was none too pleased with his running off. Men’ak smiled, remembering all the times his mother had done the exact same thing.

A small group of town folk pushed the gate shut, straining against the old iron hinges, as a big burly man lifted the end of the gate off the ground and carried it until it was closed. They scurried, quickly hefting an immense shaved log overhead and letting it drop into the rusty iron brackets that were about head high, securely locking the doors. They pushed logs, held in metal shackles riveted to the face of the gate down into hollow logs set deep into the dirt, securing the bottom of the gates as well.

A woman pushed her way to the magi, shoving the men out of the way. “Leave the poor men alone — Brag. Give ‘em some room to breathe. They just finished fighting the dark lord his self!” She handed the two ladles of cool water from a bucket she was carrying.

The two men took turns drinking, their hands still quivering from the adrenalin rush of the fight. By now, a fair-sized group of town folk had gathered. Men’ak smiled at a small boy clinging to his mother’s apron. Men’ak noticed that she was holding another that was nursing.

There were a fair number of small children running around. He couldn’t help but grin. He hadn’t been around the wee ones in centuries. He missed their giggles and laughter.

Men’ak heard a small boy talking to his mother, “Are they the ones, mommy? Did they beat the beasts and kill ‘em dead?”

The mother quieted the lad and shooed him away.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” Brag said, matter-of-factlyly.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Men’ak wryly, as he wiped his brow. “You could have given us a hand —”

“— We’re not fighters, like you. We’d just get killed.” Brag mumbled apologetically. “We tried helping before and lost a couple good men, so now we just wait and see.”

“We aren’t fighters either,” an exhausted Men’ak spat. “We’re … merchants from the highlands.”

“Well, you fight better than any merchants I ever seen …,” someone in the crowd grumbled. There were several ‘aye’s’ that echoed.

“Can’t be too careful,” Men’ak said. “Hills are full of highwaymen wantin’ to take what ye got —!”

“— Right!” Dra’kor quickly added. “Our employer trained us for basic fighting.”

“Well, you done good,” Brag said. “— a bit beat up ye are, but time will heal ye both.”

“Well, I reckon we won’t be going anywhere soon!” Men’ak grinned.

“Then you two will be needing a room I suppose,” Brag stated flatly.

“Well, we weren’t gonna stay that long, but given the beasts outside the walls and our general condition, I reckon we do!” said Dra’kor, with a chuckle.

“— Then gather your things and let’s get you to the inn so you can clean up a bit and maybe have a warm meal.”

“That would be great,” a grateful Men’ak said, as he calmed down and nodded.

“There might not be any fresh fruits or green, due to none of the crops growing right — but Ms. D’Arron always has a good stew or soup on the hook and her bread is second to none.”

Dra’kor and Men’ak groaned as they stood. Dra’kor caught a younger woman, just past her teens staring at him. He smiled at her and watched her blush as she straightened her dress and fiddled with her straw-colored hair. Her mother caught the exchange of glances and scowled at Dra’kor, grabbing her daughter by the arm and yanking her back toward town.

They brushed the dusty dirt from their pants and jackets and picked up their packs, nodding a quick thanks to the boy who brought them in. The barefoot lad was beaming from ear to ear.

Men’ak was hunched over. “Blazes! I’m so stiff,” Men’ak complained as he tried to straighten. “I feel centuries old.”

The group around them laughed, not understanding that he was serious. Dra’kor just gave him a smirked sneer and a grunt.

They started to walk down the main street, heading for the inn, which Brag already pointed out. Dra’kor could feel that he had a few deep cuts, so he sent a small thread of healing magic into the wounds. He feared using too much in case someone might notice. There was no telling if a dark mage was nearby, so he used just enough to stem the flow of blood and seal over the wound. His face contorted at the pain, but given what they had been through, no one would have suspected anything.

Brag searched Dra’kor’s face for answers after seeing him stagger a bit. “You going to be okay?”

“Just feeling beat up, that’s all,” Dra’kor replied, trying to smooth his features. He had a momentary panic attack when he couldn’t find his medallion, but it had slid behind his neck when he was fighting off the beasts. He casually slid his finger around the leather cord and moved it to the front under his shirt, hoping none would notice.

“No doubt … been through a lot, ye have.”

They made their way from the gate toward the inn. Conversation was cheerful as the small group passed by a cluster of empty corrals made from pine logs and rough-hewn timber. They were mostly empty with just two roans prancing from end to end.

Adjacent to the corral were rows of plain wood barracks with deep golden thatched roofs. Dra’kor scanned the tiny one-room buildings and quickly noticed that there were no men amongst the gaggle of women bustling about with young ones clinging to their dresses. The barefoot children chased each other and tossed sticks, running as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

The women were occupied with the daily chores, some scrubbing laundry on a board, some giving the young ones baths in wood barrels. Several were huddled over a cast iron pot, adding onions and potatoes to what Dra’kor assumed was a stew of some sort, although the smell wasn’t strong enough for him to know for sure. They looked up one by one as the group walked past and Dra’kor could see the worry and sorrow in their wind-chapped, well-worn faces.

Dra’kor thought he saw uniforms hanging to dry along a clothesline behind some of the small buildings. “You have a militia here?”

“We do,” said Brag, as he stopped, set his hands on his hips, scanned the barracks and replied proudly. “We have nearly thirty men, more or less.”

“Unusual —” Dra’kor nodded with a surprised look on his face. “— and the King approves of you having yer own army?”

“Indeed,” Brag nodded, “the Lord of Toulereau gave us title to this land a few years back with the King’s approval after we fought in the Ogre rebellion. He stationed part of his army here to keep an eye on things whilst we built our own town.”

“Toulereau? Haven’t heard of it …,” said Dra’kor blankly, as he stared at a woman in a tattered light blue dress as she shook out the laundry and pinned it to the line. “What orgre rebellion?”

Brag stared slack-jawed at Dra’kor in disbelief. “Where have ye lads been living, under a rock? Toulereau is the largest town in these parts, for thirty leagues, everyone knows of it. The castle and yards house near two hundred. Whole town must have near three, four hundred or more. Merchants come from all over to sell their wares.”

“That’s big?” Dra’kor said, his eyes going wide.

“Absolutely,” Brag nodded. “The castle has been there for generations. The Lord his self lives there most of the year. He only recently began living at his other palace sometimes.”

Dra’kor grinned widely. “I guess news doesn’t get up to where we live, we’re pretty remote. Is this Toulereau nearby?”

“Not far, about half a day’s walk to the east,” Brag said, as he pointed in the general direction of the sun. “The road is a bit rough this time of year, rutted and all, but well marked.”

“Hmm. Maybe Men’ak and I can visit while we’re in the area … we’ve never seen a town that big.”

Brag’s eyes went wide and he erupted in a deep belly laugh, placing his hands on his knees.

“What’s so funny?” Dra’kor asked, a bit put off.

Brag looked at him sideways from his hunched over position. “You’re kidding right?”

“Why would you say that —?”

“Well, considering the beasts and your recent encounter, I’m just surprised you even suggested going. That’s all.”

Dra’kor felt his cheeks go red. “I guess I wasn’t thinking about what just happened. I was just excited about the chance to see a real castle, that’s all.”

Brag stood up seeing from Dra’kor’s expression that it was the honest truth and clapped Dra’kor on the shoulder, “No worries, friend!”

Dra’kor watched some of the women staring in their direction. Their expressions were listless. They had stopped working and just stood staring.

“If you don’t mind me changing the subject and asking, why do all the women look so woeful?”

Brag shook his head slowly, “They’re just concerned for their men folk is all. They’ve been missing for a couple weeks.”

Dra’kor turned his back on the women so that they couldn’t see what he was saying, “Missing, how so?”

Brag looked Dra’kor in the eyes, “They’re wives of the men Toulereau sent here to guard while we built the town. A couple weeks ago, Toulereau ordered all of them home, uh, back to the castle to help with the beasts. The messenger that delivered the orders said they were under constant attack. We haven’t heard from them since. It’s unusual for them not to send word … we’re a bit — concerned.”

Dra’kor nodded as he looked back over his shoulder at a woman sweeping off the front stoop as she shooed a small child off the porch so she could finish.

“Were you having attacks here at the same time?”

“Sure, once or twice a day, but the King’s men had easily slain them and kept us safe. Now —?” he shrugged, “we mostly stay in.”

“I feel badly for them,” Dra’kor said, nodding in the direction of the women.

“They’ll be fine, as soon as they hear something. It’s vexing not knowing. That’s eating them up inside.”

“I understand how that feels. Always better to know.”

“At least you can start to heal and deal with the news, good or —”

“— Good or bad, I suppose.”

“Good or bad,” Brag echoed, “wars tend to leave a lot of widows.”

“— and orphans,” Dra’kor added quietly.

Brag nodded, turning to see a mother scolding her son for using a stick as a sword and hitting his brother. She took the stick away, broke it in half and used it to whip his bottom. He ran off crying, holding his rear. She turned to face the men, holding the stick on her hip and scoffed. She threw her nose in the air and turned away to care for her laundry.

Dra’kor stroked his beard. “So Brag, earlier you said that you were having some trouble with the crops? What’s that all about?”

“No explaining it. Damn seeds just don’t seem to grow after sprouting. Almost all of our gardens are barren. By now, we’d be eating fresh greens and spring peas and the carrots would be a couple inches long.”

“I’m a bit of a farmer myself and know most of all the blights. Mind if I take a look later?” Dra’kor said, offering his assistance.

“Feel free,” Brag sighed, “Nobody else seems to be able to make ‘em grow — you might as well try your hand at it. I suppose it can’t hurt none!”

“I’ll do that right after we clean up and have lunch …,” Dra’kor nodded. “What I need right now is a meal and some rest.”

“Well, you deserve it!” said Brag, slapping him on the back.

Dra’kor scowled. The back slaps were getting a bit irritating.

The town was neat and organized. The blacksmith was set up near the gate. He had his fire stoked and was pounding away on his anvil. A gangly lad was pumping the bellows hard. Behind the smitty was a small shack, presumably the blacksmith’s place. The chimney was smoking and Dra’kor could smell meat cooking. A plump old woman stood on the porch, beating some bedding to rid it of dust … and bugs. She took a look at the group and hurried off to attend her midday meal.

Next door was a corral, filled with a dozen or so cattle and a fenced-off section for sheep, although Brag had already mentioned in passing that most of the animals ran wild out in the fields. A wallow was just beyond that and Dra’kor could hear the pigs squealing even though he couldn’t see them from where he was standing. He caught a whiff as they walked past and it transported him back to the farm where he grew up.

Further along was a general store with the door open. A wide array of pots, pans, axe, hammers, and sundry tools hung in display. The old shopkeeper was leaning against the doorjamb watching the procession, tapping his cane on his boot. The place looked empty.

“Looks like business is slow,” Dra’kor commented.

“Empty’s more like it,” Men’ak said.

“You could say that,” said Brag, as he spat. “Until the crops start growing, or folks make the spring trip into town, it’s gonna continue that way too!”

Men’ak looked around. “What do people do all day?”

Brag shrugged, “Whatever they have to …”

There was a garden next to the shop with neat tilled rows with strings and tethers strung between poles just waiting for the plants to grow. The ground was dark, almost black, moist, good soil by Dra’kor’s estimation, but barren nonetheless. Dra’kor craned his neck to get a closer look, but Brag walked on past in a hurry. Dra’kor shrugged to himself figuring he would get a chance to examine the plot later.

A log cabin that served as the tavern stood all by itself next to the garden, its patrons standing in the doorway watching the commotion, holding their meads and ales. Old men, playing a game of Kings Cross off the front porch, looked up as the group passed, but quickly turned their attention to the duel on the board. It seemed to be the only place in town that was doing any business at all.

“Tavern’s busy —” said Dra’kor wryly.

Brag winked. “Nothing much to do but drink.”

A new building was being erected next to that, although only the floor was finished. Well, it was mostly finished at any rate. There were still floorboards that needed to be nailed into place, and one wall was roughly framed, ready to stand. Stacks of rough-sawn lumber, and beams were neatly stacked on sawhorses, waiting to be put up.

Dra’kor looked at the new building. “What’s that going to be?”

“Supposed to be a carpenter moving in, but he was killed last month and no one knows what to do with his stuff.”

Dra’kor grunted his response.

Next, there was the inn, but there wasn’t much else. A few stand-alone homes and shops farther down the main road seemed detached from the town, and Dra’kor wondered why they were so far away from everything else, but he reckoned they had their reasons.

The other side of the street was lined with simple cabins, neat and in a row, most of which were only a single room and barely six paces square. Dra’kor could just see between the structures enough to see that there were small gardens in the back. There were a few trees surrounding the buildings, providing at least a measure of shade from the intense sun.

They arrived at the small inn and Brag knocked on the door. “Coming —,” came a quiet voice from inside.

D’Arron

The door swung open and a fine looking woman in her early thirties answered. Her long auburn hair was pulled back in a bun and she wore a simple blue dress. A long apron was tied at her waist and hung practically to her hand-sewn leather moccasins. Her eyes were bright and her skin was tanned.

“Welcome to my inn. I’m D’Arron,” she said with a huge smile on her face, pushing her hair back from her face. “You must be the travelers who killed them wolves a little earlier.”

“Wow, news travels fast!” Dra’kor muttered.

“We are —” Men’ak said, a bit sheepishly as he stepped into the low-ceilinged common room.

The clean tidy inn was a common log home, chinked with mud and chaffed straw with a large hearth crafted of river-rock on one wall, complete with a nice cozy fire. The roof was tightly thatched and cut even. There were a couple pine slab tables with stools and a few chairs by the fire. A small bar was nestled against the back wall.

A rather large deer-hide rug, pieced together from several animals, was between the chairs on the uneven hand-hewn log floor. Several huge candles were sitting unlit in the corners, waiting for night. The room was bright, the curtains pulled wide and the shutters open for the day.

To Dra’kor, the place felt comfortable, not something you could explain, but something you felt. It was warm and inviting and had a feeling he recalled from his youth. He immediately felt at ease and knew that he would be able to relax here.

Dra’kor shook his head. “Does everyone know about our arrival already?”

Brag snorted, “I’ll leave you to get situated. It’s a small town, I imagine I’ll see you later.”

Dra’kor nodded, caught between two conversations.

D’Arron took two steps back into the room not paying Brag any attention, “Oh, don’t worry none about it. It’s just that news travels fast in a small town and you’re the first visitors we’ve had since the season began.”

Dra’kor mouth dropped. He looked at Men’ak and back at D’Arron, “The first visitors?”

“You’re the first this year. I have to say; that business has been slow … are you staying for a while? I heard you have business in Five Peaks.”

“Weren’t planning on it — but given the situation, I guess maybe we’ll be here a while. We heard Five Peaks is still snowbound in the pass.”

“True enough. You might as well stay.”

“What’s a room gonna cost us?”

“Well, rooms are three pence a night or five if you want meals too; includes three square meals with a tankard of mead. If you want extra, it’s the going rate, halfpence apiece. Baths included and I’ll wash your clothes if ye need.”

“Seems fair —” Dra’kor nodded.

“— In advance,” D’Arron said, staring straight into Dra’kor’s eyes. She squared her shoulders and adjusted her bun, the corner of her mouth turned up.

Strong woman, he thought to himself. Good looking too. He grinned. “Of course …” as he pulled out his purse and counted out the coin for two days. He had expected the cost to be much more. It was an unexpected surprise and just as well, running out of coin was one less thing to worry about.

“Here,” he said, dropping the coins into her hand. “We may stay longer. I’m not saying we will, but given how I feel, we’ll at least be here ‘til the day after tomorrow.”

“Thanks. Hope you understand I wasn’t trying to be pushy, but given how slow things are, well- business is business,” her voice trailed off as she put the coin in her mouth and bit down hard. “Heaven knows when the next visitors will show up.”

“No need to explain …,” Men’ak said, with a big grin. “By the way, I’m Men’ak and this is Dra’kor.”

“Pleased,” she said, and with a small curtsy, she dropped the coin into her pocket and presented her hand. Dra’kor gently shook it.

After the introductions, she was straight away to business. “Let me show you your room. I’m sure you’re exhausted! It’s not too big, but it’s clean, and has no drafts.”

The two magi nodded as they followed the woman up some steep stairs. “Watch your heads …!” she said as she put her hand on the low beam that hung across the stairs.

Dra’kor ducked under the big wooden beam that ran the length of the inn. He glanced up at the floor, and noticed that the fit of the boards was tight and that they were evenly planed, a sign of a good craftsman. He was surprised at how well the place was made, given the size of the town.

She paused at the top and stood patiently waiting for them to catch up. She opened the first small door on the left. There were three others, two down the hall and another across the way.

“Beds are fresh, mattresses are feather and the blankets are wool,” she said proudly, looking back over her shoulder. “The baths are downstairs in the back room; outhouses are out back behind the inn. I’ll put on some water, but it’ll take a while to heat. Do you want to have lunch now or later?”

Dra’kor’s stomach grumbled.

She smiled, “I guess that means now?”

“Lunch would be great, seeing as I’m, we’re, famished. We got an early start this morning and have been fighting the wolves all day. Seems to work up a bit of a hunger,” he joked.

“Ha! Well, hope you like mutton stew —” she said with a smirk, as she took a couple steps toward the kitchen. “It’s what’s for lunch.”

“Mutton stew is fine!” Men’ak exclaimed. “We’ve been on the road for a few days and really miss home cookin’.”

“We’ll see how you feel after you taste it …,” she snorted as she belly laughed. “It’s mostly root vegetables, taters mostly, and lamb. I’d say the bread is the best part of the meal. My mother was a baker and taught me well. Ye won’t starve here, but you aren’t likely to thicken up either.”

With that, she stepped out and waited for the two to follow. They stood for a bit until she cleared her throat. The two magi tossed their knapsacks on the floor at the foot of the beds and followed after. Men’ak closed the door behind himself, and they watched her disappear down the hall.

“She seems to always be in an awful hurry,” Men’ak grumbled under his breath.

They started down the stairs, trying to keep up. Dra’kor ducked and Men’ak didn’t, catching the beam mid-forehead. Dra’kor heard the loud thunk and spun around in time to see a red-faced Men’ak rubbing his forehead and swearing like a gutter rat. He looked up to see Dra’kor with a smirk on his face.

“What?” he growled.

Dra’kor never stopped grinning and just shrugged his shoulders, before turning and navigating the remaining steep stairs. They crossed the common room and sat down at a small wooden table in the rear, near the fireplace as D’Arron headed off to the kitchen to fetch their lunch.

Dra’kor removed his oil cloak and draped it across the open windowsill. He turned and joined Men’ak by the fire, warming his hands. He took a couple steps pulled out the stool and threw his leg over. He scooted the stool close to the table.

Dra’kor leaned in close to Men’ak and lowered his voice. “That was too close. We barely made it to the town. I think if we had another half-league or so to go, we would have been in serious trouble with the wolven.”

“I hear that! And if there were more?” said Men’ak, rubbing his sore head. “By the Ten, at least we didn’t end up having to use magic and having that awkward moment when we’d have to be explaining ourselves.”

Dra’kor nodded in agreement.

“It looked like that last beast really walloped you.”

Dra’kor shook his head, “Knocked the wind right out of me. I saw stars and after that, I don’t remember a damn thing until I saw your face.”

“That was a slick move you did with the blade.”

“I can’t take credit for that. Ja’tar showed us that in one of the practices.”

“I’ll be,” Men’ak whistled. “I don’t recall it at all.”

Dra’kor shifted his weight on the stool and groaned softly.

Men’ak frowned, “Any cuts or broken bones?”

“A few, but I had time to half-heal the wounds. I’ll do more later on, when we bathe.”

“A warm bath, I can hardly wait! I smell a bit ripe, like a skunk in heat!” Men’ak said, pulling his shirt out and flapping it softly.

“You do — like a wet goat,” Dra’kor said, with a wide grin.

“— I wouldn’t talk.”

Dra’kor smirked, “I should smell more. I did more — of the hard work!”

“The halla!” Men’ak roared indignantly, although he knew that it was Dra’kor who had fought off the beasts. It was always Dra’kor. He was the smartest, the quickest learner, and a born leader. He admired the man, but at times —

“Ooh! We’re sensitive …,” Dra’kor teased, knocking his friend in the arm.

Men’ak turned quickly and slugged him back. Dra’kor’s eyes shot open. He had not expected the punch. Men’ak saw his expression so he grinned like a fool. Let him think it was all in good fun.

“You know what I’ve been thinking?”

Dra’kor rubbed his arm, “What?”

“Well, I was thinking about earlier and I’m just bit surprised the townspeople didn’t come out to help us,” said Men’ak, as he shifted his weight on the small stool. Try as he might he just couldn’t seem to get comfortable.

“I’m not. I think they’re too afraid,” Dra’kor whispered as he leaned close to his friend. “I saw the looks on their faces. They thought we were already dead.”

“I still think they should have helped or something, at least they could have thrown some rocks from the battlement,” Men’ak said.

“They did shoot the crossbow bolts and arrows,” said Dra’kor, in their defense.

“I guess they did — now that I think about it.”

“Well, we’re safe for now. I don’t think we should hold it against them not helping. It sounds like circumstances are harsh,” Dra’kor said, showing unusual compassion. “Besides, I don’t think the beasts are interested in getting into the town, just keeping everyone away from here …”

“You think? They seemed very interested in making us into their mid-day meal,” said Men’ak flatly.

“Seems to be —” Dra’kor sighed, looking up from the table. “—Think about it. The wolven didn’t attack until we got to the far side of the river and headed toward town.”

“Maybe there aren’t any beasts on the other side of the river.”

“Dra’kor shook his head, “The tinker ran into them, remember?”

Men’ak nodded, remembering the conversation, “So you think —?”

“I think they were trying to turn us back.”

Men’ak scratched his head, “But why did they attack the tinker? He wasn’t in Three Rivers.”

“I don’t know, but the tinker never said where he was when he was attacked. It could have been anywhere —”

“But why would beasts do that?” They’re just dumb beasts.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Beasts just don’t do that. It would make them a lot smarter than any beast I ever encountered,” Men’ak conceded as he grumbled.

“Or controlled somehow …,” Dra’kor corrected.

“Great!” Men’ak spat sarcastically, yanking on his beard. “Who do you suppose could do that?”

“Don’t know. I suppose I could be wrong …,” said Dra’kor quietly.

Men’ak didn’t think so. He was quite certain that Dra’kor had his suspicions but wasn’t saying. But, he was tired and he didn’t want to think about it anymore.

They sat in silence for a while, each deep in thought, examining the day’s events. Trying to forget, or maybe remember. They sat on the stools and stared at the fire, listening to it snap and pop.

Men’ak looked around the room, “Inn seems to be in good shape, clean.”

“I agree, it’s comfortable,” Dra’kor said.

“Comfortable,” Men’ak echoed while nodding slowly.

Dra’kor sighed as he took a good look around, “So, at least we should be able to get a good night’s sleep without having to worry about being attacked.”

“We should probably still set our wards, just to be safe,” Men’ak said. “We don’t know what else is out there creeping about.”

“Agreed, best to take precautions just in case. We can’t be too careful given what we’ve experienced so far,” Dra’kor reasoned. “Let’s hope nothing else surprises us. I think I’ve had about enough surprises this trip!”

D’Arron came out of the kitchen with two big wooden bowls filled with piping hot stew and set them down in front of the two starving mages. Without saying a word, she sped off back to the kitchen.

Men’ak grabbed a wooden spoon, stirred the bowl once, took a big mouthful of stew, and almost spit it out. He huffed and blew as best he could while trying to cool off the hot liquid. “Aegis, that’s hot … burnt my damn tongue!”

Dra’kor laughed. He placed the spoon near his lips and blew across the hot liquid before taking a bite. “Mmmm, good stew,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “— be careful, it’s hot!”

“Shut up!” Men’ak spat back accepting the dig.

D’Arron rushed back in with a big basket of fresh maslin bread, a slab of fresh churned butter and two glazed clay mugs of mead. She set them down on the table and turned to leave. “If you need anything else, I’ll be in the back getting your baths ready! Enjoy your meal.” She nodded and with her dress swirling, she turned and left.

“There she goes again!” Men’ak muttered.

The two friends ate in silence for a while. Using the bread to wipe down the bowls and soak up the thick gravy.

“She was right. The bread is the best I’ve tasted in a long while,” Men’ak said. “Better than Gretta’s —”

“Don’t let Grit hear you say that,” Dra’kor grunted with a smile.

Men’ak nodded sadly, thinking of his friend and took another big bite of bread that he slathered with butter. He shoved nearly the whole small loaf into his mouth and chewed contently.

“She’s a good looking woman …,” he muttered incoherently, spitting out a small chunk of bread.

Dra’kor gave him a look of disgust.

“She is —!”

“She is,” Dra’kor agreed, looking over toward the side door of the inn. “Seems a bit strange she’s not married. She’d make a fine wife …”

“She isn’t?” Men’ak acted surprised.

“No ring,” Dra’kor said, pointing at his finger.

“Well, there’s probably a reason …,” Men’ak followed up.

“Always is.” Dra’kor grinned ear to ear.

“You really think you’ll be able to figure out what’s wrong with the crops?”

Dra’kor shook his spoon at Men’ak, “Don’t know for sure, but seeds just don’t stop growing unless something is preventing them —.so I reckon …”

“— You think it’s magic?” Men’ak said in a hushed voice, as he leaned closer to Dra’kor.

“Likely, but I won’t know for sure until I check out the fields. If crops grew there last year, they should grow there this year. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Soil looked good,” said Men’ak.

“Did to me too!”

Dra’kor pushed his empty bowl back from the edge of the table and took another long drink of mead, “I’m stuffed.”

“I’m not,” Men’ak said, eying the last mini loaf. “Mind if I take that last piece of bread?”

Dra’kor motioned for him to go ahead and watched as he slathered on the creamy butter. Dra’kor chortled to himself. He had never met someone who could eat as much as Men’ak eats and still stay thin as a bean pole. Men’ak wolfed down the last slab of bread while Dra’kor was lost in thought.

D’Arron walked back into the room. She had a couple rough cotton towels and a bar of soap in her arms. She walked over to the table and set them alongside Dra’kor. “Did you have plenty to eat,” she asked, looking at the empty bowls and plates, all wiped clean of the gravy with the bread.

“Plenty!” said Dra’kor cheerfully. “The food was very good, especially the bread.”

D’Arron smiled at the compliment. “Thank you! I told you it was the best bread you’ll ever taste.”

Men’ak pushed his empty mug across the table in front of D’Arron.

“More mead?” she asked.

Dra’kor looked to Men’ak and they both nodded. D’Arron held out her hand.

Dra’kor apologized, “Oh, that’s right. Here!” he said, fidgeting with his coin purse and handed her another pence.

D’Arron dropped the coin in her pocket and refilled their mugs from the pitcher she was carrying.

“By the way, I have your baths ready. You’ll find the tubs out back. Just leave the water when you’re done. I’ll clean up later.”

“Thanks. We’ll do that,” Men’ak replied.

“You have a nice little inn here. How long have you owned it?” Dra’kor asked before she could leave.

He was trying to follow Ja’tar’s orders by making small talk. He got up from the table and moved over to the oversized chairs by the fire. He sat down and took another sip from his mug. The mead warmed him and he was beginning to feel a little relaxed from the effects.

“I’ve been running it for over a year now — my husband was killed last spring …,” she said, her voice trailing off as she gathered the dishes. “He was coming down into the valley; the wagon lost a wheel and flipped. He was crushed. Guess the horses got spooked and he lost control.”

“I’m sorry —!” said Men’ak, expressing his condolences, picking the chair across from Dra’kor. “It’s hard losing a husband.”

Dra’kor nodded. “Pardon my asking, but were you married long?”

“Just shy of four years,” she replied. “It’s okay talking about it, it’s been a while.”

“Just the same,” said Men’ak softly.

“It’s okay … he didn’t suffer none. The Doc said it was quick, broke his back,” said D’Arron reflectively, pulling herself together. “He was a good husband, but our marriage was arranged — we never really — bonded.”

Dra’kor nodded, understanding how it was. Most of the marriages of the day were arranged by the parents. Few were privileged enough to marry for love. Marriage was always about property or status, sometimes both.

Men’ak took a big gulp of mead, wiping his chin with his sleeve.“Have you always been in Three Rivers?”

“Wasn’t born here if that’s what you mean,” D’Arron replied, sitting down on a small bench. She neatly straightened her apron and tucked it under. “My older sister lived here, so we moved here to start the inn after we got married. I’m from down south in the Lowlands, so was my husband. We were both tired of country life and yearned for being around more folks. We heard that Three Rivers was growing because of the Lord’s gift, you know, the land was free.”

“We’re from upstream in the mountains,” Dra’kor added, giving her a little view into their lives, a truth, but not the whole truth.

“I was born in the Lowlands!” said Men’ak excitedly.

D’Arron smiled, “Where abouts?”

“Big Rock, near the Forks. You?”

“Not far from there, near Rolling Hill.”

“Imagine that. We were practically neighbors,” Men’ak said, with a grin.

D’Arron nodded, “You said you’ve been traveling?”

“For four days now —” Dra’kor lied. “We’re a long way from home. We’ve never been this way before. It’s been an experience.”

“Thought you might be mercenaries, you fight well …,” she said, eying them up and down.

Men’ak asked raising a brow. “Mercenaries? Hardly. We just got lucky with the wolves I’m guessing.”

“Didn’t sound like luck from what I heard,” she prodded.

“I can’t say we’ve never had to fight off wild animals before. But these are much larger than we are used to and didn’t seem to be afraid of people,” said Dra’kor seriously, as he set his mug on the small table. “We really didn’t do that well. The men on the walls killed as many with their quarrels as we did with our blades.”

“Right! Those wolves seemed to be set on having us for lunch,” said Men’ak quietly, as he finished the last of his drink.

“So you’re a long way from home, are you looking for work?” she asked, still trying to figure out what they were doing out on the road with no cart, horse or weapons.

“No, not really,” Men’ak replied. “We have some business in Five Peaks setting up contracts and delivery of food stocks. The high passes are too snowy this year for us to go directly over the top, so we ended up here. We heard that the road was passable from a tinker we met named Barack?”

“I know Barack. He hasn’t visited this year —” she said, immediately recognizing the name. The fact that they knew the peddler made her feel much more at ease.

“We didn’t really think it was this far. We always go the other way and the journey is only a day’s walk more or less. I guess we were a bit foolish, but Barack said Three Rivers was only a short trip. I guess he forgot to mention that it was a day by horse and not by foot!” Dra’kor chuckled, picking up his mug and draining the remaining honey goodness.

“I’m surprised he didn’t stop in on his way up into the mountains. That’s not like him, he likes it here,” D’Arron said, missing the company of the jovial tinker. He always had great stories to tell and brought news from around the realms. Besides, he always brought her spices that were rare in these parts. She had no idea where he got them.

“I’m sure he would have visited, but he can’t get across the river. Ferry’s down. We lost a member of our party at the falls. He got washed over when we tried to get the stranded raft,” Dra’kor replied, the sorrow in his voice showing. “We don’t know if our friend survived the falls or not, we couldn’t find him, but I think that Haagen is dead. We found a body on the deserted raft. We’re pretty sure whoever it was had a go around with the wolves.”

Dra’kor reached into his pocket and pulled out the necklace he had removed from the dead man’s neck and handed it to D’Arron.

“It’s John’s alright,” she said as she rolled it over in her hand. “I’d recognize it anywhere. These are bear teeth. Bethany said he killed the grizzly with his bare hands, if you can believe it!”

“He must have been strong. He took at least two of the wolves with him,” said Dra’kor solemnly. “I think he actually survived the attack, but I think he bled out.”

“Well, that makes eight …,” she said as her voice faltered.

“Eight?”

She nodded, “Eight people we’ve lost this year.”

“That’s a lot for a town this size.”

“Sorry for your own loss, but I should let his wife know, Bethany will be worried sick about him if he’s been gone more than a few days. They have a small child —” she continued in a very weak voice.

“We don’t know it was him for sure, but we grabbed his spear and sword. We weren’t armed with any decent weapons, only a couple knives between us. We figured he wouldn’t mind,” Dra’kor said, embarrassed. “We’d gladly pay Bethany what they’re worth.”

“Hmm, traveling out on the open road without suitable weapons is a might unusual,” she pointed out. “Plenty of highwaymen out there waiting to rob folks ….”

“We’ve never had much issue. Lucky I guess,” Dra’kor said. “Then again, we don’t travel these parts … things might be a bit different with mountain folk. They’re close knit and take care of their own. From now on, we’ll be prepared.”

“I’d say! Well, it’s too bad you can’t see the town when things are better,” D’Arron said, sighing. “This is a nice little town. Good people.”

“Better?” Dra’kor asked, raising his brow.

“Well, as you found out, you’re the first travelers to visit us this year. Town is dead quiet. Those wolves are out on the loose, crops are failing …,” she said as her voice trailed off, “— Now I know the ferry is down. News just isn’t getting any better.” D’Arron straightened her apron nervously as she sat.

“Sounds like it’s been pretty bad as of late, but I’m sure things will turn around,” Men’ak mumbled half heartedly hoping to sound profound as he tried to cheer her up. “They always do.”

“Will be a whole lot worse if we can’t get the crops growing,” she continued. “Most of the folk here are farmers. We were lucky that last year was a good one. We have decent stores, but come fall and next winter — and if we cannot get supplies across the river …”

“I hear you,” said Dra’kor. “All it takes is a bad year. Cropping is a hard life no matter what.”

D’Arron nodded her agreement. “We’ll have meat, just no flour for bread, no sugar or potatoes. We’re lucky that the wolves don’t seem to bother the animals. Strangest thing don’t ye know, they only seem interested in people.”

“Just people you say —?” Men’ak repeated, thinking about what Dra’kor had said earlier.

“— Strangest thing,” she said, reflecting on that small detail. “They haven’t slaughtered a single cow, lamb or pig.”

“Does seem strange, not like the wolves I know,” Dra’kor said, putting his hand over his mouth and rubbing his short beard.

Men’ak grumbled under his breath, “just as soon eat their young …”

“Hmm,” she grunted.

Dra’kor rubbed his eyes and temples, “Brag? I think his name was Brag, said the critters showed up early spring?”

He was trying to build a better idea of the timeline, but exhaustion was beginning to take its toll on his ability to focus.

“I seem to recall that the ground was still covered with snow. We lost five people in that first attack. Eight total now if you count Haagen. We built the wall around the town after that first attack,” she said quietly, tears in her eyes. “We lost good people … friends. Town’s small, everyone plays a part.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dra’kor said sincerely. “It sounds like it’s been a bloody horrible year so far.”

“It has! I appreciate your understanding …,” D’Arron said, and her voice trailed off as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “I guess I’ve been kind of ignoring the pain of the loss.”

“We should leave you alone —” Dra’kor said, admonishing himself for dragging up bad memories.

“I suppose we should go have that bath before the water gets too cold,” Men’ak said, understanding his friend’s reluctance to continue the conversation at this time.

“We’ll talk more after we’ve cleaned up if you’d like. Can we hang our dirty clothes up somewhere to air out?”

“Sure Dra’kor. Why don’t you hang them up on the pegs by the tubs? I’ll have them washed,” she said as she turned to go toward the kitchen. “I’ll leave you alone while you bathe. I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”

“You’re not a mess, but I’m afraid we have had you dredge up some rather unpleasant thoughts. We’re really sorry for that,” Dra’kor lamented.

“You’ll have to excuse me for a bit,” D’Arron said, looking down at the necklace. “I need to take these to Bethany. She’s got a right to know.”

They nodded, knowing she knew how her friend would feel. Knowing is always better than the fretting and anxiety, even when the news was bad.

She stood up, walked out the front door, and turned up the street in the direction of the homes at the far end of the street.

The two magi got up from their meal and went upstairs. Dra’kor picked up his knapsack and threw it onto the bed as he sat down to remove his shoes. He grunted as he yanked his foot free of the slightly damp leather. “I can’t wait to take a bath,” he said grimacing as his aches and pains made their presence known.

“Me neither,” said Men’ak, agreeing wholeheartedly.

“I think I’ll take my robe into the water with me and clean it a bit …” Dra’kor said, as he stripped down. He draped his other robe over his shoulders and cinched it at the waist. He pulled out the message box and placed a careful spell over it. It went invisible and Dra’kor shoved it under the pillow adding a ward for good measure.

He and Men’ak made the trip down the rear stairs and out to the back room where two big tubs were sitting full of tepid water. Dra’kor set his dirty clothes on a short table sitting near the tub. He stripped off his robe and slid into the water after setting his towel on the small wooden stool that sat next to the tub and hanging his robe on a peg. He grabbed the bar of soap off the stool and lathered down.

“Oh, that feels marvelous,” a contented Dra’kor moaned as he used a touch of magic to further heat the water to steaming and added a little more to heal his wounds. He set his head back on the edge of the tub and closed his eyes.

Men’ak slid into the other tub and smiled at Dra’kor. “You’re right, that does feel great.”

Dra’kor slid his head under the water and scrubbed his hair with the soap. He rinsed off and sighed.

Men’ak reached across the void between the two tubs. “Can you pass the soap?”

Dra’kor handed his friend the soap and felt the warm water soothing his aches and pains. He rubbed his freshly healed wounds and massaged the small of his back, strained while fighting the wolven.

The two magi sat in silence for a long time just enjoying the simple pleasure of a warm bath. They felt much better after they had soaked for a while. Dra’kor asked for the soap back, caught the bar and scrubbed his legs and feet. When he finished, he threw the bar back over to Men’ak.

“It feels so good to be clean,” Men’ak said, as he leaned over and washed his dirty feet.

“I never thought I’d miss bathing as much as I have these past few days. I cannot remember the last time I went for more than a day without a bath,” he said as he contemplated their outing. “Living in the Keep has made us soft —”

“I don’t mind being soft,” Men’ak said, as he laughed. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this adventuring. For all the complaining we did at the Keep …”

“It has caught me a bit by surprise,” Dra’kor chuckled. “But moments like these …”

“— are so sweet!’ Men’ak finished his sentence. “So, how has our trip surprised you so far?”

Dra’kor sat up straight in the tub, “Well for starters, I never imagined I’d be this sore all the time. I’m dirty, bone tired and sore. I feel every scrape, cut and broken bone.”

“Me too,” said Men’ak.

“Somehow in my head, only the adventure was in my dreams, not the cold, the dirt, or the sweat and pain. I don’t know what I was thinking,” Dra’kor shook his head side-to-side.

“It’s certainly unlike anything I had imagined it to be, it’s so much more somehow,” Men’ak echoed his friend’s feelings. “I guess I don’t mind it none, I just hope I don’t get a steady diet of dirt and cold, that’s all!”

Dra’kor grinned, “You know we almost lost our lives three times!”

“Sure, I know. But I’ve never felt as alive, have you?”

Dra’kor thought about it for a while, “I guess you’re right. I do feel alive.”

Men’ak nodded.

“As long as we get a nice warm bath every three days, I can live with the rest! Even the danger,” Dra’kor said, with a big toothy grin.

Men’ak looked over at his friend a little surprised. “You really don’t mind this?”

“No, not really! I think the root of our problem is the lack of conditioning and an absolute deficiency of experience. I feel stressed not knowing for sure if I’m doing the right thing. I abhor that.”

Men’ak thought about what Dra’kor had just said, and realized that he felt the same. It was the feeling helpless against the elements that had been bothering him too.

“Do you think we will ever get used to it?” Men’ak queried, looking over at his friend.

“Suppose we will,” an optimistic Dra’kor replied after much thought, “If it doesn’t kill us first —!”

Men’ak threw a big slosh of water at Dra’kor.

“I’m just saying,” Dra’kor laughed.

“Probably truer than most ye said today,” Men’ak grumbled, knowing it was the half of it.

“— Most?” said Dra’kor indignantly.

””You know it!” Men’ak shot back.

“I have been nothing if not forthright and honest with all we have met!” Dra’kor said, feigning hurt.

“Sure, and I’m one of the Ten,” Men’ak laughed.

“On that note, I’m going to wash my robe,” Dra’kor announced as he stood up ending the banter.

He stepped over to the tub wall and pulled his dusty robe off of the peg. He put it into the tub and stomped on it with his feet. He pulled it out, soaped it down, and threw it back in for another stomping. When he was satisfied it was clean, he rinsed it in a bucket of cold water next to the tubs, rung it out and hung it up on the peg to dry. He toweled dry and put on his new robe.

Men’ak begrudgingly got out of the tub and did the same. “Water’s getting cold anyway —”

“Mine is still piping hot,” Dra’kor winked.

Men’ak, realizing that Dra’kor had caught him again in complaining about something he could have fixed with a little magic, threw his wet robe at his friend’s head. Dra’kor deftly ducked out of the way and roared loudly, knowing that he had bested his friend. Again!

Men’ak felt stupid and wondered how many times it was going to take before he didn’t have to be told how and when to use his magic. He grumbled to himself, frustrated because Dra’kor always seemed to have this innate ability to know when and what to do. He supposed that was one of the reasons he admired him. He just wished he could be a bit more like him. He hated being teased, absolutely hated it!

The two wizards gathered their things and made their way back to their room. Dra’kor collapsed onto the bed. “I think I’ll take a short nap,” he announced as he bunched up the pillow. He plopped down only to feel the hidden box he had placed under the pillow. He removed it and set it on the small side table, slid back in and tossed the roughly woven wool blanket over his feet to keep them warm.

“Sounds like a good idea to me. I’m exhausted,” Men’ak said, as he yawned.

The two friends closed their eyes and took a nice two-hour nap, awakening mid-afternoon.

Dra’kor stretched as he awoke from his short nap. He had to admit that he felt much better. His body had really needed that time to heal. He felt better than he had at any time since they had left the Keep. He tossed back the blanket and sat up on the edge of the bed.

“I suppose we should go take a look at the crops,” Dra’kor mused out loud, more to himself than to Men’ak.

Men’ak sat up in bed, “Why don’t you go? I think I’ll hang out here for a bit. I’m not sure I can add much to what you’re going to do.”

“I guess I can do it alone. I really don’t think it will take too long,” Dra’kor announced as he walked to the door. “I’ll see you later.”

Men’ak grunted and waved before crawling back into bed. Dra’kor walked down the stairs and found D’Arron cleaning the inn. She looked up as he approached, “Did you have a nice bath?”

“We sure did, it relaxed us so much that we both took a short rest,” said Dra’kor, a bit ashamed.

“Did you leave your dirty clothes out back?”

“We did, but we washed them in the tub before we set them out to dry. We don’t want to be a bother,” said Dra’kor smiling.

“Well, I’ll let you get away with it this time, but next time, you let me wash your dirties. That’s what you paid for!” She shook her finger and scolded Dra’kor in a good-natured way.

“Agreed. Now, where can I find this Brag fellow? I need to take a look at the fields and gardens to see if I can figure out why your crops are failing,” Dra’kor said.

“You can probably find him down at the tavern. There’s nothing much else to do these days so the men folk spend most of their time throwing dice and drinking,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I hope they snap out of it soon.”

“Thanks. I don’t think I will be gone too long. Maybe we can talk when I get back?”

“That would be nice,” she said as she went back to her task of cleaning the inn.

It actually felt good that someone wanted to talk to her. It had been a long time and she missed the intimacy of sharing her thoughts the most. Since her husband passed away, she had felt a bit of a loner. Most of the Three Rivers folks were married and if not, weren’t exactly good company.

She had grown up in a teacher’s family; her dad had been well educated and had known much of the world. After he married her mother, they had moved back to the country where he taught for a local church and raised his family, her, her sister and her two brothers. She missed her parents and her brothers. But she especially missed the smell of her dad and his quirky ways.

She still vividly remembers sitting on his lap listening to stories when she was a small child. He would light up his pipe, sit in front of the fire, and spin a yarn. He acted out the parts, she loved how his eyes sparkled, and his voice was full of laughter. She liked the way he held her and made her feel like the most important person in his life. He had a way, that’s for sure.

Dra’kor let himself out of the inn, closing the door carefully behind him and walked down the street toward the tavern. D’Arron was right, the town was deserted. No one was out on the street. He quickly made the short trip down to the tavern, passing the unfinished building and pushed his way in through the doors. Almost every head turned to face his way when he entered.

Dra’kor saw the man, sitting at a table with three others. They had a row of empty glassed parked in the center of the table and a pile of coins. They were playing some game that involved cards.

“Ah, Brag. I was looking for you. Thought I’d take a gander at the gardens and crops to see if I can figure out why nothing is growing,” Dra’kor said, with a welcoming smile.

“I guess we could take a look,” mumbled a disheartened Brag, more than a little tipsy from his several drinks. “Mind if I finish my ale first?”

“No, you go right ahead,” Dra’kor said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your game.”

Brag pulled out a stool. “You ain’t interrupting nothin’, would you like to join us?

“I guess I could, seems I don’t have anything pressing to do,” said Dra’kor, sitting down on the small wooden stool.

Brag pointed to Dra’kor catching the bartender’s attention. “— Ale for our friend here. You play?”

“Never learned.”

“Too bad, we could use a fourth. I fold!” he said, throwing his cards into the center facedown.

Dra’kor remained sitting as the bartender brought a frothy mug of ale over to the table. Dra’kor pulled out his purse, but Brag set his hand on top. “This one’s on me.”

“I appreciate it,” said Dra’kor, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip. The ale was better than he expected, nicely herbed, slightly chilled. He raised his mug to the bartender and gave him a warm smile.

The bartender nodded. He knew his ale was good. He had the magic beer stick his father had given him to stir the sweet wort. He was careful to never wash it, keep it damp and always keep it covered, just as his father had told him.

He had helped his dad make ale when he was a wee lad. His dad’s ale was the best in the county, his recipe never changed. When he married and moved to Three Rivers, his dad gave him the stick and made him promise to keep the recipe the same. Rough ground malted barley, half of which he roasted for sweetness, water, heat to just about hot. Let ‘er set for a while, bring it to a boil, cool it down and stir it with his stick thrice a day for two weeks, keep it covered with a damp rag. When the foaming stopped, add in the evergreen herbs and spices, and the green flowers if you could find them.

His dad said the flowers were the secret. Sometimes he could find them, sometimes not. He kept bags of them in the back, picking as much as he could when he stumbled onto a patch. They made the ale taste a tad sour and spicy. He used them sparingly, not wanting to run out. He glanced down at the bag under the counter. It was already half empty. He knew where they grew in the forest, but he’d be damned if he was going outside these walls without a small army.

The rest of the recipe was simple, pour the clear liquor into a keg and let ‘er set. Chill in a deep underground room until you serve it. It actually got better with age, but the crew around this place never gave his ale time to age. He laughed to himself.

“So tell me about this crop situation? D’Arron says you’ve had troubles with your greens.”

“Not just the greens, all our gardens are doing poorly. There ain’t nothin’ else to tell, really. This year nothing will grow, not a damn thing. Some seems to start out fine, but dies after a few days, grows back a little, and next day it dies back again. Other don’t do nothin’,” Brag said, shaking his head in disappointment. He finished his drink and immediately ordered another.

“Has this been going on for the whole season?”

“Has!” said another man, who was at the table. “Since the snow cleared a month ago.”

“Just like John said, it’s been wrong from day one, started right after snow melt. We usually get in a couple good crops of peas in the spring, nice greens. This year, nothing grows, not even the dandelions,” Brag said, slamming his mug onto the table, sloshing some of its contents out. “I just don’t understand it. Corn hasn’t even come up.”

“Well, we can take a look. Maybe something got into the seed or soil,” said Dra’kor. “These things can be hard to spot.”

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” Brag replied rubbing his temple. “We could really use a break. This has turned out to be a horrible year for the town. People are talking about leaving —”

“Well, whenever you’re ready, we can take a look,” Dra’kor nodded as he took another drink from his mug.

The two finished their ale and made their way to the door. Brag staggered a little and slammed into the door. John grabbed him to steady his walk, but Brag just threw his shoulder at John and brushed off his help.

“I’m okay …,” he grumbled as he pushed away John’s hand and put on his large floppy leather hat.

A few of the other patrons also tagged along as they made their way up the street toward the gate. Dra’kor knew he was being watched. The wives of the garrison had all stopped their chores and were watching the procession with eyes shielded from the morning sun. On the far side of the stable, a long narrow area was spaded and had rows and stakes set.

“Here’s the first garden,” Brag said, looking down with disgust. “We have three others inside the walls. The bigger fields are all outside, but they’re all the same.”

Brag let out a loud belch. “That’s better,” he said with a snicker. “We can look at those if you want, but I doubt they’ll tell you anything these won’t.”

Dra’kor kneeled down and scooped up a big hand full of dirt. He examined it, sifting it through his fingers. He let a small thread of magic out his fingers and dropped the soil as if it was on fire. It wasn’t really necessary because he detected the magic as soon as he touched it, but he wanted to be sure. He hid his hand, which had small blisters on it from the touch of dark magic. Someone or something had purposefully poisoned their crops.

“I think you have a taint in your soil,” said Dra’kor. “I think I can fix this.”

A hopeful Brag looked down with unfocused eyes at Dra’kor, “You really think you can figure this out?”

“I should be able to. I need a couple barrels and a few things from the local store, but I should be able to get your crops growing,” Dra’kor said, appearing to be deep in thought about how to solve the issue.

Dra’kor hid his one hand under his robe and cast the spell to clear the dark magic from the garden and his hand. He focused on watching the magic work and jerked back as he saw the disfigured shadow beasts, called ululates umbra, crawl across the ground toward a different patch of dirt. The shadow beasts were poison mist-like creatures fabricated from lost souls. Slowly, but surely they sucked the life out of whatever they were bound to. Their twisted features, hollow, empty eyes, barely visible in the ether, were like thin smoke flowing across the soil. Their wailing mouths moaned a unperceivable howl, unless you had the gift and knew how to see and listen. Dra’kor used the magic to direct the creatures out of the town. After he finished, he felt to see if any traces remained. Satisfied, he stood up and asked to see the other inside gardens. The dark magic had been subtle, lightly cast with finesse.

After Dra’kor confirmed that each garden had the same problem, they went to collect the barrels, some sugar and herbs. Dra’kor mixed them in the barrel and added an herb from his pouch, making a big deal about the properties of this special herb. By that time, a large following of towns’ people had gathered. Dra’kor handed them all watering cans and told them to soak the plants.

Dra’kor watched as the townsfolk carefully watered each individual plant or row of plants. Dra’kor knew that the problem had been solved and that in a matter of days, new growth would be apparent. The bigger question was; who or what had cast the spell to poison the soil in the first place. Shadow beasts weren’t uncommon, but they stuck to the forests, hating bright sunlight. He knew he would have to investigate further before he could draw a reasonable conclusion.

The town’s people put the lids on the big barrels and fastened the strap before rolling them to the next garden. By now, the whole town had showed up and everyone was excitedly talking and working together. Dra’kor marveled at how well they worked together, all pitching in to complete the job.

For now, he was just happy that he could fix the issue. He would further increase the magical protection of the gardens later tonight when he could work with less scrutiny, making sure the town was cleared of the taint. He wanted to make sure that it could not be removed without extraordinary measures. In that case, he would know that he was not dealing with any normal magic caster, but one vastly more accomplished than he is.

“Thank ye sir!” an older lady said, as she grabbed his hand. “You be saving our lives, ye are. Don’t rightly know how to repay you for your services.”

Dra’kor grabbed her hand and gave it a little kiss. “There’s no reason to repay me. The service I offer is free as a good neighbor,” he said, touched by the tears of gladness in the old woman’s eyes.

She hugged him and hobbled off leaning heavily on her cane mumbling as she went, “— been tough with the men folk gone … heaven knows what they’re facing ….”

Dra’kor called after her. “Madam! Excuse me?”

The old woman stopped and turned ever so slowly around.

“What pray is the matter with your leg?” Dra’kor asked.

“I had an accident a few years back falling off an ox cart. Doc says the bone didn’t heal quiet right. Why are you asking?” she said with a smile on her lips. No hint of pity, what was, just was.

Dra’kor smiled, “I dabble in the arts of healing a bit and I think I may be able to help you.”

Dra’kor pulled out his small satchel of teas and spices, took some of the herbs, and put them in a small poultice bag that he sometimes used for tea. He handed it to the old woman and said, “Madam, I want you to carry this in your pocket and wipe your leg with it every day for a week. It should help your bones heal. It won’t help anyone else, but it should be enough for you.”

She thanked him profusely and while she was tucking away the bag, he cast a very weak healing spell on her leg that would slowly correct the bone over the course of time. He doubted she would notice the change, but after a few days, she most likely wouldn’t need the cane any more. He glowed with pride on the inside. Helping these people felt good. A kind of good he had never really experienced before. This was what magic was all about. This was his purpose.

Dra’kor watched the towns’ people finish watering all the gardens. They stood around waiting. But Dra’kor couldn’t figure out what they were waiting on. Finally, Brag came over, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Is that it? Nothin’ else?”

“— That’s it,” Dra’kor echoed. “Crops should start growing tomorrow or the day after at the latest.”

Brag seemed a little leery of the proclamation, “Are you sure?”

Dra’kor looked him in the eye, “I’m sure, why do you keep asking me that, Brag?”

Brag scratched his head and hung his eyes low, “Well, you ain’t the first one to tell us everything will be okay. The last guy said the same bloody thing and nothing happened, things just got worse.”

“Someone else tried to fix your gardens?” Dra’kor asked gap-mouthed.

“A man in a dark red robe came by about a month ago, said he noticed the fields weren’t doing so good and asked about the gardens. We showed him, he felt the dirt just like you and said that nothing was wrong and that the weather was just too cold yet. Nothing’s grown since.”

Dra’kor had to concentrate to keep his mouth from hanging open. He didn’t know who the visitor was, but he was quite sure that he had tainted their gardens once he got access through the gate. He knew he had to tell Ja’tar. Dra’kor was actually excited. This was the first thing he could actually report to Ja’tar about their trip that made any sense.

“Well, I’m sure that I fixed the problem,” Dra’kor said, trying to console Brag. “I’ll stick around an extra day if I have to just to make sure I’m right. Can we look at the fields outside?”

Brag scratched his head and wasn’t too eager to leave the safety of the gates, “I’d just as soon stay inside if you don’t mind. It’s getting late in the day … they come out in the night.”

Dra’kor understood his fear. “That’s all right by me, we can take a look tomorrow,” he nodded.

Dra’kor walked back to the inn and was greeted at the door by D’Arron. She stepped inside the inn and tried to close the door after Dra’kor entered.

“Can we leave the door open for a bit? I like the fresh air and would really like to see the sunset?”

D’Arron nervously agreed, “I suppose it will be okay, but only until the sun sets.”

“Thanks,” said Dra’kor, as he continued to stand in the open door and stare out across the pines.

“I hear you know what is wrong with the gardens,” she said excitedly. “You really think you fixed the problem?”

“Dang! News really does travel fast,” he mumbled, shaking his head as he placed his hands on his hips.

D’Arron laughed, “Well, there is only one main street, and from what I’ve heard, the whole town was giving you a hand.”

The sun was starting to set and you could hear the bay of wolves in the distance. Dra’kor stepped to the door and listened. The sound made his spine chill. He didn’t notice D’Arron watching him from inside the common room. He was too distracted staring out the door.

The last of the sun’s rays were turning the tops of the pines golden and the purple and plum colored peaks were already shrouded in shadow. The fires in the homes and buildings had filled the valley with a light blue haze that reflected the last rays of yellow and orange from the sun. Dra’kor loved the way the soft breeze pulled the smoke into fine layers that swirled as little gusts of wind caught them.

The encroaching darkness danced across the street as the tall trees cast their shadows over the small enclave. The branches undulated as the wind scurried about and he could feel the wind tracing patterns across his face.

Dra’kor stood in the door and watched as the sun dropped down behind the mountains and the last touches of silver lined the clouds. It was magical, but only for a few moments. The sky soon grayed and twilight arrived. The air smelled of pine and spring, clean and clear. Already the cold was setting in and Dra’kor could swear that he could hear the waterfall in the distance.

“You best come in so I can bar the door,” D’Arron said, setting her hand on his shoulder.

“What? Oh, sure!” he said, stepping into the inn and getting out of her way.

He stared appreciatively as D’Arron closed the door and put a plank across the metal brackets and checked to make sure everything was secure. She also closed the shutters and latched them securely before closing the heavy curtains to keep out the cold.

D’Arron caught him staring out of the corner of her eye and grinned to herself. She flipped her hair from her face, sure that her cheeks were red.

“I thought we were safe inside the walls?”

D’Arron smiled back at him, “I’m pretty sure we are, there’s never been an attack in town, but there’s no sense in taking any chances. Why don’t you go up to your room and I’ll bring you a warm wash basin so you can clean up from this afternoon.”

Dra’kor nodded and mumbled thanks as he climbed the stairs, holding tight to the rail. He found Men’ak in the room still sound asleep, laying face down on the bed, his mouth open. Dra’kor shook his shoulder to wake him. “Come on man, time to wake up.”

“Huh?” he grumbled, still half asleep. “Oh, are you done already?”

Men’ak stretched and sat up.

“Already? Men’ak, it’s after sunset, you’ve slept all day,” Dra’kor laughed as he pushed Men’ak’s shoulder again. Men’ak fell over backwards, his head landing gently on his pillow.

“Is it dinner time yet? I’m starving!”

“You and your stomach! You’d think you would starve to death if you missed a meal,” Dra’kor joked.

“— ain’t nothin’ funny about being hungry,” Men’ak grumbled back, still trying to wake up fully.

D’Arron was true to her word and delivered a clay washbasin to the room and after the two magi cleaned up, they went downstairs for a fine dinner of roasted fowl and potatoes. Men’ak tore into the chicken as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. Even D’Arron got in on the teasing, causing Men’ak to blush profusely. It had been a long time since the men had enjoyed the company of a younger woman. They had forgotten how pleasant it could be.

After dinner, they helped clear the dishes and spent the rest of the night sitting in front of the fire, sharing yarns. Men’ak made a pot of tea and D’Arron had some. Dra’kor watched her face light up when she tasted the brew for the first time. D’Arron had told them that she never had tea before. Men’ak could tell that she absolutely loved it. Men’ak explained how to make tea from dried herbs and flowers.

The magi spent most of the night listening, as D’Arron was in a very talkative mood. The teacher in her came out and she lectured the two, giving them a brief history lesson on the Three Rivers area.

“Of course, the Three Rivers area was named after the falls. According to legend, this was once the site of a sprawling city, several thousand lived there I hear, but you can’t find any ruins or signs of it, except for the ruins by the falls. Some folks think it used to be a bridge, but who ever heard of a bridge of stone, besides, it’s just too big. The stones are too big to be moved by horse, so it’s got to be something else.”

Dra’kor hid a smile. “What happened to it, the town?”

“Nobody knows for sure, but there are a few scrolls in Toulereau that were written back in the time called Ror that say the town was wiped from the ground with a single blast. I never heard of a time called Ror have you?”

Dra’kor lied, shook his head no, “Blast?”

“That’s all that was written, it just said, ‘Some kind of magic blast.’ Well, I’ve seen magic before! Like at the festival, but I don’t believe no magic could be strong enough to destroy a whole town. That’s just silly talk!” she said, waving her arm.

Men’ak stared at her. “Where did you get the scroll?”

“They have a library there, filled with books from around the realms. Since I taught when we first moved here, the Lord gave me access to the books. I found the scroll lying in a basket on a high shelf.”

“Were there others?”

“You know, Dra’kor — there sure were, but they were all written in some scratching. I figure it was a story or something. I mean, seriously, a blast big enough to lay waste to a town, Ha!”

“That seems unlikely,” Men’ak said, as he exchanged glances with Dra’kor.

“That’s what I think. So the scroll I was talking about … well — half was in the word, the rest of it was in a strange language that I couldn’t read,” she said quietly.

“Strange? How so?” Men’ak asked.

“Real strange, not even real letters. More like shapes — and I’m guessing it’s elf talk, but I can’t confirm it. There’s no such thing as elves, right?” she smirked.

Dra’kor shook his head, “I suppose not. I’ve never seen one. Why do you think it is elf writing?”

“Rumors mostly, rumors about Toulereau — but I’ll get to that later,” she said as she crossed her legs.

Men’ak stuck out his lower lip. “Rumors —?”

She set her hand on his arm and laughed, “Be patient!”

Men’ak nodded and leaned forward.

She continued, “Anyway, the whole valley was said to be barren for decades, although I don’t believe it. They say that forest eventually grew back after this battle of some kind and the soil healed itself and this place was pretty empty except for a bunch of farmers here in the valley. There’s this bard song, called Three Rivers that kind of talks to it.”

“Can you sing it?” Dra’kor asked.

She blushed, “I don’t sing very well. More like a frog croaking in the night.”

Men’ak nodded. “Please? We’d really like to hear it.”

“I can try I guess … but no laughing!” she said, clearing her throat.

Light and dark they fought

Power’s what they sought

Three Rivers laid bare of all that’s green

Such a sight you’ve never seen

Battles won at what a cost

Three Rivers valley has been lost.

“Interesting song,” Dra’kor replied.

“There’s more, but I can’t remember it,” she said with a sigh.

“Thanks. You were about to say,” said Men’ak.

“Oh, yes! After that, the trolls came. It was a horrible slaughter. They wiped out every settlement in three realms; here, Five Peaks and Stonegate.”

“Huh!” Men’ak exclaimed, “did you say Stonegate?”

“I did. They’re farther from the King. I heard that they didn’t fare as well. Still don’t know if they’ve recovered. We don’t get many visitors from thatta way.”

“So why did the trolls attack?” Dra’kor wondered.

“No one could ever figure out exactly why, just one day they went on a bender and that was that. Some thought that it was because of the castle. We had a visit from a druid once. He said they built the castle over their home, but I can’t say that what he said was true. They didn’t find any caves when they were building the castle.”

“Druids, here?”

“Well, that’s what they say, but I’ve never seen a druid, nor heard of anyone who’s ever seen one. I think they’re the same as elves and mages, figments of stories to scare small children!”

“You got that right,” Men’ak laughed, seeing the irony.

Dra’kor forced a chuckle, but he didn’t find any of the conversation amusing. If the realms had forgotten about them and all the others, what chance did they have in fighting this new threat?

“Did you know that trolls eat people?” she asked aghast.

“Were you here?” Dra’kor asked.

D’Arron looked at Dra’kor as she spoke. “When?”

“When the Trolls came,” said Dra’kor.

“Oh, my no! We moved here after the war. But we saw the piles of bones from the fires when we first arrived. Them bones was too big to be from people, so I suppose that trolls are real. I can’t say much about the rest!”

“So what happened?”

She paused to take another sip of tea, “Well, seems the farmers all got together and built a stone fort and defended the area against the trolls for four years. Did you know that trolls are afraid of fire? Anyway, eventually, the King gathered enough troops and swept the area. They killed trolls by the score, burnt them right in the fields. They said the stacks were high as a house.”

Men’ak leaned forward, “And the war ended?”

“Not exactly. It turns out the trolls had holed up in caves in these parts that nobody knew about and kept raiding the towns. A farmer named Glynn followed a troll back to their hideout one day after a raid and discovered the caves. He watched them come and go for a bit and then sure that he had found their lair, he skedaddled back and told the Lord. The Lord told the King about it and the King’s men mounted an attack and burned out the caves. That was the end of it.”

“No kidding?” Men’ak grinned, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Pretty much, that’s the honest truth of the matter. The King and Toulereau gave the land by title to the farmers who defended it in the war and they started building the new town. And things were going pretty good until the beasts started showing up.”

“And Toulereau?”

“The castle was built just before the war got started. The King needed a place to stay on this side of his kingdom, so he got this Lord, named Toulereau, to build it for him. It’s rumored that Toulereau is half elf, and I don’t mind telling you, he’s a good-looking man, blond hair, almost clear eyes. I could almost believe it, but he don’t have pointy ears,” she laughed.

Dra’kor and Men’ak sat staring.

“You know, pointy ears!” she repeated when they didn’t laugh.

“Oh!” Dra’kor forced a chuckle.

Dra’kor and Men’ak were amazed that such a lengthily war that spanned several realms could have been fought for so many years without the Keep ever hearing about it. The loss of human life was staggering. They wondered what part the Guild played in the events. Surely, Ja’tar must have known. Dra’kor wasn’t surprised that he never mentioned it to the rest of the Keep. Seems Guild business is only Guild business.

Late in the evening, the two magi made their way back to their room and prepared for their rest. Men’ak wove a pattern of wards to protect them through the night and Dra’kor prepared his note to Ja’tar.

Ja’tar, we made it safe to new Three Rivers, old one must have been destroyed after Ror. Nobody here believes in magic or elves. They think they are myths. Crops are failing and town is being attacked by what we think are wolven. We were attacked trying to get to town, but survived with minor injuries. The beast can be bested with steel, but magic doesn’t seem to have any effect.

I have deduced that a man in a red robe had cursed the crops about a month ago. I reversed the spell, which turned out to be ululates umbra. I counted seven so far. I will inspect the fields outside of the town tomorrow, but expect the same. Eight town people have been killed by the wolven so far, including Haagen at the cross. It appears that the wolven are only interested in the people. They leave the livestock alone. We will learn more tomorrow, but for now, I look forward to a good night’s sleep in the inn where we are staying.

- Dra’kor

Having finished the note, he lit it on fire with the candle and watched as it burned. Dra’kor climbed into bed and snuffed the small candle that flickered in the room. Men’ak was already soundly asleep and snoring vociferously when he closed his eyes, clutched the pillow over his head, and nodded off.

The sun was already up when Dra’kor opened his eyes. He felt rested, better rested than he had in days. He sat up in bed and inspected his wounds, tracing the length of the tear in his side with his index finger. They had mostly healed and all that was left were the raised welts of scar tissue and that too would fade in another day or two.

He looked over at Men’ak who was still asleep, trying to decide whether to rouse him or not. When Dra’kor had awoken around the first hour to go relieve himself, Men’ak had been tossing and turning. He had to use the piss pot because the outhouse was behind the inn and D’Arron had locked up for the night. He didn’t mind much, the thought of going out into the cold made him shiver. He would dump the pot in the morning before D’Arron came to fetch it. He just didn’t feel right about having her do that kind of work.

Dra’kor was a light sleeper and for most of the night, he had been aware that his friend was gripped in a horrible dream. It seemed to him that his friend was more keenly affected by the Ocht’or moon than most and this time of the month, the moon showed strong. For now though, he was resting peacefully.

Dra’kor laid back down in bed and covered his legs. He thought a good long while about their conversation. If Stonegate had been ransacked by the trolls and still hadn’t recovered, who had Ja’tar been talking to all these years? He was angry. Angry that D’Arron, and apparently everyone else, didn’t even know they existed. How could that be? It wasn’t as if they were gone. They had travelers in every realm watching over things. The more he thought, the angrier he became. He decided to mull about it all later — he didn’t want to ruin the day.

Since he enjoyed the morning, he decided to get up and have some breakfast and let his friend sleep. Men’ak had taken the loss of Grit very hard. It seemed to him that he was still depressed. Dra’kor hoped he would snap out of it soon.

Dra’kor got up out of bed, walked over to the small water basin and rinsed off his face and hair. He towel-dried and ran his fingers through his hair. Yawning, he slipped on his britches and shirt, carefully buttoning it down the front. His hand passed over his medallion and he touched it gently. It was a little disconcerting to know that if he ever lost it, he would wither and die. Sighing to himself, he bent over, pulled on his socks, and laced his boots.

Before he left the room, he unwove the wards that they had set the night before, although he was tempted to just throw the door open and let Men’ak have a scare!

He wasn’t surprised to find D’Arron up and busy in the common room. Most innkeepers got up very early because they baked bread and baked goods required a lot of preparation time. Besides, country folk went to bed early, had plenty of chores, and couldn’t afford to waste daylight. She greeted him warmly as he came down the stairs.

“Good morning Dra’kor! How did you sleep?” she asked cheerfully.

“I slept well, better than I have in days, sleeping in a cave or on a pile of rocks gets a little old after a few days,” Dra’kor said. He returned her warm smile as he stretched, “You?”

“I slept fine, thanks for asking,” she replied. “I want to thank you and Men’ak for the evening.”

“No, we should thank you. It was pleasant!”

She finished what she was doing and walked over to the chair where Dra’kor was standing, “would you like some breakfast or are you going to wait?”

“Wait! No way! If I waited— there would hardly be enough left for me to have as a snack. Men’ak eats like a horse! Breakfast would be great,” said Dra’kor, laughing. “Men’ak may not even be awake before noon — tomorrow.”

D’Arron laughed along. “Is he always like that?”

“If you mean sleepy and hungry?” he chuckled as he rolled his eyes. “I’d have to say yes, pretty much all the time!”

“I guess I do mean that …,” she grinned as she blushed.

“No need to apologize for it, it’s annoying sometimes,” Dra’kor said, in a moment of extreme honesty. “It makes it difficult to get much done when you sleep the day away.”

“Can’t afford to waste time on the farm!” said D’Arron.

“Well, Men’ak is certainly no farm boy!” Dra’kor said, shaking his head. “But he’s a good friend. The funny thing is, Men’ak is the son of a farmer.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

“Seriously, he was the youngest of eight. When I met him, he was sickly and a little slow. His father used to beat him because he couldn’t help around the farm on account of his ailments.”

“That doesn’t seem right …”

“Well, things can be different when you’re starving and the one who eats the most doesn’t help and carry his weight. I can’t say I can find fault with the man.”

“But that doesn’t give one the right to beat a child …”

“Suppose it doesn’t, but he had eight other young ones to care for — I’m not saying its right, only that I understand it.”

“Sounds to me like you’re excusing their behavior …”

“Not excusing, just rationalizing, can’t really change it, besides—his Pa died a long time ago. All that is water under the bridge!”

“He seems to be pretty normal to me.”
“Normal? Are we talking about Men’ak here?”

D’Arron laughed.

“You’ve been friends a long time. I can tell,” D’Arron said, as she watched Dra’kor’s face. She noticed his eyes twinkling when he talked about his friends.

“Very long time,” said Dra’kor, thinking back to the day he met Men’ak. “He’s almost like a brother. I met him when I was a small lad, maybe ten or so seasons old. We’ve been together ever since, Grit too.”

“It’s nice to have friends like that. Good friends are hard to come by …,” she said, her voice trailing off.

“I agree. I’ve been through a lot with him and Grit. You’d have liked Grit, although he fancied himself a ladies’ man, but if you could ignore that …. We both miss him a lot.”

D’Arron nodded, “Sounds like you do.”

“I keep hoping that he somehow survived the fall, but I don’t suppose that’s likely,” Dra’kor said, as a small tear formed in his left eye. He sat down heavily.

D’Arron was touched by his sadness.

“We spent the better part of a day searching …,” he said as his voice trailed off.

“Well, maybe he’ll show up. You never know —”

“Never do,” Dra’kor replied matter-of-factly. “Grit’s a survivor. If he survived the fall, he’ll show up somewhere. In a lot of ways, he’s the luckiest person I know.”

“What makes you say that?”

Dra’kor laughed. “Grit is the only person I know that can stumble into a pack of wolves and talk them out of eating a dead horse.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“— I remember a time when we were young, that we ran into a bear and her cubs in a cave we went exploring. I thought for sure that the sow was going to rake us for threatening her cubs. Grit just calmly walked up to her, extended his hand and calmed that bear down. It was the damn strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Huh! Sounds to me like he has a way with animals.”

“Not just animals. He’s a sailor’s son, shaved head and jet black eyes that seem to be looking into your soul. He grew up on the docks in Edu’bar. He can schmooze a pirate or a cutthroat just as easy, and I’ve seen him talk a gal out of her knickers without even buying her a drink.”

“Well, here’s hoping some fine young maidens find him and treat him right!”

Dra’kor broke into a belly laugh. “That would be something. He’d be bragging about that for a decade, I’m sure!”

“That’s what boys do —”

“They do!” Dra’kor agreed. “Even big boys!”

D’Arron rolled her eyes, “Men —!”

“That’s the sad truth of it,” Dra’kor replied dryly.

“Would you like porridge or hot cakes for breakfast?”

“Hot cakes would be great,” Dra’kor cheerfully replied, changing his dour mood as she poured him a mug of hot cider.

She leaned close to him and he could smell her and feel her body heat. He tried not to be obvious as he took a deep breath, taking in her clean scent. D’Arron noticed, of course, and a small smile escaped her lips.

D’Arron scurried off to the kitchen. Dra’kor sat in a big chair next to the fireplace, staring into the dancing flames, feeling their warmth. He contemplated his goals for the day. First, there was looking at the fields outside, and figuring out a way to not have to water the entire field to keep up the ruse of the secret herb in the water. He sighed. He hated not being able to let people know that he was a wizard, but he supposed that Ja’tar was correct, people just weren’t ready for that. Hell! They didn’t even think wizards existed. He didn’t know what to do and wished that Ja’tar were here for consult.

After fixing the fields, he thought that he and Men’ak might get out and see the surrounding area, although it might not be too safe doing that given that the wolven traveled in packs. He wasn’t sure he could convince the town folk to give him a hand and he certainly didn’t want to risk being caught using magic by anyone.

D’Arron came out of the kitchen with a big plate of hotcakes, a tin of maple syrup and a slab of butter. The smell of the cakes filled the air and made his stomach growl.

“My! Those smell delicious!” he said, looking up into her green eyes as his mouth began to water.

“I’m glad you think so. Do you think Men’ak will be joining us soon,” she asked.

Dra’kor shrugged, “who knows. That boy can really sleep … I think he’s a little depressed. He was really close to Grit; I don’t think he is coping well.”

“I understand how he feels, I went through the same thing when my husband died,” she said as she nodded. She sat down in the chair across from the table.

Dra’kor prepared the hotcakes with a couple spoon-sized chunks of butter and slathered the syrup over the top. D’Arron watched him intently. He dipped a finger into the warm syrup and licked it clean.

“Syrup is tasty. What is it?”

“It’s made from the sap of local trees we call maples. We gather the sap in the spring as it fills the trees and we boil it down. It’s easy to make, just time consuming.”

Dra’kor had never tasted the likes of it. “Who taught you to do that?”

“We learned it from a man who lived near our village when I was a child. I was just surprised that the same trees grew here.”

He grabbed his fork and took his first mouthful. The smile on his face told the story.

“They’re acceptable? I can see by your eyes that you like them, do you want more?”

He finished chewing and swallowed. “These are fabulous. I think I have plenty. Are you trying to fatten me up?”

He smiled as he wiped his mouth off with the napkin she had set for him, and quickly prepared another bite.

“You are a bit skinny,” she giggled as she flirted with the old mage.

A voice came from upstairs, “I smell hotcakes! Be right down.”

Dra’kor and D’Arron looked at each other and burst out laughing as she stood up and headed toward the kitchen, “I better get a stack of cakes going for your friend. The way he eats …”

Men’ak hurried down the stairs making a lot of racket. “What? Did I miss something?”

D’Arron left the room. Men’ak walked over to Dra’kor and took a good look at the stack of cakes. “My goodness, those look delicious!” he said licking his lips. “Is she making more?”

“She is,” Dra’kor said, looking up from his meal. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Like a log! I cannot believe how tired I was,” said Men’ak, covering his mouth to hide a yawn. His shoes weren’t even tied and he struggled to bend over and lace them. “I’m still a little stiff. You?”

Dra’kor nodded as he took another big bite.

“What do you want to do today?” Men’ak inquired.

Dra’kor finished chewing and swallowed before he thoughtfully proclaimed, “I thought we’d go look at the crops, and see if we can convince Brag to take us around the community.”

Men’ak shook his head side-to-side, “Good luck with that …”

D’Arron came out of the kitchen with a plate stacked five high with the largest cakes Dra’kor had ever seen. She set it down in front of Men’ak who was practically beside himself.

“Those look so good!” he proclaimed as he poured the syrup over the top. He rolled up the top cake and in a single bite, shoved the whole thing into his mouth except for the stub he was holding in his fingers.

D’Arron looked at Dra’kor and the two of them burst out laughing.

“Whaaff? Dib I miff somfing?” Men’ak asked, his mouth so full you could barely hear him.

By now, D’Arron was laughing so hard her stomach ached and tears were rolling down her cheeks. Dra’kor just stared at his friend through blurred eyes.

By the time Men’ak had finished his meal, Dra’kor had returned to the common room with both of their knapsacks. They said their goodbyes to D’Arron and headed out the door. It was another fine sunny day, warm, light breeze, nary a cloud in sight. They headed down the well-rutted street until they arrived at the saloon.

As expected, they found Brag sitting in his chair with his friends working on a tankard of strong ale. To his honor, it was nary past daybreak and Brag already had three drained mugs. The bartender, a big burly gent by the name of Grump was wiping down the counter. He looked up and grunted as Dra’kor entered the room. “Need anything?”

“No thanks, Grump,” Dra’kor said, as he eyed the men at the table, “Maybe when we get back from the fields.”

Grump stared at Dra’kor for a second, and went back to work, cleaning his bar.

Dra’kor pulled up a stool and sat down with Brag and his friends, who had shuffled over to make room. Men’ak didn’t want to sit, so he stood behind and to the left of Dra’kor.

“Morning …,” said Dra’kor, nodding at the men. “You remember my partner, Men’ak.”

The men at the table nodded and Men’ak nodded back.

Dra’kor placed his hands on the table and rolled his fingers. “Ready to take a look at the fields?”

“Suppose we could,” said a less than enthusiastic Brag, setting down his mug and wiping his mouth with his muslin shirt.

“I thought you wanted to get your crops going?” Dra’kor said, confused.

“Well, we do — but the fields are outside the wall …,” Brag said, hesitantly. He scooted up closer to the table using his hand between his legs to pull the stool forward.

“Ah. I see. You’re a little concerned about the beasts,” Dra’kor said, nodding his head with a condescending look.

“A little …,” Brag mumbled as he pulled out his pipe and tapped it out on his foot. “We want to be sure it’s safe. I don’t want another death on my shoulders.”

“Why would it be your fault?”

“Well Dra’kor, I’m just not sure I can protect you, that’s all …,” Brag mumbled as he pulled out his pouch of leaf and put a big plug into the bottom of his pipe.

“Well, we shouldn’t have to go too far just to check them out. I don’t need to check the far sides of the fields, just the near should suffice,” said Dra’kor, trying to reassure Brag that he wouldn’t be risking arm and neck.

Brag seemed to be a little happier with that, although he still wasn’t thrilled with going outside the gate. He stood up, walked over to the fire and picked up a burning stick. Moving it to the pipe, he took a deep pull as the leaf lit. He rolled the smoke around in his mouth before exhaling. A quirky smile formed on his lips as his eyes fluttered.

“You don’t have to come with us, but I could use your help from the battlement to point out where the fields are,” Dra’kor suggested.

Brag walked back to his stool and sat down feeling a little embarrassed. Here was a stranger who was willing to go outside the gate and face the wolves to help the town and he wasn’t. He wasn’t willing at all.

The truth of the matter was, the wolves scared the heck out of him. He’d seen one of his best friends get mauled to death by one of these beasts not more than a month ago.

He vividly recalled beating the wolf with an ax until he crushed its skull and it was dead. Unfortunately, it never let go of his friend’s throat and he had died of blood loss anyways. It wasn’t as if he was the only one beating the animal either! He had the help of two others and between them; it still took them better than five minutes to kill the animal. Minutes they couldn’t afford. What he couldn’t understand was how it never stopped trying to kill his friend even though it was mortally injured.

Brag shivered. He had never seen an animal so intent on killing before that it ignored its own wellbeing just to finish the kill. After they finished killing the beast, they had examined it. Brag unconsciously shook his head. The animal had more than a dozen injuries that should have been fatal and yet, it never gave up. What the hell kind of animal does that?

Brag hung his head and sighed, “No, I can take you out.”

“Good!” Dra’kor exclaimed. “I can’t wait to get started.”

“We’ll take a couple of the others with us just to be safe and we won’t wander far from the gate. I’ll have John and Poppy here up on the wall on the watch,” Brag said, pointing to his friends as he forcefully took charge in a show of bravado. “They’re the best shots with the crossbows in the realm, I swear!”

“Sounds fine to me,” said Dra’kor, feeling like he was making progress. “When do you want to go out?”

Brag scratched his head, “Well, it’ll take me a bit to get a few folks together, but we’d probably be ready in half an hour.”

“I guess I’ll meet you at the front gate in a few,” Dra’kor said, as he tapped his fist on the table, pushed his stool back and stood up. “We’ll bring our weapons just in case.”

“See you soon,” said Brag, as Dra’kor walked out of the saloon with Men’ak.

“I’ m going to go take a look at the smithy and the stables,” Men’ak said, as soon as they were clear of the tavern.

“That sounds like a good idea. I’ll catch up with you later— keep your eyes open!”

Men’ak nodded and waved goodbye to his friend as he headed toward the front gate.

The locals got up, walked to the door, and stared after the two strangers. Brag watched his friends gawking and closed his eyes. He shook his head, flipped over his briar pipe and knocked out the dottle, opened a small leather bag and pulled out a pinch of strip-cut moist leaf and stuffed it into the bowl with his thumb, packing it firmly. He put the pipe in his mouth and checked the draw. Unsatisfied, he stuffed his thumb into the bowl a second time with good results.

He lit up using the candle sitting on the table and satisfied with the burn, took another long deep pull on the bowl and felt the characteristic tingle and numbing effect of the leaf.

It was gonna be that kind of day. He could feel it in his bones!

Hagra

Dra’kor walked down the main street thinking about his impending task. He didn’t really see any problem with his approach. He had planned on making the townsfolk seed the fields with treated seeds. That should take care of his dilemma with watering twenty bovate by his estimation, although it wasn’t an accurate measure seeing as all ox teams could plow different amounts in a year, depending. He looked up just in time to avoid running into an old woman walking down the street smiling at him. He smiled back. When she got next to him, she greeted him.

“You must be one of those strangers I’ve heard talk about in town!” she said with a toothy grin, as she looked up into his face. She was carrying a small basket filled with herbs and flowers.

The woman looked to be late fifties, short, and a little rotund. Her grin was missing a few teeth, but her eyes were clear, focused and instantly drew Dra’kor in. Her face reflected years of living, and although her skin wasn’t as smooth or taunt as years ago, she still glowed, making Dra’kor imagine that at one time, she must have been a looker.

She stood there intent on looking him over. It seemed to Dra’kor that although her hair was white and peppered with a tint of red, it seemed to defy age matching the fire in her eyes. Her clothes were simple, maybe a little frumpy and she wore tall laced-up boots with pointy toes.

“My name is Hagra,” she said as if it should have meaning.

“I’m Dra’kor,” he said bowing. “Pleased to meet you!”

“You think?” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Ye might not be so eager to meet me if ye knew me better,” she laughed.

“All the same,” said Dra’kor, as he stood up tall.

“I knew yer father — nice man, good king if I remember right,” she said, startling Dra’kor beyond words. Her pronouncement was so unexpected that his mouth hung open. “Ye look just like him!”

“My father? I d-d-don’t think that’s … possible. He’s been dead a very long time,” Dra’kor said, recovering.

“Well, that may be but I still knew him back in the day,” she said smiling. “Knew your mother too, Kaa’ra if I recall, but she and I didn’t git along even though we were in the same coven. She was a little too uppity for my liking.”

“Coven? What? How the —” Dra’kor stammered. “My mother wasn’t a witc —?” He cut himself off before he could finish the word.

“So, how is Ja’tar these days, still holed up in that moldy old Keep? Bet he’s still the same cantankerous, grumpy old fart he was when I last seen him after Ror. Bit older though — I heard he was in charge of the Keep! Pppffft! Never thought I’d see the day.”

“How the — wait a doggone minute …,” he said, unable to find the words.

She looked up into his eyes, “We should talk, mage. After ye finish charming the fields, come by and see me. I’m at the end of the street, ye can’t miss it. Big sign says ‘Apothecary’ on the door,” she said as she patted him on the back, turned around and before Dra’kor could respond, she walked off.

“Nice meeting ye too, Dra’kor,” she shouted over her left shoulder and broke into a cackle as she wandered off.

Dra’kor felt a little light-headed as he stared after the old woman as she wandered down the street. Not only was he dumbstruck, but he was also confused beyond words.

His mother was part of a coven? He scratched his head and stared blankly. That meant … she was a witch! Actually, that explained a lot of things that went on around the house when he was young. All along, he thought that he was causing all the strangeness. He wondered what she knew of his mother. His father, Thomas, had been the Earl of Embleton, and had left to serve the king before he could barely remember. All he had were vague memories, blurred thoughts.

Moreover, he wondered how his father had ended up married to his mother, if she was a … witch. He had lots of questions. His mother had died when he was just a babe. His father never talked about it.

He stood in the center of the street with his mouth hanging open when Men’ak walked up.

“Are you okay? You look like you just met the Ten,” said Men’ak, as he eyed Dra’kor up and down. “You really should close your mouth before something flies in.”

“I … I …,” was all Dra’kor could manage to utter.

Men’ak laughed at his friend. “You’ll what?

His head whipped around to face Men’ak, staring blankly, before he finally spit out the sentence, “I — uh, I — she knows we’re wizards,” he pointed and stuttered.

Dra’kor turned to look at Men’ak and blinked as Men’ak stared back. Dra’kor put his hand to his face and covered it slowly, sliding his hand down to yank on his beard. “She knows —!”

“What?” Men’ak blurted out as he grabbed Dra’kor’s shoulders.

Dra’kor pushed his hands down, “You heard me — she knows we are wizards. And not only that, she knows of the Keep and said to say hello to Ja’tar, called him cantankerous.”

Dra’kor recognized the irony of the whole situation. At first he had wished everyone knew about the Keep and wizards, now he had second thoughts. Lately, he had no trouble imagining that few would even remember that the Keep existed and then here, in the middle of nowhere, he runs into someone who not only knows of the Keep, but also knew his father and Ja’tar. Dra’kor wondered why shit like this always happened to him. He rubbed his eyes as if he could just wake from this bad dream.

“By the Ten, are you serious,” Men’ak said, as his jaw dropped and his eyes widened.

“Exactly! She knows! I think she’s as old as we are …,” Dra’kor babbled as he turned to look up the street.

“That’s impossible,” Men’ak replied in a loud voice. “She can’t be. We’re protected by strong magic and she can’t be, can she?”

“Well, she said she hasn’t seen Ja’tar since Ror,” Dra’kor turned red-faced to Men’ak and shouted back getting irritated. “She obviously knows who he is and enough history of those days to pull our leg.”

Men’ak’s face turned pale.“Ror? The battle?”

“Of course the battle … that’s the only reference to Ror there is, it isn’t exactly a place.” Dra’kor spat back.

“D-d-did she have magic?” Men’ak stammered.

“I — didn’t check,” Dra’kor confessed. “I forgot —”

“This is terrible! What’ll we do? A crisis, that’s what this is, a crisis of monumental proportions. How in the blazes did she know we were magi? Men’ak complained, scratching his head. He snapped his fingers. “Maybe she felt you weaving the spells on the soil.”

“Then that would make her out to be a mage too,” said Dra’kor.

Ja’tar said there weren’t any travelers in Three Rivers because it was so close,” Men’ak said. “Where do you suppose she hails from?”

“Crack my knuckles if I can figure it out,” Dra’kor swore. “I don’t recall any Hagra on the list of travelers.”

Men’ak’s eyes got wide, “A bloody rogue?”

Dra’kor shrugged, “Seemed pleasant enough. I wouldn’t have expected a rogue to be so forthright.”

“Damn, I don’t know either! You think she’ll tell anybody?” Men’ak wondered.

Men’ak fidgeted. He was nervous. Well, no doubt about it, they had been found out. He babbled to himself and paced in front of Dra’kor.

“I don’t think so — she doesn’t seem to be all that worked up about it,” Dra’kor said, replaying the conversation in his head. “Matter of fact, she acted like she’s been expecting us for tea and cakes.”

“So what do we do?”

Dra’kor shrugged, looking up the street at the short old woman shuffling from building to building.

“I don’t think we do anything, but I think we should take her up on her invitation to visit after we see the fields,” Dra’kor said, nodding as he scratched his head.

“She invited us over? Where? When? Men’ak sputtered feeling as if he missed out on the conversation of the century.

“She said to stop by over at the Apothecary shop when we had time, ” Dra’kor said, as he pointed in the direction of the shop.

“Well I’ll be damned!” Men’ak mumbled, placing his hands on his hips. “I’ll be damned, I’ll be damned, I’ll be damned!”

The two magi stood in the middle of the street watching the old woman waddle from side-to-side as she randomly stopped to talk to people. She eventually entered a building and the two magi looked at each other, and continued their walk toward the main gate.

“I can’t believe — I can’t — there’s no way she could …,” Men’ak mumbled as they continued down the street.

“I think you should shut up about it,” said Dra’kor forcefully, as he gave him a look. “Your going on about it ain’t going to change it, and we’ll get to the bottom of it later. But now is not the time.”

“It’s just …,” Men’ak started to say, and clamped his mouth shut.

“Let’s go. We’ll talk about this later,” Dra’kor said, taking off for the front gate, his long leather jacket flapped in the light breeze. He wondered where the woman got the basket of herbs and flowers. He hadn’t seen anything growing in the compound that remotely looked like anything but weeds, and even they weren’t doing too well.

Men’ak and Dra’kor saw John and Poppy waiting by the gate. They had armed themselves with pitchforks and had their crossbows hanging by their belts. Dra’kor noticed that both men had rags wrapped around their arms and legs in case one of the wolves bit down through their jackets, or pants. It would provide at least some protection from the razor sharp eyeteeth. Smart, Dra’kor thought to himself.

Brag was talking to a couple men by the ladders that led to the top of the towers built in the corners of the town’s enclosure. He had a hefty double-sided axe gripped tightly in his left hand that he swung back and forth as he talked.

Both men were nodding as Brag explained something, but they were too far away to be able to hear the details of the conversation, just a word here and there. The two spotters had crossbows and iron-tipped quarrels in their quivers. Dra’kor hoped they were good shots.

Men’ak had his spear and Dra’kor had the sword they had taken off of Haagen, but neither man was well armed. Brag looked up from his conversation as they approached.

The two men he had been talking to nodded before jogging over and climbing the ladders to the top of the towers. It really wasn’t a tall tower, but it was well above the top of the ten-foot wall. Dra’kor figured it was twice the height of the men, so twelve feet or better. The towers weren’t large, maybe six feet square. They had sides made of long logs, about the thickness of a man’s wrist and were lashed with jute tightly to the frame. A makeshift roof covered the top, made of thatch, but it looked to be poorly made in Dra’kor’s estimation and probably leaked like a sieve when it rained.

“I’ve sent men up in the towers, two on each. They’ll keep an eye out while we are out in the fields and they’ll ring the bell if they see any wolves approaching. We should have a minute or two to get back inside the walls,” Brag explained as he pointed out the towers and the men.

Of course, Brag didn’t believe it. If the beasts came, they were in trouble, no doubt about it. By the time they rang the bell, it would be too late. He grumbled to himself and spit at the ground. It was turning out to be pisser of a day. That much was certain. He looked up at the clear sky. Why couldn’t it just rain so they could go in?

Dra’kor smiled. “That sounds good. We shouldn’t need much time outside, but those may be even more useful once I fix the issue and you need to replant the fields,” Dra’kor said, as he thought out loud.

Brag got a confused look on his face. He hadn’t expected to have to replant the fields, but he supposed that if Dra’kor thought that was best, that is what they would have to do. He scowled. Planting the fields meant lots of folks out milling about. Wolf treats! That’s what they were, skin covered wolf treat, he growled to himself. Yup! No doubt about it. He was in a damn sour mood.

He had stopped by the gardens on his way to the gate and noticed that the crops seemed to be growing, but it could have been wishful thinking. Well, it seemed so. He figured that given the fact that Dra’kor had appeared to solve their problem, he should give him a little leeway. Fresh greens would be a welcome treat to the rather plain meals they had been having as of late.

“I’d feel a little better if I had a sword to go along with this spear. Spear doesn’t help much in up close fighting,” a troubled Men’ak mumbled to Dra’kor under his breath.

Dra’kor looked up at his friend and nodded his understanding, although he couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t asked Brag himself.

Dra’kor turned to Brag and requested, “Do you have an extra pike or small sword for Men’ak? Might be useful if the fighting ends up being close range …”

Brag put his hand in his mouth and gave out a loud whistle. A few seconds later, the blacksmith appeared outside his shed and Brag waved at him with his sword and gave a shout out for another weapon. “Well, what you waiting for? He’s not gonna walk it over. You can go get one from the smitty,” he told Men’ak.

The smitty ducked into his shed and quickly reappeared with a small sword and a belt. Meanwhile, Men’ak had broken into a loping run towards the man. After having grabbed the sword, he shook the smithy’s hand and quickly returned to the group.

“Thanks!” he muttered to Brag as he passed him returning to Dra’kor’s side.

Men’ak was impressed with the sword as he examined it closely, turning it over in his hands. The grip was tight and well wrapped; the blade was straight and very sharp. He nodded in the direction of the smithy with a big grin on his face as he strapped on the belt and put the sword back into its scabbard. It made him feel better knowing he had a good blade if he needed one.

Now that everyone had gathered, Brag explained his ideas of what should and should not be done.

“So, we’ll look at the closest fields just outside the gate first,” he pointed. “But I’m warning ye, I don’t want anyone wandering off. If they ring the bell, we won’t have much time to git! I expects that everyone will hightail it for the gate. Everyone got that?”

Brag nodded as he looked at every man in the group. There were nods all around.

“If ye don’t make it back, don’t be expecting no heroics from me or my men. We plan on living for another day, even if it means the wolves get to fight over which of ye is gonna be dinner.”

Brag nodded hard, making his point; his friends also nodded their agreement.

“Good, now let’s get this over with,” Brag said in resignation. “I’m already thirsty and mean to get back to the bar before noon, so I can drink me a few rounds before lunch.”

Men’ak looked at Brag and broke into a loud laugh. He clapped him on the shoulder and retorted, “We’ll make sure you don’t have to go into lunch sober, Brag! We better get going, time’s a wasting.”

Men’ak took a couple strides toward the gate.

“Come on Dra’kor,” Men’ak teased. “Can’t you see that Brag is thirsty?”

Brag took the teasing well and added his two pence worth, “you heard him Dra’kor, let’s move your arse!”

Dra’kor stared at the two men raising his eyebrows high, and took a step toward the gate.

The smithy had moseyed over and was working on getting the pole free that held the gate securely in place. He was a big, strong man and had hefted the pole free by himself, whereas the other day, Men’ak had seen three men struggling with the pole when they entered the town. He set the pole next to the gate and stood waiting.

Brag grabbed the pull rope with both hands and strained against the gate. Slowly he pulled the gate open wide enough to squeeze through and stepped out. He looked up to the tower and shouted, “You see anything?”

John put his hand to his mouth and shouted back, “Don’t see nothing!”

Brag turned to the smithy and gave another order, “Smithy, you wait here and be ready to set that pole fast, you hear me!”

The smithy nodded, put down his hammer, and mumbled something to the young lad working the bellows who walked over from the forge and stood next to the single door that Brag had cracked open, ready to push it back in place in a moment’s notice.

Brag walked out of the town and headed out into the first field. They were only a bit more than fifty paces out of the gate when Brag stopped short. Brag was nervous and kept looking in every direction, twitching near uncontrollably. As soon as they had exited, Dra’kor had set up feeler wards, hoping to get a heads up on any intruders, well before the sentries on the towers would see them.

They stopped and John and Poppy held their pitchforks ready, pointing out across the field.

“Well, this is the first field,” said Brag, looking over the big patch of tilled dirt. He kicked it with his boot, sending up a big cloud of dust.

“Like I said, ain’t nothin’ growing here. We planted these fields back a moon ago. Nothing, nothing at all, just bare dry dirt!” Brag spit on the soil and kicked it again with his foot.

Dra’kor bent down and made the pretense of studying the soil, and looking at the un-sprouted seeds he had dug up in the handful of soil he was holding. He pushed the dirt around with his finger and held a seed to the light. He already had sensed the magic as he walked over the dirt. He had been busy casting his spell over the field under his jacket.

“How far does the field go?” he asked as he laid his hand on the soil and let the magic into the earth.

“We usually plant from here to that ridge and from the trees on the left over to that small hill,” Brag said, pointing out the familiar landmarks.

The field was bigger than Dra’kor had thought and he had to enhance the spell he had cast to cover the whole area. Because he was feeding the magic into the soil as he was touching it, he was concerned that his use of magic would be noticeable if someone was looking for its signature.

He focused his sight on the magic and watched as the shadow beasts howled and left the fields. There were far more of them than Dra’kor had hoped. He was sure they were all gone, back to whence they came, although that presented its own problem, depending on whether the magic user who visited had woven the vile magic or not. If he did, he would know that there were other spellcasters in the area. They could be in for a fight.

He supposed it didn’t really matter, but now that he knew that Hagra understood he was a mage, he was worried. He didn’t know which side Hagra was on — or for that matter if she cared. He brushed the dirt from his hands, satisfied that he had killed the existing seeds and cleaned up the black magic that had prevented them from growing. He stood up and set his hands on his hips.

“Well, this field has the same issue as inside the gate, but all the seeds look dead to me. I think you’re going to have to replant with seeds I treat,” Dra’kor announced. “This is just too big an area to treat with the water.”

Brag scratched his head. He was none too pleased with having to replant, ‘cause that meant they’d have to plow and seed. That intern meant a good number of hours outside. Wolf treats, they were all gonna end up bein’ wolf treats.

“You sure there’s no way to get them seeds to grow what’s already in there?” he grumbled under his breath..

Dra’kor walked over to Brag and handed him a few seeds, “Pretty sure, look at these seeds, they’re all rotted out.”

Brag looked at the seeds in the palm of his hand and swore out loud. He knew rot when he saw it. He dumped the seeds to the ground and shook his head, “Well, that’s just bloody great. I don’t know that we have enough seed to plant all the fields.”

Dra’kor looked Brag in the eye, “I hear you, but having one or two fields planted is a whole lot better than having none. You should be able to get enough to get you through this year.”

Brag nodded. What Dra’kor said was right, they’d be okay, but not have any to spare or sell. He supposed that he should have been happy that they were going to have enough to eat next winter, but somehow, that fact didn’t really make him feel any better. So far this year was shaping up to be a good year to spend drunk so ye wouldn’t have to remember it!

“I suppose we should go look at another field,” Brag mumbled, pointing the way.

The group headed off to another side of the town. Men’ak walked alongside Dra’kor and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “So, did you fix it?”

“It’s fixed,” Dra’kor said, in a hushed voice.

“No surprises —?”

“— it’s the same issue,” Dra’kor confirmed as Men’ak nodded.

The next field went pretty much the same as the first. The field was smaller, so it didn’t take Dra’kor as much effort to fix the problem. Dra’kor stood and watched the men on the battlement as they shifted their positions, climbing down from the towers and then quickly moving on to the next. They were midway to the last field when Dra’kor’s wards went off. Dra’kor’s head shot up and he stared out into the forest.

Brag saw the mage’s head shoot up. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think I heard something. I think we should get in now …,” said Dra’kor excitedly as he turned around and started jogging toward the gate, which was now halfway around the small town. “I mean now!”

Men’ak turned to run too, as did the other three men.

“Hurry,” Dra’kor shouted. “I can hear them coming and there’s a lot of them …”

“How the —?” Brag sputtered looking in all directions at once. “I don’t hear nothing.”

They were running at a good clip when they heard the warning bell ring from the top of the second tower, its frantic tone repeating faster and faster as the men at the top of the wall added urgency to their efforts.

“By the Ten,” Men’ak swore under his breath as he shivered and tried to pick up his pace.

“Run!” Brag screamed as he saw the first of the beasts break out of the forest at a full run. The wolven were closing the distance fast and Brag wasn’t sure they would make it to the gate in time. John and Poppy were falling behind; the rotund men were having a difficult time keeping up the pace. Brag slowed down to help them along.

By now, there were five of the beasts running across the fields. The small group could hear their howls and growls and could now see their long sharp fangs bared and their ears back.

They were a few short yards from the gate when the men at the towers let the first crossbow bolts loose. The first bolt took down one of the beasts, but missed another. The men were frantically reloading as fast as they could.

“Hurry, hurry!’ The tallest shouted as he waited for the heavyset one to screw the bow back.

The two magi and Brag turned to face the beasts as they shuffled backwards, trying to keep moving toward the gate. The second volley of bolts flew and found their marks on both of the closest wolves, causing the animals to whine and whimper, neither of the blows was enough to stop them as they lowered their heads and herded the group. One of the wolven reached around and grabbed the bolt that was buried in its shoulder with its teeth, and yanked it out, snapping it clean in half.

The group of five stood, backed up against the log wall in a semicircle with their swords, pitchforks and spear at the ready. The wolven had chosen not to run head on into the wall of weapons, but were feeling out the group, darting in and out, turning off the attack at the last moment, when the humans jabbed and poked with their weapons. The group shuffled slowly, a step at a time toward the gate, which was still closed.

The smithy had his back pressed up against the gate and was pushing hard. He’d open it for the group, but he wouldn’t even crack it open until someone on the tower told him it was time!

The lead beast dashed in and got a hold of John’s leg, ducking under his pitchfork. The beast maniacally shook its head back and forth using the motion to set its teeth deep into the meaty part of the man’s leg.

Men’ak jabbed at the beast with the small sword. The sword slid into the muscular part of the beast’s front quarter, drawing blood, but the beast refused to let go its grip. Men’ak tried another approach and after raising the weapon above his head, swung down with all his might, sliding deep into the wolven’s throat. Half decapitated, the beast clamped down hard with its jaws as its eyes rolled up in their sockets and the beast died. John howled in horror as the fangs sank even deeper into his leg, right through the extra layers of wrapping he had put in place.

John grabbed the beast’s jaws, dropping his weapon and tried to pry them open. The sharp teeth were cutting into his hands, but he was desperate. He knew he had to get loose. There was no way he could run with the nine stone wolf hanging on to his leg.

Men’ak jumped in front of him, waving off another of the beasts who was trying to jump in to finish the job. The smell of blood made the beasts growl and howl loudly. John managed to get his leg loose, but couldn’t put any weight on it, so he dragged it behind as he bent over and reached for his pitchfork. He leaned on the handle, using it as a crutch as he moved to the rear of the group.

“We need to get to that gate,” Dra’kor shouted.

Brag grunted as he grabbed John by the arm and yanked him hard. “I’m trying.”

Dra’kor grabbed the crossbow that was hanging at John’s waist. “How do you work this thing?”

“Turn it around and use the screw,” John cried. “When you get to the top, set the latch, put the bolt in and kill the bastards!”

Men’ak picked up his spear that was lying at his feet, pointed it at the nearest beast, and charged at a full run, burying the shaft deep into the beast’s chest before the animal could change direction or retreat. Men’ak dropped the spear when he couldn’t yank it free and stepped back into the circle.

The beast staggered from side-to-side with the spear waving wildly in the air. Men’ak waited a brief second before jumping back at the beast and twisting the shaft hard, cracking it off at the wound’s entry point. He spun once and jammed the sharp fractured end into the wolven’s eye using both hands and all of his weight, pinning its head to the ground.

Brag nodded and grunted his approval at Men’ak’s rage, as the small mage jumped back into the circle, drawing his sword free of the scabbard and hacking at the nearest wolf as he leapt.

The team was only a few feet from the gate when another four beasts broke out of the woods.

“There’s more a coming …” Brag shouted.

“If we don’t get in now, all will be lost,” Dra’kor cried out.

Dra’kor was winding the bow as fast as he could while the others made their way along the wall to the gate. He was drenched in sweat when he set the latch and flipped the bow over to set the quarrel. He aimed it at the nearest beast and pulled the trigger. The bow twanged loudly as the bolt shot straight and buried itself to the hilt in the chest of an attacking beast. The beast shuddered once and fell silent.

“Good shot!’ John said, as he handed Dra’kor another bolt.

Dra’kor set the bolt between his feet, pulled hard on the string setting it in the hook and after flipping out the cranks, turned them as fast as he could. He set the last quarrel into place and spun around facing the charging beasts.

Brag waved frantically at the tower. The tower gave the signal to the smitty who cracked the door open. John was the first to hobble through with Poppy’s help. Dra’kor let his bolt loose and another beast collapsed nose first into the dirt as the quarrel found its mark. Dra’kor dropped the crossbow and ran after the others.

Brag and Men’ak pushed through and Dra’kor was the last, stabbing backwards, trying to get the last beast out of the way so that the door would close. The beast had wedged its head in the doorway and was pawing at the mages and snapping its jaws at their hands and weapons.

Men’ak ran up and jabbed with his sword, poking the wolven in the eyes and mouth as they snapped at the sword. The smithy and Brag had their backs against the door. They groaned loudly and their muscles bulged through their shirts as they strained to push the door shut, but the many beasts were gaining ground as they flung themselves with great abandon against the door, jarring it with every hit.

“Help!” Men’ak shouted. “We’re losing it …”

One of the men in the tower was halfway down the ladder and jumped the rest of the way, rolling in a summersault as he hit the ground and joined the others pushing the door. Dra’kor reached through the door and let loose a big cushion of air that pushed the beast’s back just enough for the men to get the door closed, snapping one of the beast’s legs in half between the heavy wood doors. The beast yelped loudly.

Brag yelled at the last man down from the tower. “Get the pole!”

“Got it!” he yelled as he lifted it over the men’s head and wiggled it into the brackets, as the three pushed with all their might to line up the brackets.

The log fell into place with a loud clank and the men collapsed to the ground exhausted and winded.

“Whew!” Men’ak exclaimed as he rolled to his back. “That was close!”

Poppy had broken into hysterical laughter. And Brag was pounding Dra’kor on the back and congratulating him in a well-fought battle.

“Ye shot that crossbow as if it were made for ye!” Poppy said. “Never seen someone take to using a crossbow that naturally. Ye should join the army son!”

Dra’kor broke into a big grin, “Beginner’s luck, that’s all.”

“Luck my ass!” Brag laughed. “If you ever need a job because the merchant thing doesn’t work out, you just come right back!”

“Thanks,” Dra’kor said, “but I’m not cut out for this fighting.”

“Ha!” said Brag, smacking him on the back. “Well, I never —”

By now, a large group of town folk had gathered. Hagra pushed her way to the front. “— Get out of the way,” she growled in an irritated voice as she shoved people to the side, using her wide hips to bump and shove. She stopped in front of John and looked down at his leg as he held himself up on his elbows.

“Can ye fix me?” he babbled. “They got me good. I can hardly feel me leg —!”

“Bah! Is that it, one tiny scratch? From all the shouting, I’d have thought you were all dying!” she said mockingly.

John queasily looked up into her face as she put her hands on her hips and bent over awkwardly. John’s pant leg was completely soaked with blood and Dra’kor could just see bone poking through from the open wound.

Hagra grunted as she leaned over farther and examined his leg, pulling at the fabric to get a better look as John clenched his teeth and writhed in pain. “Nice clean wound,” she commented. “Did someone lose control of their sword?”

Hagra knelt down, reached into her medicine pouch and dug around as she mumbled to herself, “No, that’s not it — won’t work … maybe — where is it, ah!”

She pulled out a handful of stringy dark brown moss and pushed it into his wound with her fingers as John screamed and convulsed. His eyes rolled back into their sockets and he passed out, slumping to the ground.

“Mountain man, ha —! Just as well,” she muttered to herself. “Help me get him to my shop. I’ll sew him up. He’ll be good as new in a few days. Probably be hearing stories about it for years to come!”

Dra’kor and Men’ak both volunteered at the same time. “We’ll take him …”

An exhausted Brag swept his hand across his waist, “Have at it! I’m gonna go get drunk.” He turned toward the tavern and walked off.

Dra’kor and Men’ak nodded at the inside joke. They bent over, each grabbing an arm and hefted John up. They held on to his belt and half-carried, half-dragged him down the street, following Hagra as she hobbled in front.

“Damn, he’s heavy,” Men’ak grunted. “Weights a —”

“— Uh-huh!’ Dra’kor grunted back, as he adjusted John’s arm over his shoulder by trying to get his weight under with a quick squat.

The two magi were sweating and exhausted. Dragging dead weight for over a hundred paces had them huffing and puffing. “Have to rest,” Men’ak moaned.

“Almost there,” Hagra said, over her shoulder. “Ye know you could have spelled him to be lighter and saved yerself a tough haul.”

Dra’kor looked up and smirked.

“I’m going to die …,” Men’ak complained.

“Not today,” Hagra laughed as she watched the diminutive man’s struggle.

She stopped in front of her small shop. “We’re here,” she announced.

“Praise be the gods!” Men’ak gasped as he dropped the man.

Hagra’s head shot around and she gave him a dirty look.

“Sorry!” he moaned, swiping the sweat from his brow as he pushed his curly blond hair back. “I just couldn’t hold him up any longer.”

The quaint stone building stood at the end of the street relatively secluded from the rest of town. Enormous oak trees provided shade from the sun and pines over ten fence posts high protected the north side from the wind.

Dra’kor admired the stonework, which was tight and well chinked. The door was solid. Hagra opened the door and stepped inside to prepare for John. Once inside, she opened the shutters to the single window and pushed a slab table to the center of the room. She waved the boys to bring John in and pointed at the table.

“Set him on the table, don’t worry about the mess, I’ll clean it up later,” she said, showing them where she wanted him.

Dra’kor and Men’ak hefted John over the threshold and laid him out on the small table in the center of the main room as directed by Hagra. They used his belt to lift his backside up and move him to the center. Dra’kor gripped his knees and bent over to rest. Men’ak collapsed on a stool.

“Turn him around, I need more light.”

“Now?” Men’ak moaned.

“No,” said Hagra, as she set her hands on her hips, “— tomorrow morning …”

Dra’kor and Men’ak staggered to their feet, spun the man awkwardly, and almost dropped him off the table.

“Careful!’ Hagra yelled.

Dra’kor nodded, Men’ak just sneered.

Hagra pushed his legs over and yanked off his boots. She mumbled something about making themselves at home, as she wasted no time seeing to John’s wounds.

She grabbed a very sharp knife off of a cutting board and used it to cut his shredded pant leg off. She deftly moved, acting as if she were filleting a fish. She pulled out a bucket and a rag and wiped down the blood from around the wound, nary a care that the raw flesh she was rubbing was inflamed and tender.

Men’ak had to look away or he was going to lose his stomach’s contents.

Dra’kor’s first impression of the cabin was how neat and clean it was, given that the floor was stone and packed dirt. Her collections of medicines caught his eye and he was mesmerized, busy examining the very substantial herb and root collection that she had neatly arranged on the back wall over a small counter. She had them ordered in small clay and glass pots.

“Nice collection,” Dra’kor said, under his breath. “Root of tor — very rare. Oh look, jettle weed! You have jettle!” he proclaimed, turning to Hagra.

“Ye got a name?” she asked over her shoulder as she tossed the pant leg into a big bucket by the door.

“I’m Men’ak,” he replied. “I guess you already know Dra’kor.”

“Already know yer name …,” she nodded at Dra’kor. “I think, I’m pleased to meet ye Men’ak, I’m Hagra.”

Dra’kor rolled his eyes, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Can always ask …,” she replied as she continued her work.

“How’d you know?” he queried.

She looked up briefly. “Know what?”

“How did you know we were wizards?” said Dra’kor, getting straight to it. “We weren’t casting any spells —”

“Medallions!” she said, pointing at his chest with her knife. “Only Keep wizards wear them silly things. Rest of us don’t need them.”

“Y-you don’t need them?” Men’ak stuttered as his jaw dropped. “How can that be?”

“Nope, useless!” she said, waving her knife back and forth. “I learned how to control aging before I was a teenager.”

Hagra grinned at the stupefied expression on Men’ak’s face.

“Most of the other races do too!” she said, going back to work.

“Really?” Men’ak mumbled in disbelief not even hearing the second part of her reply. “I never heard of an anti-aging spell —!”

“Pffft!”

“Wait a second … you said other races control their ages too?”

“Well of course! How do you think elves and dwarves live to those ripe old ages?”

“Magic —?”

“You’re a funny little man,” Hagra replied to Men’ak, staring into his eyes. “You seem a little slow ….”

“What?” said Men’ak, rather insulted as he turned to see Dra’kor’s reaction, “I’m not —”

Dra’kor chuckled out loud, unable to contain his laughter any longer.

“— Slow. I am not …” Men’ak insisted, raising his voice.

“Can ye give us a hand, Honey?” she motioned to Men’ak as she held the wet rag to the wound.

“Huh? Oh, sure,” he said, still irritated as he stepped up to the table. She grabbed his hand and set it on the rag.

“Now push down hard and hold this for me,” she said.

She turned to the many clay pots and began gathering ingredients. She dumped them into a small metal pot and was busy crushing them with a pestle.

Dra’kor leaned over her shoulder watching what she was doing. “Can I help,”

“Sure Honey, you can cast a weave on that wound to make sure it doesn’t get septic,” said Hagra as she stirred the small pot that she had put the ingredients in. Satisfied, she moved it over the fire to cook for a bit.

“I could just heal it …,” Dra’kor said, looking into her eyes.

“Could you now?” she muttered, raising he brow.

“I could,” said Dra’kor, with a nod.

“Hmm, but then you’d have to go on explainin’ how a bad cut like that got healed so fast — and I don’t suppose you’re up to that!” she said with a big toothy grin that exposed the fact that a few of her teeth were missing.

“Suppose you’re right,” Dra’kor said, in resignation. “I just—”

“Of course I’m right,” Hagra nodded with a confident smile.

Men’ak moved the rag as Dra’kor pushed up his sleeves and wove his spell. Nothing happened, “It’s not working!”

“Course not; yer beast magic won’t work in this house, now out of the way. Let me do my healin’.”

“Won’t work?” he asked. “What beast magic are you talking about?”

“In a second,” she mumbled to herself. “— I got things to do right now.”

She held her hand over the wound and chanted. The wound bubbled a bit. She bent over and gave it a sniff. Satisfied, she put a damp cloth back over the wound.

“Now push,” she told Men’ak.

Hagra opened a drawer and pulled out some thin strips of catgut and a long bone needle.

“About the only thing a cat’s good for,” she said as she closed the drawer.

Men’ak was shocked by her statement, but decided not to say anything. Hagra could see she had gotten his goat.

“What’s the matter Sonny, cat got yer tongue?” she said, breaking into a huge laugh at her own cleverness.

Men’ak just rolled his eyes and clamped down on his tongue before he said something he’d regret later.

She threaded the needle and leaned over the table. She took a deep breath and motioned to Men’ak to move his hands, “Here, here! Let me at that.”

Men’ak moved his hand and Hagra moved the moss out of the way. She reached over to the fire and grabbed the pot. She poured a little of the hot liquid over the wound, which bubbled as the liquid leached out the dirt and poisons from the wolven.

“Well, lookie there! It’s working good,” she mumbled to herself. “Never knows for certain ifin it’ll work, magic’s a bit funny thatta way!”

She grabbed the needle and held it over a candle before she made a stitch right in the center of the wound. She deftly tied a tight knot, pulling the skin together. She repeated this several times, each time stitching between each of the previous stitches until the entire wound was stitched up. She poured more liquid over the wound and patted it dry with a piece of clean cloth. She stood back and admired her handiwork.

“Nice,” said Men’ak, as he bent over to take a closer look. “Why did you start in the center?”

“Ah, so ye can ask an intelligent question,” she commented wryly. “Because if I run out of gut, the wound will at least be mostly closed, but it won’t heal pretty. Pretty ain’t too much of a concern out here, but I do take pride in my work.”

Men’ak ignored the dig and figured she and he just weren’t going to be the best of friends.

Hagra reached up to the top shelf and grabbed a clay pot. Opening the lid, she used a small wooden spoon to pull out a glob of thick, sticky liquid. “Honey and herbs for healing,” she said as she wiped down the wound with the pitch, licking her finger when she was done.

“No sense wasting good honey,” she smiled.

She set the pot down and dressed the wound with some clean cloth strips, tying the last securely after wrapping it around his leg twice.

When she finished, she took a little of the liquid and poured it in a small cup. She waved her hand over the cup and chanted some words that were very strange to Dra’kor. Dra’kor watched as the liquid hissed and bubbled.

Dra’kor pointed at the cup, “What are you doing?”

“Just casting me a little sleep potion. John here needs his rest, and we need to talk,” she answered as she gave him a crooked grin. She poured the warm liquid down John’s throat while she held his nose, forcing him to drink. He coughed and sputtered, but was soon snoring away.

“Ye boys want to help me move him to the chair over there,” she said pointing.

Dra’kor and Men’ak nodded. Each grabbed a leg and an arm and grunted under the man’s weight as they shuffled him over to the big chair sitting in the corner. Hagra grabbed a small stool and set it under his leg.

“Good, he should be out for most of the day!” she grinned.

“So when you cast the spell, I didn’t recognize the language you’re using,” Dra’kor murmured.

“Of course ye don’t, honey! Ye mages don’t study the old ways anymore …” she said with hint of sadness in her voice.

Men’ak was confused, “Old ways? What ‘old ways’ are you talking about?” Men’ak said, looking over at Dra’kor and rolling his eyes.

“Ye be kind of cute when yer confused, which is about always,” she said, setting her hand on Men’ak’s cheek.

“Of course ye have no idea of what I’m referring to,” said Hagra, getting back to the question. “Now ye asked back a while ago about why yer beast magic didn’t work. Well, truth is, the cabin’s spelled. Yer beast can’t enter. And I was referring to old magic, real magic, before the Ten made that confounded creature you all control these days.”

“Creature? You mean the Zylliac?” Men’ak frowned.

“Is that what you call it,” she spat. “Well, back in the day, wizards was wizards. Face it, ye ain’t wizards! Neither of you —!”

Dra’kor’s face twisted realizing that she was going somewhere with her story that wasn’t going to make either him or Men’ak happy. He was beginning to get this haunting feeling that she was less than impressed with them and wizards in general.

“And so, what are we then …?” Dra’kor wondered, confused as ever.

“Well,” she said, standing straight and looking him in the eye. “To tell ye the truth, I ain’t quite sure what to call ye, but ye definitely — ain’t no wizards!”

Men’ak chuckled, “Of course we’re wizards — what else could we be?”

“Ye got no magic, so’s ye can’t be wizards then can ye?” Hagra said, putting her hands on her hips, staring him down.

“We have plenty of magic,” Dra’kor shot back getting into her face.

“Back off, mage,” she yelled as she released a spell that threw Dra’kor to the back wall.

Dra’kor tried to cast his own spell, but it wouldn’t form. “What the Ten was that for?” he screamed as he struggled to his feet.

“For getting in my face and arguing about something ye knows nothin’ about! How come ye ain’t got no wards about ye?”

“I was just saying that we have magic,” said Dra’kor, motioning to Men’ak and himself. “And I have wards —”

“Bah! Ye ain’t got squat,” she said flatly. “Yer wards are worth less than the air it took ye to mutter em. Ye control a beast and the beast has magic, but ye got nothin’!”

Dra’kor rubbed his chest and looked at Men’ak confused, then back at Hagra. “What do you mean, we don’t understand?”

Hagra sighed heavily. “Look! Back in the days of Ror, wizards of the Keep were highly trained. They had magic, controlled magic. When the war dragged on, either the Ten found or created the creature, we don’t know which, and taught all the new mages how to control the beast’s magic because it was easier than training real mages. So, ye ain’t mages! Yer pretend-ta-be’s.”

“What do you mean,” Men’ak snarled, as his eyes narrowed, “— real magic?”

Hagra stared back. She lifted a piece of wood, waving it in the air and it burst into flame at the end. “Try that mage. Show me some real magic.”

Dra’kor tried to light the wood on fire but he couldn’t. He tried several times. “I can’t seem to do it …” he stuttered.

“Bah! That’s what I thought. That’s because inside of these walls you cannot reach the beast. Like I’ve been tellin’ ye; the cabin is spelled. These walls are protected with magic to prevent people from any form of scrying, and that includes mentally reaching the cursed beast ye called the Zylli whatever.”

“But you lit it …” Men’ak said, not yet understanding what she was implying.

“I did, didn’t I?” she said smugly. She turned to Dra’kor, “You sure he ain’t slow or something?”

Dra’kor closed his eyes and shook his head.

Men’ak’s eyes narrowed. “What are you? Are you a sorceress?”

“Me? No, I’m a witch, thank you very much,” Hagra replied with pride.

“What’s the difference?” Dra’kor ignorantly solicited.

“Well, to tell the truth, not much, but we witches never got along with the Ten and refused to join their little club,” she said self-righteously. “We chose to remain outside the Guild and not be party to all that politicking and whatnot, which is a waste of time if ye ask me! Main reason though, was we didn’t believe that magic should be used to control folks. Magic’s a gift. It should be used to help folks.”

“So they just left you alone?” Men’ak sputtered.

“Oh, heavens no! They tried their evilest ways to get us to join. Most of my kind was killed in them Hunts.”

Dra’kor strained trying to remember his history. “The Hunts? Wasn’t that when they rounded up all the dark mages?”

“Yes. Well, dark mages weren’t all the Ten were rounding up …,” Hagra said, in a hushed voice as she recalled those dark times. “I lost my parents and most nearly everyone who was dear to me in those days. I was just a young woman in them days — barely knew up from down.”

“So you knew the Ten?” Men’ak was astonished.

“Sure, I knew them, met with them countless times and we witches actually fought by their side for most of the war, although I didn’t do much. Like I said, I was young, young and new to the arts. Oh, I wanted to learn, and I was good at it, but they needed seasoned witches to fight against the demons. I didn’t know squat about no demons.”

Dra’kor was curious to hear a perspective that was different from the Keep’s. “What were they like? The Ten, I mean?”

“They were brilliant, driven, very proficient magi, but they were something else too. They were ruthless and self-centered, self-serving to their core. I think they were just as evil as the dark mages, but they played the politicking game better. They scared the crap out of me, most of the others too.

I remember that when people disagreed with them, those people either ended up dead or just plain disappeared, although their deaths always seemed like accidents — I’m just saying …,” Hagra finished.

“Who trained you?” Dra’kor questioned. “You said you never went to the Keep.”

“I didn’t say that,” Hagra corrected Dra’kor. “I said I never joined the Keep. Anyway, after my parents died mysteriously and we were all being hunted, a kindly old elf took me under his wing, found me hiding in a tree’s crotch scared out of my wits. He took me in and taught me everything he knew. He hid me with his kind until the Hunts passed.”

“I eventually had to leave. From there I picked things up, here and there,” she said, shrugging. “Sheila’s father taught me a thing or two, but mostly about the herbs and leaves and plants. He also taught me about healing.”

“So, I still don’t understand how come you can light the stick and Dra’kor can’t,” Men’ak said, trying to get back to the subject at hand.

“Of course ye don’t Honey! Simply put, I have old magic. Sadly, ye don’t,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Ye see, ye understand so little of the magic world. You’ve been put up in that big stone heap of a Keep for centuries all by yerselves and all of ye have forgotten what little magic ye ever knew. Ye may not be believing me and what I’m saying, but it’s the sad truth. There are no magi no more.”

Men’ak refused to grasp what she was saying. “Of course there are. We are here and we’re from the Keep and —”

Dra’kor interrupted, “Shhh! So what you are telling me is that what we call magic is not and that all we do is pretend to have the gift?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Being able to control the beast is part of the gift, but in a way yes, ye don’t know how to use the most important parts of your gift,” said Hagra sadly, as she hung her head.

Dra’kor was speechless. He got what she was saying, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to believe her, “So you can lift the clay pot over there and move things and weave air and move the dirt while in this house, and outside?” he asked.

Hagra grimaced, nodded unenthusiastically and demonstrated all three of those tasks easily at the same time without even raising her head while he and Men’ak just stood and stared. She sighed and sat down in the small chair next to the fire.

“You didn’t say anything or form any runes with your hands,” Dra’kor said in amazement.

“Course not! That stuff is all for show. The real magic is all in yer head,” she said, pointing to her ear. “Although the chants and runes can help ye remembers stuff sometimes.”

“For s-s-show?” Men’ak stuttered, scratching his chin.

“What I’ve been saying is that wizards, the Keep and the realms are in deep trouble, only ye don’t know that ye are because you don’t know that ye don’t know!”

“I don’t know that I don’t know what?” Men’ak mumbled to himself, utterly confused.

Dra’kor collapsed onto the chair on the other side of the fire and put his face into his hands. He fought hard to hold back the tears that were dancing at the edge of his eyes. “I don’t know what to say …,” he mumbled in utter despair.

“I’m sorry …,” said Hagra sincerely. “There is so much magic in this big magic-filled world, and ye just don’t know how to use any of it. Magic is everywhere; many forms of magic need their own learning to control it.”

“Can you teach us?” Dra’kor pleaded, looking up from his hands and turning to face the old woman.

“Don’t know ifin I should. Haven’t really knowed ye that long and not sure yet if I should be a trusting y’all.”

“What?” Dra’kor said, raising his voice. “Of course you can trust us, we’re from the Keep.”

“The Keep? Bah! As ifin that means much. How do I know ye weren’t sent by the Ten themselves to track us down.”

“The Ten? The Ten are dead, they died in Ror,” Men’ak said.

“They didn’t, but I’m not surprised ye think that they did,” Hagra quietly uttered as she shook her head.

“We’re here because Ja’tar asked us to find out what’s going on in the realms,” Dra’kor blurted.

“He don’t know? That don’t sound like the Ja’tar I know …,” she said, giving the boys an evil look.

“Well, you can believe us or not, but that’s the simple truth of the matter. The last watcher died and Ja’tar sent us out ‘cause he thought that something more than meets the eye was going on.”

Hagra grunted and rubbed her chin trying to figure out if Dra’kor was telling the truth, “Just the same —”

“Seriously?”

“The last watcher? And who might that have been?” she tested.

“Tar’ac,” said Men’ak.

“Tar’ac? That’s impossible,” said Hagra, shrugging him off with a chuckle. “He was too good to have ever lost his ward, that boy had a gift.”

“That’s what Ja’tar said,” Dra’kor nodded.

“Damn right he was too — something must be up. Tar’ac ain’t never lost a ward, no way, no how!” said Hagra angrily.

“So he tried to tell us,” Dra’kor mumbled under his breath.

“Well, if Tar’ac’s gone, then ye be hurting for sure!” Hagra sighed. “Maybe ye is telling the truth.”

“We are! We swear!” Men’ak pleaded. “Can you teach us? Please?”

Hagra closed her eyes and thought about it for a few seconds. She wasn’t sure she wanted to get sucked into Keep business. Nothin’ good ever came of it, and last time she got involved; she almost lost her entire family. She opened one eye and saw Dra’kor staring at her with desperation in his eyes. Mage knows he’s in trouble, she thought to herself. That’s saying something.

“I can try, but it takes years of practice. It’s even harder than learning how to control the beast to which ye refer.” she said in a small voice. “I’m afraid even I don’t know the half of it.”

“You must! We need to learn —,” Men’ak said. “We’ll work night and day ….”

“Ye need to already be knowin’!” Hagra exclaimed with a tear in her eye. “I’m afraid it be too late. Dark times they are a coming and without knowing the true power of the real gift, the realms will be destroyed.”

Dra’kor shook his head at her proclamation. “And Ja’tar knows all this?”

“He knows — and he don’t,” she said sadly. “He is one of the last who should remember the old ways, but he don’t. He may be the last of the Fallen.”

Men’ak tried hard to remember where he heard that phrase before. “The Fallen?”

“The Fallen was a name coined by the other magic races for the ones who was changed. They were the last true wizards, but they were changed by the Ten somehow so that they couldn’t use real magic anymore, only control the beasts,” she said, telling the story.

“I thought the Fallen were the magi that got raised to gods,” Men’ak said.

“Nice story ain’t it? Kind of half true and yet it ain’t. I’ve heard that one too. The part about being like gods was mostly true, but he didn’t get asked back. The Ten changed him, wiped his mind clean somehow. He don’t hardly remember who he is or what he was.”

“So what did happen?” Dra’kor asked.

“It was the dark mages that caused the whole thing. When they rose up against the Ten, the Ten fought the war. Right or wrong, don’t matter now, but understand that the Ten were very powerful in the old ways, but very insecure. They were so concerned that someone would someday be more powerful than they were that we believe they concocted the beast and the whole new way of controlling the magic.

In their way of thinking, if no one knew old magic, then no one could ever be powerful enough to challenge them. They broke the last of the old mages, the ones we called the Fallen. They played with their minds somehow and made them forget all about real magic.”

By now, Men’ak was shaking his head and rocking in place. He had broken into tears. “What are we to do?” he cried.

“I don’t know, but things are unraveling in the realms fast. I’ve seen wolven and catomen, and demons too,” Hagra said, as she expressed a huge sense of urgency. “The demons are planning something and I sense that it will happen soon.”

Hagra stood up and pushed a big kettle over the fire.

“We need to talk more, but I’m getting hungry. I have a good soup in the kettle. Will you join me?” she asked with a kindly smile on her face.

“We are indebted to you for your wisdom and kindness. We would love to join you,” Dra’kor said, his voice cracking. He smiled back weakly.

Hagra stood up and walked over to the windowsill where she had a clay container sitting in the sun with a towel over the top. She lifted the towel and inspected the big loaf of bread she had rising beneath. It was ready, so she moved the clay container over to the iron rack that was on one side of the fire and pushed some coals under with a poker. “The bread will take a while. That’ll leave plenty of time to talk. I’ll try my best to answer your questions.”

The three sat in the small room and discussed the realms and the Keep. Dra’kor and Men’ak each asked questions and with every answer, more questions came to mind. Sadly, with each answer, they became more disheartened.

They learned about Ja’tar’s father, the truth about the Keep and the Guild, the end days of Ror. After their talks, Dra’kor wasn’t mad at Ja’tar any longer.

“If I hadn’t lived the story, I’d say you were making up the whole thing. But I know what you are saying must be true,” Dra’kor sighed. “So many things make perfect sense now. I always wondered why things were they way they were. At least that’s something —”

“Well, the bread is ready. Let’s eat,” Hagra said, as she pulled a small wooden stick out of the loaf. She lifted it close to her eye and examined it critically. The stick had come out dry. “Yup, it’s done!” she announced.

She lifted the clay bread-baking dish out using heavy rags that she wrapped around her hands and set it on the woven reed mat sitting on the table to cool. While it was cooling, she dished out three generous bowls of soup, handed them to the lads and sat down next to the fire to eat. They sat in silence for a bit, sipping on the hot soup.

“That’s good soup!” Men’ak remarked.

Hagra smiled kindly at him. She stood and dumped the loaf of steaming hot bread out on the small table by the fire. She brought over a small clay crock and opened it, “Butter?” she said.

“Come on, dig in!” she said to the two supposed magi.

Men’ak turned to Dra’kor, “I might have to go lie down, I don’t feel right. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

Hagra snapped her fingers. “That’ll be the magic workin’ on ye, yer brain is clearing up now that ye don’t have that confounded beast jerking your chains around!”

“Now that you mention it, I do feel a bit different,” said Dra’kor thoughtfully. “I seem to be able to think more clearly.”

“That’s the truth of it; now eat while it’s still hot!”

The Real Gift

The three sat in relative silence eating their midday meal. Hagra kept serving them more until they each had several bowls. The bread was hearty. Not like D’Arron’s bread, of course, but delicious nonetheless.

There was a knock at the door. “Come on in,” Hagra yelled, not moving from her spot.

The door opened, and a young, beautiful, dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties walked in and threw her knapsack on the floor.

“Hello mother! Did you save any soup for me? I could smell it before I entered the Gate.”

Dra’kor’s mouth hung open. The fine young woman was dressed in tight ruddy-colored leather from head to toe and carried a large broadsword across her back and two knives securely tucked into her belt. Her black leather boots were calf-high and laced tightly. She moved like a cat and seemed to flow across the floor rather than walk.

“Sheila, I’d like ye to meet Dra’kor and Men’ak,” Hagra said, pointing to her two visitors as she walked over and gave the young lass a big hug and kiss.

“These the messengers of the Keep?” she asked as she stepped over to the fireplace, grabbed the ladle from the kettle and took a taste. Hagra handed her a bowl and she reached deep into the kettle, gave the contents a swirl and ladled out a huge bowl of soup.

“Yes and no. They’re from the Keep all right, but they aren’t exactly messengers like I originally thought. They’re what the Keep calls mages these days.”

Sheila choked on the soup and spit it out in a rush of foam. “Mages? I didn’t feel any magic when I entered?”

“Well, that’s another story. They just found out they ain’t real mages either,” Hagra said, trying to catch her daughter up on the conversations of the day. “So, be kind.”

Dra’kor stood up and reached over with his hand, introducing himself. “I’m Dra’kor.”

She grabbed his hand and he thought she would crush it. Her grip was like iron.

“How was your hunting trip, Honey?” Hagra inquired as she took another bite of bread.

Dra’kor smiled and nonchalantly placed his hand into his lap under the table and rubbed his hand.

“Productive,” Sheila said, as she pulled out a chair, spun it and mounted it backwards in one fluid motion.

“I bagged another five of those wolven beasts. I put the skins out back in the liquor barrel. I’ll scrape them tomorrow. I think we have enough to cover the entire floor now. That should make the room much warmer this winter, much better than last year,” she said smiling broadly.

Sheila reached over to the table and put down a big strand of wolven teeth that were still covered with some tissue. “These will make a nice necklace,” she said. “I’ll boil them and clean them off later tonight.”

She arched her back, took off her small side pack, and opened it. “I found some Tro’kor mushrooms,” she said while digging in the pack, pulling out a small bundle and handing it to her mom.

“Thank you dear,” said Hagra, breaking into a huge grin. She took the bundle and examining the contents, rolled the mushrooms in her hand and smelling them deeply. “These are very high quality! Where’d you find them?”

“Found a patch up in the evergreens about halfway to Toulereau by the shadow rock. I left over half, figuring they’ll grow bigger and some will seed. Maybe we can plant them in the garden.”

Hagra noticed her daughter flirting with the two magi. She laughed on the inside because she knew the two didn’t stand a chance. She watched Sheila stand up and undo the tie that held her hair up in a bun. As she reached over her head, her leather top slid up several inches exposing a well-muscled and very lean abdomen that rippled as she worked the knot. Her pants rode low, very low, and they clung to her hips like they were born to be there.

Hagra looked up from the bundle. “Did ye get any catomen?”

“Didn’t see any,” Sheila replied shaking her head, which caused her long hair to flow out over her shoulders. “I sure could use another two or three; their pelts make great bed covers.”

“Well, maybe next time,” Hagra said, nodding.

“I don’t know. I may have to venture farther; I think I’ve hunted them out of this area. Frankly, I’m a bit surprised that there were so many wolven around. Been a long time since hunting was this good, maybe they were here because of the mages.”

Men’ak was busy observing the way Sheila moved. It was like watching water flow. She barely made a sound as she put away her things and sat down at the table. The leather she was wearing was thin, and clung to her every curve. It was handsomely stitched and impeccably well tanned. And she wore it very well —

“You hunt them,” said Dra’kor incredulously, looking up into her eyes after being distracted by her form.

“Sure. Why not?” Sheila said, looking up from her meal smiling, knowing full well how distracting her figure could be. “You know that their fur is very full and soft once treated. They make a decadent bed cover.”

“Why not? Because they’re dangerous …” Men’ak stuttered, spilling his soup from the spoon that had been halfway to his mouth.

“Pffft! Dangerous? Not really … more dangerous if you let them return to the lower planes. They can come back you know. Best to just skin them and burn them,” Sheila said, as she looked at Men’ak wondering why he thought such a thing. After all, at least in her view, the beasts were kind of slow and thick headed and could be easily deceived.

“They can return?” Dra’kor grimaced.

Sheila nodded, “After a while, they just kind of turn to ether and dissolve into the ground. But they come back. Once I wounded one bad on its rear leg before I killed it, but I was hurt too and couldn’t burn it before it dissolved. Next day, the same beast jumped us in a clearing, dragging the same leg.”

“Damn!” Dra’kor exclaimed. “That’s another thing we did wrong. We left three back in the bushes about a day’s walk from the river.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll catch them if they head this way,” said Sheila, self-assuredly. “I may just get enough for that bed cover yet!”

The two magi just stared at the woman, not knowing quite what to say in reply.

“You really think they’re that dangerous?” she asked, unable to drop the subject.

“Seriously?” Men’ak’s jaw dropped from her question. “We were attacked on our way here by three of the wicked beasts and were lucky to walk away mostly unscathed. I still have the scars to prove it,” he said, lifting his shirt to show the claw tracks on freshly healed skin.

“You don’t say,” Hagra said, matter-of-factly after taking a closer look. Then again, you two aren’t exactly trained warriors are you?”

Sheila shrugged unimpressed.

Dra’kor tried to justify their toughly fought battle and less than ideal outcome by adding, “We were caught while we were asleep and it was very dark …”

“Well, I guess you done all right then,” Hagra cheerfully replied.

Sheila wasn’t ready to let the magi have their small victory. She condescendingly dug a little deeper, counting on her fingers as she spoke, “How could you not win? They only have a single eye. They have no depth perception. Their head is too big and makes them move funny. They’re almost always off balance. You should have been able to easily handle them.”

She shrugged.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Men’ak said, thinking back to their fight with the catomen. “We had no real weapons, just knives! How were we to know that they weren’t affected by magic?”

Sheila’s head shot up, “What? I kill them with magic all the time. It’s just better sport to use a sword.”

“Well, our magic didn’t hurt them at all,” Dra’kor spat.

“Right!” Men’ak answered. “You’re just kidding us about the magic, right?”

Sheila rolled her head, cracking her neck. “I never kid …,” she said flatly.

“Got that right,” Dra’kor grumbled.

“You’d have to be daft to travel the outland without weapons,” Sheila , adding insult to injury.

“We’re magi, at least I thought we were, are … whatever,” Men’ak spat back.

“So you are daft. Magic doesn’t affect everything,” Sheila retorted. “Everyone knows that. But magic does hurt the beasts.”

“Well, apparently not everyone. We didn’t know that,” a defensive Men’ak mockingly attacked.

“Weren’t at the front of the class now were we …?” Sheila mocked.

Men’ak puffed up and was ready to shout back an insult when Hagra interrupted. “Now children, no fighting,” she scolded, shaking her finger. “I think that maybe the magic the boys here control can’t hurt magical creatures. That would make sense.”

“Yes, Mother!” Sheila answered mockingly.

Men’ak just gave her a look, not quite knowing what to say.

“Sheila is a hunter-fighter like her father,” Hagra said, as a way of explanation, trying to hide the proud smile that broke to her mouth.

“A hunter-fighter?” Men’ak echoed.

“To her, the beasts are slow and fairly easy to kill. I’ve seen her fight three beasts at the same time and come out on top without a scratch. She is far more graceful in battle than they are. Trust me!”

Dra’kor looked at Hagra and over to Sheila. She certainly looked fierce enough, but he just couldn’t fathom how someone could face the beasts without being terrified, and she was a girl.

She didn’t look to be over a hundred pounds. He eyed her critically and noticed the fine muscles of her legs rippling as she moved. Her shoulders were broad and her waist was thin, with just a hint of skin showing from below the shirt. Her shirt billowed open at the bustline, which just revealed enough to tease.

Sheila leaned over and whispered in his ear. “It’s not polite to stare!”

“I-I-I’m sorry,” Dra’kor mumbled as he quickly looked away turning red.

Sheila smiled to herself. From the stories her mother had told her about the Keep, she knew that the two men had probably never seen anything that even slightly resembled a woman that looked like her. This was going to be fun, she thought.

Dra’kor was staring again, unable to tear his eyes away. “So Hagra said your father was a hunter. Did he teach you?”

“Trained me? Ha! The man left before I was born …” Sheila said, laughing without a single hint of bitterness. “I’ve visited him a few times, but to him, I’m just another warrior.”

“He left? Why’d he do that?” Men’ak asked, curious as to why a man would desert his family.

“Sheila’s father is the chief of the elf clan to the north of here,” Hagra replied. “He has responsibilities and had to go home. Besides, there’s no place for a human wife to be in his world.”

Sheila brushed back her auburn hair to reveal her slightly pointed ears, “A gift from dad — as are the eyes.”

Dra’kor hadn’t noticed before, but her eyes were more almond-shaped and the greenest green he had ever seen.

“But how did she learn those fighting skills?” Men’ak wondered aloud.

“It’s in her blood,” Hagra said. “She has the reflexes of her father’s birthright as well as his senses. She seems to have an innate ability to fight and she is a quick study from all those she has ever met.”

Dra’kor knew about elves and their reputations as fierce fighters, but he didn’t know that they took human wives or that the fighter’s trait ran in their bloodline. He just wasn’t sure how to take that and he couldn’t help looking a little confused. What he really wondered was why an elf king would take Hagra as a wife. He caught himself staring at Hagra with his mouth agape.

“Don’t be so shocked. Back in the day, I was quite a catch, we fought side by side in the war and became close,” Hagra said. “I looked a lot like Sheila here and was living the life, but time isn’t kind. A couple thousand years tends to wear on a girl.”

Men’ak’s eyes got round. “A couple thousand years?”

“Well, it’s not polite to ask a girls age, but I’m older than Ja’tar, at least by a few years,” Hagra said, smiling. “Even strong magic won’t hold time back forever.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Dra’kor. “Then Sheila here is …?”

“About your age — a little younger,” said Sheila calmly with a smirk on her face, “But in much better condition and far better looking!”

“I’ll say,” said Men’ak, before he realized what he had said. He blushed bright red as Sheila stared him down.

“You should take better care of yourselves,” she scolded Men’ak in particular because she could see that it flustered him. “You got pot bellies and flab.”

Men’ak pushed his chest out and sucked in his stomach. “I am not fat!” he muttered defiantly.

Sheila grunted and rolled her eyes.

“Sheila also has the gift,” Hagra added.

“The gift?” said Men’ak. “She does?”

He eyed her suspiciously, looking for any indication that what Hagra said was true. He had only met a single sorceress in his day, and that was Ja’tar’s sister, To’paz. Sheila didn’t look like she had any magic at all.

Sheila lit her finger on fire, and turned it to ice.

“Does everyone have the gift except me and Dra’kor?” Men’ak moaned.

“She’s very strong. Stronger than most because she got it from her father and me,” said Hagra proudly. “She will be paramount in helping you become skilled at the old magic.”

“Can you teach me to fight better?” Men’ak begged, his eyes wide as he tried to get over his shock.

“Don’t you think it’s more important for you to learn to use your gift?” Sheila answered calmly. “You don’t strike me as the fighter type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Men’ak sourly.

“I don’t mean anything by it. You just don’t seem to have the edge a fighter needs — that’s all. I supposed you might be able to learn.”

“Learning magic’s not going to help me if I get attacked and end up dead before I learn it well enough to defend myself,” Men’ak blurted out.

“Well, we’ll see. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to practice a bit,” Sheila said, with a bit of a condescending tone. “But are you up to getting beat?”

“Beat is better than dead,” Men’ak retorted.

“Hmmm,” was all Sheila quietly said. “We’ll see about that—”

Dra’kor got defensive. “Are you always this angry, or is it just us?”

“It’s you and all the pretend magi in that heap you call a Keep. It’s not as if you’ve been around helping us get rid of the evil that’s running on the loose,” Sheila screamed back. “I’ve been here fighting by myself for over a century.”

“It’s not as though we personally knew any of this was going on,” Dra’kor yelled back as he shot to his feet. “This is the first time, in a long time, that Men’ak and I have been outside of the Keep!”

Sheila echoed Dra’kor’s motion and stood tall, leaning threateningly over the table, her hand resting on the hilt of her curved elven knife.

“Well, whose job was it anyway, and why didn’t you know. Bury your heads in the sand?” She shot back, insulting the magi.

“You just don’t understand …,” Men’ak grumbled, unable to stay out of the spat any longer. “The Guild sets the rules, we’re almost prisoners. Hell, we cannot leave the Keep without the medallions, and only the Guild and the Keeper have access to those —”

“Well, perhaps you can enlighten me?” Sheila said, eyes blazing and beet-red in the face.

“Only the travelers get to go out of the Keep, and even they can only visit a single realm!” Men’ak spat back. “The Guild picks the travelers and they also pick the realm you get to instruct. That’s it.”

“There’s only so much thirty-three of us can do,” Dra’kor shrugged. “Most of our time is spent just keeping things running. We stay inside the Keep because we have been told that we cannot interfere in the realms any longer, all we do is watch — and study. It’s not like there are people lining up to be wizards. We haven’t had any new students in centuries. Nobody wants to be a mage anymore. Hell, I’m not sure that I want to be one either.”

“Excuse me, thirty-three of you? What happened to the other thousand or so of you?” Sheila rudely asked, rather confused.

“Dead — or killed, some are just missing,” said Dra’kor coldly, and then paused. “Some were lost in the realms, others killed when the totems closed. Some died from their own experiments. Others just got too old and vanished.”

“I had no idea …,” Sheila said, feeling a little guilty for taking all of her anger out on the two magi in front of her. “So all you all day do is watch —?”

“Not even that anymore — we lost our last watcher back about a week ago. That’s the only reason we are out here,” Dra’kor sighed. “Ja’tar thought something was afoot because of the way the watcher died. None of us even believed him. We only agreed to go because we wanted so desperately to get out of that stone fortress and see the world. We certainly weren’t expecting — this!”

Men’ak added, “Yes. It was Ja’tar that sent us to find out what is going on in the realms when the watcher died in what he called a very unusual manner. We all thought he was daft.”

“So you didn’t know about the demons, wolven or catomen?” Sheila fumed. “Nothin’ about the strange storms and such?”

“Not until we were attacked our first night out,” Dra’kor confessed, “and again shortly after we crossed the river where we lost Grit. We’ve never even seen a demon, any of us.”

Men’ak frowned, “What storms?”

Sheila drooped into the chair, emotionally spent. She put her face into her hands and sighed. When she pulled her hands away, Dra’kor could see that she had tears in her eyes. She looked at her mother and back at the two magi.

“Mother?” she pleaded. “It’s worse than we ever imagined. Have we already lost the fight?”

“Now child,” Hagra said, wiping the tears away from her daughters face lovingly. “We haven’t lost the fight yet ….”

“I-I-I don’t know where to begin,” Sheila stuttered. “What’ll we do?”

“Well my dear, I think we should start by teaching these magi how to be wizards. That will help,” she said smiling weakly. “The rest we will have to play by ear.”

“We want to help,” said Dra’kor in all sincerity. “We really do. We had no idea things were this dire. The Keep doesn’t know either.”

Men’ak nodded his agreement. “They still don’t know.”

“I’m afraid we know so little about the world, the realms, the threats. We will be of little use to you …,” Dra’kor confessed softly.

He saw the pain in Sheila’s eyes and on her face. Her spirit was broken and that wouldn’t help any of them.

“We really didn’t expect any of this. We thought it was a ruse, a way for Ja’tar to get us out of the Keep. We thought he grew tired of our … my causing trouble.”

“Ja’tar wouldn’t do that, would he mom?” Sheila confirmed.

“No, Sheila. He is about the most trustworthy person I ever met.”

“We should have known better, but at the time …,” Men’ak’s voice trailed off.

“Well, we have a lot of learning to do between the four of us,” Hagra said, resigning herself to a long hard journey.

“You can say that again,” Men’ak said, stiff-faced and melancholy.

“First thing’s first; we need to get you two weaned off of that beast,” Hagra said. “Then — you can start practicing some real magic.”

“Is that the most important?” Dra’kor asked because he thought learning to fight would be a far more pressing issue.

“Absolutely,” Hagra said. “If the totems go off and you end up turning to dust because you have no magic, all would be lost before we had a fighting chance.”

Dra’kor’s face went white. He turned and faced Men’ak, whose face was a mirror of his. He hadn’t thought about it, but it made sense that if they didn’t have real magic, they could be lost at any time. Dra’kor had no idea where or what the Zylliac was, but he hoped it was safe.

“So the totems don’t limit or control your abilities?” he stammered.

“No. That was why the Ten made them in the first place, to control the mages,” Hagra explained.

“Shut up!” Men’ak said.

Dra’kor listened to her story. “So what you’re saying is that they don’t affect the demons either? All they do is prevent us magi from getting out of line or using strong magic?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” said Hagra sadly, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “The demons can’t walk across the boundaries between the totems, but why would they. It’s easier for them to return to their home plane and go from there to wherever. It is merely a slight inconvenience if even that.”

“So all those magi we lost in the realms over the years when the demons rose up and they fought back we killed because the Ten were afraid that they may band together and cause another uprising?” Dra’kor said, shocked.

“That is exactly what I am saying,” Hagra said, leaning back from the table. “Paints a pretty picture don’t it?”

Dra’kor was shocked. What Hagra had told him made sense. He just couldn’t believe that the Ten would resort to such a devious plan that would undermine the Guild. From everything he had just heard, the Ten seemed to be evil and manipulative, not the great leaders he had been led to believe. He decided that he would have to quiz Ja’tar on this when he had a chance.

Men’ak was still trying to sort out all the details, and was growing impatient for Hagra to continue her story. “What happened to the Ten?”

Hagra shook her head, “I just don’t know for sure. One day they were everywhere controlling all magic in the realms, the next we knew — they couldn’t be found. Nobody knows for sure what happened or where they went, they’re just gone.”

“Come to think of it, that makes a little sense,” Men’ak replied slowly as he tried to put together pieces of the puzzle.

Dra’kor leaned in and faced his friend. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we have all these paintings and mementoes of the Ten at the Keep, but there are no graves, books, monuments or records of their late lives. Stranger still, Ja’tar and Zedd’aki never talk about what happened after Ror. It’s like they have no recollection of that period of time.”

Dra’kor saw an opportunity to ask a question that had been bothering him for centuries. “So who exactly is the Guild? I can’t seem to get a straight answer out of Ja’tar.”

“The Ten, mostly. They were the Guild, although there were a few members of some of the other races that participated from time to time … especially during the last days of the Cleansing.”

“But if the Ten are gone, who’s giving Ja’tar directions? He says the Guild is always dictating things to him and if the Guild is the Ten and the Ten are gone,” Men’ak shrugged. “He’s got to be talking to somebody.”

“Someone must be directing,” said Dra’kor anxiously.

Hagra echoed, “One would assume —”

Dra’kor nodded, “I wonder if we’ll be able to get to the bottom of this?”

Men’ak shrugged, “I think we’ll have to.”

Hagra sighed heavily. “Does it really matter? What is, is!”

“I suppose in the grand scope of what’s going on, it really doesn’t. But for my peace of mind and the future of the Keep, it’s vastly important,” Dra’kor said, after careful reflection.

“It sure would matter if the dark mages got a hold of them or something,” Men’ak added. “They could be orchestrating this whole ignominious fall of the Keep.”

“That would be bad,” Dra’kor agreed.

“Maybe they’re acting like the Guild—.” Men’ak reasoned.

“Back to the point!” Hagra said, interrupting their discussion. “We don’t have time to waste here. We need to get the two of you up to maintaining your existence without the magic of the beast, simple as that. We can assume that whoever is orchestrating this plan has been carrying on for a while. It’s obviously well under way, and that means that the totems could fire at any time. Once you are safe, then we can figure out a plan of attack.”

Men’ak smiled weakly, “I’m all for that.”

“Well, I guess we need to get started. We should break into two groups. I’ll take Men’ak, and Sheila—you take Dra’kor,” Hagra suggested as she pushed back her chair, walked to the windows, and shut the shutters. She whirled her hands and spoke in a broken tongue as she cast a spell over the entire home that would prevent any from hearing.

Dra’kor shrugged and looked helplessly at Men’ak.

“How do we start?” Men’ak moaned, feeling defeated.

“The same way we do when we work with small children. We start with water,” said Hagra forcefully.

“Water?” asked Dra’kor, not understanding.

“We make small children hold water balls in their hands,” Hagra said, smiling. “It’s child’s play …”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Men’ak said, with a heavy sigh.

Sheila smiled at her mom, “I remember doing that when I was a small girl!”

Hagra returned the smile. “You were just a tot when I started with you, not even three!”

Dra’kor moved his chair so he was sitting across from Sheila and Men’ak moved his chair across from Hagra. Dra’kor sat down and said, “now what?”

“Hold your hand palm up,” Sheila commanded softly. “This is really easy.”

Dra’kor did as he was told, but wasn’t sure at all about the easy part.

Sheila grabbed the water pitcher and using a wood spoon, scooped out a little water into her hand and mentally formed it into a small ball. She rolled it around with her finger and then, she rolled it around her hand with magic. She set her hand next to Dra’kor’s and rolled the quivering ball into his palm.

“Now, I’m still in control, but your job is to hold the balls shape. Reach deep inside to your calm place and try to control its shape. I’ll help get you started,” Sheila said, smiling.

Dra’kor looked into her green eyes. He was terrified of failure, but excited at the same time. He was almost giddy —

“Don’t worry if you can’t do it right away. It will take you a long time not to subconsciously try to call to the beast and learn to feel where your mind attaches to the flow of the earth’s magic. Are you ready?”

Dra’kor nodded.

Sheila loosened her grip on the ball. It began to quiver almost immediately. A brief second later, it fell apart into a splash of water in his palm.

Dra’kor wiped his hands on his pant leg.

“Let’s try again,” she said, forming some water back into a ball.

The second time, the result was the same. “I’m sorry …,” Dra’kor apologized shaking his head. He felt nothing.

“That’s okay. It’s going to take time,” she said.

Dra’kor looked over at his friend who was having no luck at all, “We don’t have time!”

“Damn!” Men’ak spat. “Of all the —”

Dra’kor adjusted himself in the seat and nodded to Sheila that he was ready to try again. He focused on the ball and squeezing the air around the ball. This time the ball squirted out all over his hand and the floor.

Sheila grinned because she could feel his clumsy mind at work trying new things.

By now, Dra’kor was sweating from the effort. His head hurt and his hand was shaking. He tried again and again for several hours but the end result was always the same. From time to time, he looked away and closed his eyes, trying to feel, see, and replay what was happening.

“Try to be a little softer, Dra’kor,” Sheila suggested. “You need to finesse the water with the skill, like caressing a woman.”

Dra’kor blushed, refocused, rolled up his sleeves and gave it another try. This time, the little water ball pulsed, blobbed, and quivered for a couple seconds before it broke apart. Dra’kor’s face lit up brightly.

“By the Ten!” Dra’kor swore, putting his hand over his mouth. “Sorry!” He immediately apologized.

“That’s all right,” Sheila murmured. “That was better.”

“That felt different!” he exclaimed excitedly, looking up into Sheila’s face. “I think I felt something —”

“Do you want to try again?” she said, seeing his delight. She smiled back warmly,

Dra’kor nodded vigorously and extended his hand again. Sheila dropped the little ball into his palm. Dra’kor stared at the ball and tried rubbing it all over with his mind, just as he had before. The little ball shook, quivered, and bulged, but he managed to keep it in shape for a huge three seconds before it undulated violently and broke apart.

Sheila watched as Dra’kor bit his tongue and contorted his face as he tried to control the ball. It made her laugh.

Dra’kor looked up and saw her smiling. “What?”

“It’s nothing …,” she muttered under her breath, “but you’re making faces.”

Dra’kor smiled. He could feel how different this was from the magic he had claimed to possess before. He was shocked at the fact that he had never discovered this on his own.

“I’m getting it,” he said excitedly as he looked over to Men’ak. Men’ak was still struggling so he ignored Dra’kor’s cries of victory.

He focused his mind again. “Once more,” he demanded

Sheila dropped another medium sized water ball into his palm. Dra’kor tried to relax and feel the water and the flow and for a second, he had it. The ball stayed in shape and sat there in the palm of his hand. Three seconds passed then four, then five.

“I got it! I got it!” he shouted in glee, glancing over at Men’ak. Right at that moment, as his concentration frazzled, the ball burst splashing him with water from head to toe.

Dra’kor sat there, hands dripping with the biggest smile on his face. He was a mage after all! He felt a huge sense of accomplishment. He realized that he had not felt this good about himself or something he had done in so long, he couldn’t even recall the last time.

“Good job,” Sheila said, reaching over and giving him a hug. She was very proud of him. He had only been at it for a few hours and he was already beginning to figure it out. She could see his amateur weaves, clumsy though they were, but still, they were there and they were beginning to have structure!

Dra’kor blushed. He had not expected the hug and the touch of her skin and the smell of her hair had caught him off guard. Sheila noticed the blush, but said nothing.

“I think I need a short break. My head hurts and I’m pretty exhausted,” Dra’kor said, wiping the sweat from his brow. He straightened his back. All those hours of leaning over was really making him stiff.

“Sure, we can take a breather for a bit. You’ve been at it for almost three hours straight. You’re probably feeling the effect of not being able to touch the beast’s magic.”

Dra’kor’s head shot up.

“You’re feeling yourself getting old. You should feel better almost as soon as you go outside. How about we take a half-hour’s rest?” Sheila asked, standing up from the chair.

Dra’kor nodded. He looked over at Men’ak who was still not having any luck with controlling his blob.

“Don’t wait too long to take a break,” Dra’kor shouted. “We don’t want you using a cane!”

Men’ak irritably waved him off. Since his friend wasn’t ready for a break, Dra’kor went out the front door alone to wash his face and get some fresh air. He smiled because his aches, pains, and headache almost immediately went away. The clear mountain air felt good. They had the windows of the small cabin closed to prevent prying eyes from seeing something they shouldn’t.

Sheila followed him outside after grabbing a big slice of bread that was still out on the table.

“I can’t believe I was feeling so horrible after such a short period away from the Zylliac,” Dra’kor exclaimed, “it makes me want to work even harder. I can’t fathom how I would feel after a couple days … I’m unable to imagine what Ja’tar’s sister went through. Poor To’paz!”

Sheila knew that he probably wouldn’t last a couple of days without the magic, but she didn’t say anything. There was no sense in making him worry about something he was trying to do something about. That kind of stress makes people crazy. He needed all his faculties to concentrate and learn.

“You know, we killed three more of those wolven this morning when I was outside spellcasting the fields. We left them outside the gate on the east side of the town,” Dra’kor offered up, knowing she was still looking for more to complete their rug.

“I’ll check that out this evening,” said Sheila, acknowledging the fact that he was trying to help. She wasn’t sure she wasn’t still mad at him, but he was turning out to be a far nicer person than she had made him out to be. She was beginning to see that he was as big a victim as she and everyone else. She took a bite of the bread and chewed slowly.

Dra’kor finished rinsing off his face from the rain-barrel under the roof, walked over to one of the big oaks and sat down, leaning his back against the mighty tree.

He closed his eyes and listened to the wind and birds, enjoying the feel of the breeze through his hair. He appreciated that he was outside the Keep and no matter what eventually would become of him; he knew that he would savor these moments long after he returned. Of course, if he learned to control the magic, he wouldn’t need a medallion and no one could really stop him if he wanted to leave for a while. He smiled to himself. The thought of true independence made him giddy.

Sheila walked over and crouched down next to him. “Can I join you?”

Dra’kor motioned for her to sit, tapping the grass and said, “Please.”

Sheila curled up on the grass adjacent to where Dra’kor was so that she could look into his face as they talked.

“What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking about this morning. The magic I cast was strong enough to rid the fields of the shadow beast, but didn’t work at all on the catomen or wolven.”

“Well, mom knows more, but as I understand it, the stronger the magic is, the less it will work. It seems the Ten were more worried about being attacked than anything else, so the beast can’t form spells that do real damage, to either demons, nor to other magi. I could be wrong, but that’s the idea of it anyway.”

“I suppose. I still can’t believe we never noticed this in the Keep, but considering that the Keep is warded with ancient spells from before Ror, I guess it makes sense. We haven’t had to fight off any threats over the years, at least not that I can recall.”

Sheila nodded, “That’s probably it.”

“You know that for over six-hundred years, I was never once outside of the outer wall of the Keep?” Dra’kor said, out of nowhere. “Now, it’s not as bad as it sounds because the Keep is like a very gigantic castle so there are gardens and stuff, but still. I’ve never been off the grounds. I spent a little time by the moat … You know what I mean?”

“I’ve never lived anywhere longer than a few years, ten at the most,” said Sheila. “When you never age, you can’t hang around any one place for too long — or return. People begin to ask questions and wonder. I got by with it once though.”

“How so —?”

“I said that Sheila was my mom,” she laughed. “Everyone said I looked just like her.”

Dra’kor never thought about it much, but it made sense. “That must have been rough growing up like that. At least I had all my friends in the Keep.”

“You don’t get to have too many friends on the outside,” she said sadly, with a sigh, “and everyone you know ends up dead. They grow old so fast! It’s very hard to watch. I had friends when I lived with the elves for a while.”

Dra’kor nodded.

“Better not getting to know them,” she mumbled, staring up at the clouds through the thick canopy of leaves.

Dra’kor threw a blade of grass before he turned to face her. “Have you spent much time with your father?”

“Not really. He sent me to elf warrior training, but I don’t think I’ve had more than a dozen or so conversations with him over the years,” Sheila said, tossing a small rock at a bird that was trying to dig out a worm a few yards away. “He’s so busy with his clan and his other family … besides, I don’t really fit in.”

“That’s too bad. You know, after I went to the Keep, I didn’t see my dad until I went to his funeral,” said Dra’kor, reflecting back on how little contact he had with the outside world. “I can’t believe I didn’t hear from him or go see him in almost forty years. It passed in the blink of an eye. You don’t really have a sense of time in the Keep.”

“My father is still alive … but you wouldn’t know it.” Sheila said blankly.

“I guess that being a mage or a witch has its disadvantages …” Dra’kor said, smiling kindly.

“I guess,” said Sheila quietly, staring into the distance.

“Shouldn’t have to be that way.” Dra’kor said, thinking out loud.

“No, it shouldn’t,” she said as she pulled at the grass and stuck a long stem in her mouth to chew on the sweet end.

“Your Mom seems real nice,” Dra’kor said, with a big smile.

“She really is,” said Sheila, agreeing. “But after six-hundred years … let me tell you! Sometimes …”

They both looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“I feel exactly the same way about Men’ak and Grit. There are times … I could just strangle them!”

“Sorry about this Grit fellow,” she said. “Maybe he’ll show up.”

“Possible I guess,” he said. “We could really use his help. He seems to have a gift with the blade.”

“Well, we are in a better place than we were two days ago!” Sheila said. “Two days ago we were still waiting for the day that the Keep would send mages out into the world.”

“And here we are!”

“Here you are,” said Sheila quietly. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

Dra’kor glanced up. “Can’t stop you from asking.”

“Is Men’ak all right? He seems a little — slow witted.”

Dra’kor thought for a while before he replied. “I think it’s all a show. He knows well what’s going on, but uses it as a defense mechanism to stay unnoticed.”

“Why would he do that?”

Dra’kor shrugged. “I suppose it has a lot to do with how he was raised. His Pa was a short-tempered man and used to beat him something fierce. Men’ak probably found that if he acted dimwitted, his Pa cut him some slack. Of course that’s just a guess on my part.”

“Why’d his Pa whip him?”

“Men’ak’s small. When he was young, he was sick a lot. His Pa was a farmer and Men’ak didn’t pull his weight. I guess with eight mouths to feed, he just couldn’t deal with the way Men’ak was.”

Sheila shook her head side-to-side, “I’ll try not to tease him so much about it.”

“That would be best. Can you tell Hagra too?”

Sheila nodded.

Dra’kor turned to her, “What can you tell me about Toulereau and the knight brigade?”

“Not much to tell,” Sheila answered. “The brigade, and mind you, they ain’t knights by a long shot, set out about three weeks ago to help Toulereau with the beasts. We haven’t heard a word since. Word has it that there are more than just the beasts out there, but I got no proof. Oh, I see a small demon every now and then, but …”

“Town folks seem to be really worried …,” he sighed.

“Should be. I heard that Toulereau lost close to fifty men the past month to the critters, and them were trained knights.”

“Fifty?” Dra’kor mouthed silently.

“Toulereau came here personally to ask for help —,” said Sheila quietly. “He wouldn’t do that unless the situation was — dire. His warriors are highly skilled. It’s a bit embarrassing if you ask me!”

“Toulereau is a person?”

Sheila nodded. “He’s one of the last elven leaders. His family has been ruling this land for centuries, pretty much since the time of Ror. He’s a direct descendent of Zerra you know!”

“I thought the elves kept to themselves?”

“Most do,” Sheila grumbled. “That’s part of the problem …”

“But not Toulereau?”

“No, not Toulereau,” Sheila replied, and she added under her breath, “I wish there were more like him around …”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Sheila replied. “Just grumbling …”

They had been sitting in the shade talking for almost forty-five minutes when Men’ak came staggering out.

“I feel horrible,” Men’ak groaned as he rubbed his head and the small of his back. He was all pasty white and his eyes were puffy. He couldn’t even stand up straight.

“Of course you do,” Hagra said, as she came striding out of the shop after him. She grabbed him by the arm and steadied him as he walked. “You’ve been out of touch with the Zylliac for almost five hours. I’m surprised you’re still standing!”

Men’ak looked at the three as if they had kept some big secret from him, “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I did,” Dra’kor said. “You waved me off.”

“Well, if it was important you should have —,” he grumbled as his cheeks quivered. “— grabbed me or somethi …”

Dra’kor just gave him a look.

“— I would have listened,” he said as his voice trailed off.

“You’ll start feeling better soon,” said Dra’kor softly. “It took me a few minutes before I felt better too.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Men’ak said, as he bent over at the waist, lowering his head to between his legs. Hagra placed her arm over his back and gently patted.

Sheila rolled her eyes.

“Did you have any luck?” Dra’kor eagerly asked.

Men’ak shook his head and waved him off, “Can’t talk right now.”

Hagra spoke up, “Aw! He’s doing all right. He’s starting to see where to go.”

Men’ak looked up as he swayed in place, immediately lowered his head again as his knees trembled. He tried to stand straight, but his legs gave out, his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes onto the grassy ground.

“Well, would you look at that! He just wore his self out and has been away from your beast for too long,” Hagra said, pooh-poohing him, as she wave him off.

Dra’kor’s mouth dropped open. He hadn’t realized how dire it would be to be cut off from magic, and here was his friend almost half dead after just a few short hours. He looked at Sheila and back at his friend, “We need to get practicing.”

After several more hours punctuated with breaks, Dra’kor was able to hold a water bubble in his hand for almost a full minute. He was bound and determined to master this. His life might depend upon it. For that matter, the future of the Keep may depend upon it.

“Now, try to push it around while you’re holding its shape,” Sheila suggested.

At first, it just quivered in place, but slowly, it moved up toward the tip of his fingers and then, back toward his wrist. Dra’kor was sweating profusely from the effort and his head was aching something fierce as his vision blurred from time to time. When his bubble burst, he announced that it was time to take another break.

“I’ll have to be going soon,” Dra’kor said, leaning over toward Sheila. “I still need to fix the grain before supper.”

“You will come back tomorrow,” she said in all seriousness.

Dra’kor smiled, “You can count on it. I’d stay here for the night if I could. We will stay in town until we have enough control over the old magic to continue on our own for a while.”

“I hope you can afford to stay for another three or four days,” Sheila said, referring to the cost of the inn.

“Money is not a problem. Ja’tar gave us enough coin to last for at least a month, two at the price D’Arron is charging us. I haven’t the foggiest idea what to tell,” he shrugged.

She was curious to know what Dra’kor would say is the delay for their journey. “What will you tell him?”

Dra’kor looked into her eyes, “Ja’tar? Probably the truth —”

“You think that is wise?” she asked, a bit surprised at his answer. She leaned closer.

“Sure, why wouldn’t I?” Dra’kor replied, not understanding why she thought it wouldn’t be a good idea.

“Oh, I don’t know — but what if the Guild is really the Ten, or worse …” she mumbled looking away.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Dra’kor, shaking his head. “I guess I could make something up about the wolven attacks ….”

“That wouldn’t be too far from the truth,” Sheila nodded in agreement.

“— but I will tell him about Hagra,” Dra’kor said. “Maybe it will jar his memory a bit.”

“I think that is a great idea,” she said, turning in toward the mage.

Dra’kor waited for his friend to finish the last lesson. Men’ak was behind Dra’kor in ability, but he was making progress. He was almost to the point of being able to hold the ball of water in shape.

The two exhausted friends walked down the street, heading toward the general store, where Dra’kor had promised to treat the seeds so that they could replant the fields. They walked silently, each deep in thought about what the day had shown them.

They stopped in front of the shop. “I’ll be back as soon as I pretend to treat all their seed stock,” Dra’kor grumbled.

“Fine, I’ll see you back at the inn. I’m gonna take a nap,” Men’ak said, as he turned and shuffled down the dusty street. Dra’kor watched him for a second, sighed, and let himself inside of the tavern.

Brag looked up from his mead and frowned, “Where have ye been?”

“I got distracted with John. He’s gonna be all right, but Hagra needed help.”

“Well, alright then, what you want to do now?”

“Let’s go treat that grain of yours,” he said as he reached into his robes pocket and pulled out a big satchel of herbs. “You need to get planting if you hope to get a harvest in by fall. Time’s a wasting!’

“Let’s do it,” Brag announced, shoving his stool back and draining the rest of his mead. He wiped the sticky sweetness from his mouth with his sleeve, grabbed a big handful of fire-roasted peanuts, stuffed them into his pocket and headed toward the back door.

Dra’kor saw the nuts and grabbed a few for himself before he took a couple of long strides and fell in with the others as they left for the store room that held the seed grain and seed potatoes. He cracked the shell and popped the salty nut into his mouth. He grinned. It was the first time he had eaten the nuts. “What are these called?”

“Huh? Oh, we call them peanuts. We grow them sometimes in the smaller gardens. They don’t grow as well here as they do down south, but we can’t seem to get them brought in.”

“They’re really good,”

“Most like ‘em just fine. A few folks can’t eat ‘em though. Make them wheeze and puff up like an adder.”

“Adder?”

Brag shook his head and rolled his eyes, “It’s a snake. Poisonous.”

“Around here? I’ve never seen a snake just out in the open.”

“Don’t get out much do you?

“No, not much.”

“Well, keep your eyes alert. They’re everywhere this time of year.”

Harsh Words

Dra’kor sat holding the ball of water in a perfect round sphere four feet off the ground. He moved it left, right, and up and down. He practiced moving it slowly and quickly.

He felt that he was starting to make real progress. The magic seemed to come quicker, and he felt he had more control. Sheila sat and watched as he worked the spells. She didn’t have to correct him as often now, only giving small suggestions when he struggled with a new task.

Dra’kor was pleased. What really helped was the fact that he sometimes felt that he could actually see the magic, a kind of shimmering around the water. He recognized the shimmer as the same waves he saw when he controlled the Zylliac, but he felt the shimmers, instead of just observing them. This, he felt, was the key to mastery of this kind of magic.

Apparently, there were many different kinds of magic users. This was a revelation, because he had always been taught that a wizard was a wizard. Hagra had explained that back in the time of Ror, there were many wizards who had special talents and they were classified by the Keep as seers, war wizards, casters, dreamers, healers, makers and travelers.

Hagra had said that the travelers were able to go anywhere without the use of gates as long as they had either been there before, or had been shown where to go by a dreamer. Seers and dreamers were similar, but the seer could see paths into the possible futures, whereas dreamers could only know about the now. Dreamers could step into the minds of people and observe, remembering every detail when they wake up.

The other thing Hagra said that made an impression was that if you tried to be outside of your nature, the magic was difficult. The key to mastery was determining what kind of wizard you were, and sticking to that as best you could. Of course, all wizards needed to master some forms of all the other spells. The one that Dra’kor desperately wanted was the spell to keep from aging.

So while he was able to finely control the ball of water in many ways that Sheila could not, she could control vast amounts of power he never would be able to manage. Her control was very tenuous, rough at best, but she could move huge rocks, topple trees, leap tens of feet up to a small cliff. She said that she was a war wizard of sorts. Since she wasn’t a full-blooded sorceress, she would never be able to do the vast deadly spells that war wizards found to be completely natural, but she also had the keen hunting, tracking and grace of her elven father.

Hagra and Sheila both agreed that he was a caster. Whoa … a caster. What was so special about that?

Hagra’s words rang in his head, ‘You’re able to finesse a spell, create unimaginable things, control weaves down to a single small thread.’

He grumbled to himself, “You’re a caster, you’re a caster. A spellcaster you are …”

Sheila had said that casters were cunning and creative in their magic work.

Next, she reminded him that he would never wield the power to fight in the manner that she does. He would have to be smarter, more clever, and quicker to defeat his opponents.

“You’re soooo lucky —” he muttered sarcastically to himself.

Great! All he could do was move a small bubble around and that was supposed to be awe-inspiring. How comforting. At least using the Zylliac, he could wield the same power as any other wizard he knew.

Sheila laughed at him.

“What?”

“If you only understood your gift better, you wouldn’t keep asking —”

Dra’kor dropped the water ball to the floor, “I understand my gift well enough.”

Sheila waved her arm at him, “Keep practicing.”

Dra’kor tried to form a big ball of water, but only managed one the size of a large egg, “Remind me again why I should be thrilled at being a caster.”

Sheila raised her voice, “Pay attention to your lesson.”

Dra’kor sighed and turned his attention to the small ball floating before his eyes.

She said he only felt that way because he didn’t know his own gift. He didn’t comprehend how mastery of his form of magic would elevate him to a level he couldn’t now imagine. Well, thank you very much; he could imagine quite a bit of power. Casters may have been highly prized and sought after in the time of Ror, but now?

“I can’t believe you said I’m a bull in a barn.”

Sheila shrugged.

“When do you think I will be ready to learn how to maintain my age?” Dra’kor probed for the fourth time.

“Soon,” Sheila ground her teeth. “Soon!”

“How soon?” a totally frustrated Dra’kor asked, dropping his water bubble again.

Sheila set her hands on her hips and scowled, “Well, you cannot run before you can walk,”

Dra’kor stared at her with pitiful eyes, “I have to learn. Soon! I cannot stay here for weeks …”

Sheila tried to console him, “I understand how you feel, really—I do.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Dra’kor sulked. “— I have four more realms I’m supposed to visit.”

Sheila put a hand on his face, “They will wait.”

“What if they can’t? People could be dying. They could be in worse shape than they are here, and I’m not there to help.”

“You cannot be in all four at the same time anyway. All I’m saying is what good would it do if you get cut off from the magic? What then?”

“Well, I just can’t sit here —”

“Dra’kor, listen to my words. I know how you feel, but trying to teach you before you are ready will not be easy, and may actually hinder your progress,” Sheila warned with a scowl.

“Am I close?” Dra’kor pleaded. “What else do I need to learn?”

“You need to increase the strength of your spells, so that you’ll have left over energy to do something besides keep yourself from aging. You need to be able to do two to three spells at the same time. And you still need to learn to control the other elements.” Sheila explained as she wrapped her arm around his shoulder.

“This is killing me,” Dra’kor mumbled.

“I know,” Sheila sighed, “but you need to be patient. The magic will come in its own time.”

“Damn! I’m getting another headache.”

Sheila nodded, “You should take a break —”

“Let’s go down to the gardens,” Dra’kor suggested. “I need to get out of here.”

Sheila turned to grab her sword and cloak.

Dra’kor walked over to Men’ak, who was busy working across the room with Hagra. “We’re stepping out for a bit. I need a break.”

Men’ak turned toward Dra’kor and gave him a nod.

“We won’t be gone for too long,” Sheila said, to her mother.

Sheila grabbed Dra’kor by the shoulder, “You better take your hat. Sun’s more powerful than it looks.”

Dra’kor set the wide-brimmed hat on his head and thumped it down.

The two stepped out of the cottage and walked down the main street heading for the gardens. When they arrived, there were several people working the ground. They had spades and hoes and were busy removing weeds and breaking up the ground.

To Dra’kor’s surprise, the lettuce and greens were almost four inches high. Dra’kor removed his hat and squinted.

“Looks like the garden is growing just fine,” said Dra’kor out loud.

Sheila smiled and nodded her agreement. “The townsfolk are very happy. You’re their hero.”

“Sure, they love me now,” said Dra’kor sarcastically, as he elbowed Sheila who broke into a laugh.

The townsfolk working the garden looked up and smiled, waving at Dra’kor. He waved back.

“The peas are coming up!” One of the ladies said happily, as she put another stake in the row for the peas to climb.

Another woman was farther down the row, tying jute cord to the stakes. She stood up and stretched her back, “I think the squash is coming up too, a few of them plants even have their second sets of leaves.”

“That’s great,” Dra’kor shouted back as he replaced his hat on his head.

“We’ll be eating greens by week’s end,” she yelled through a cupped-hand at Dra’kor, before turning her attention to her cord.

Sheila grabbed Dra’kor by the waist. “I heard that they started planting the fields outside the gate a couple days ago. Want to go take a look?”

Dra’kor grabbed her arm and nodded and the two walked toward the main gate. Brag was standing near the gate talking to one of the town’s guards; he nodded as they passed.

“Make sure ye don’t be wandering too far,” Brag shouted. “We’ve not seen any beasts today, but I figure that don’t mean they ain’t around.”

“We’ll be careful,” Dra’kor shouted back as they exited the partially open wooden gate. Dra’kor looked out across the field and saw that they had already finished two furlongs.

There was a single team of oxen hitched to a bow yoke plowing the next section of the field. The traces clanged and jingled as the oxen strained against the yoke, dragging the plough behind. The man behind the plough held tightly, pushing down hard to get the plough deep. He wrestled with it as it pitched in the uneven earth, cutting through grass and weed, turning the soil over. The coulter was neatly slicing through the dirt and the share was skating a few inches below the surface turning the soil nicely, leaning it against the previous row.

Dra’kor was impressed at how straight the man had his ridge and furrows. He had already plowed twelve rows of the chain and looked to be set to finish the furlong after crossing and returning the other direction. He deftly swept his goad at the lead oxen to change directions at the headland. Dra’kor nodded his approval. When the man was finished, he’d have a perfect furlong a full chain’s width completed.

There were three townsfolk helping him, but they were on the plot next door that was already finished. They were breaking up the clods of dirt and preparing to plant the seed they had already set in small piles in front of the finished rows on small burlap bags.

Dra’kor guessed that at the rate they were working, they’d have the near fields finished by the end of the week. After they finished with the onion, corn, squash and potatoes, they would start on the oat and wheat. Those fields were larger and farther away from the town. The fields inside of the town were already planted with celery, tomatoes, beans and lettuce.

Dra’kor smiled at a lady sitting on the dirt next to one of the freshly plowed fields. She had a big apron draped over her crossed legs. She was working on a bag of seed potatoes. She reached into the bag, pulled out a potato, examined it, and sliced it into wedges, making sure that each wedge had several eyes or shoots from which the new growth would emerge.

Dra’kor was ready to head back inside, his head was feeling better and he was anxious to get back to work. He waved at D’Arron as he passed the inn. As of late, he hadn’t spent much time with her and felt a little guilty. He vowed to return home early that night and spend some time talking to her.

They passed the tavern and Dra’kor waved at Grump who was standing in the doorway, shining one of his pewter mugs. He wasn’t as pleased as the rest of the town was about the crops growing again. His tavern wasn’t nearly as busy during the day now that everyone had things to do.

“Dra’kor,” said Grump curtly.

Dra’kor tipped his hat.

By the time they returned to the cottage, Men’ak had left and Hagra had set out the midday meal. They sat down around the small wooden table and enjoyed some dried sausage and bread. Hagra talked as they ate, continuing her tale of magic.

“As I was saying, magic has many forms,” she explained as she shook her half-eaten roll at Dra’kor.

“I think that you are a spellcaster,” Hagra said, with absolute certainty. “Sheila here is a war wizard of sorts.”

Dra’kor was confused, “Of sorts?”

“Bah! It’s the elf in her, she don’t have the full power she’s deserving.”

Dra’kor sighed. “So tell me again, what exactly is a spellcaster?”

“Well, as I said before, a caster has abilities to sees and weaves very finely-crafted spells, spells that others don’t see or control,” Hagra said, as she waved her arms dramatically.

“I’m not sure I understand,” A confused Dra’kor replied.

“Well! Let me try to explain. Imagine ye wished to make yerself a dandelion seed float where ye wanted, or ye wanted to secretly place a thought into a single enemy’s head when he’s being surrounded by his companions. You could do these things easily! We cannot, not no way!

“Ye see, I could make an entire group of them enemies hears the same thing, but I don’t have enough control to make just a single person out of a group of people hears something. Sheila here would place the thought into the entire group, plus all the surrounding villages,” Hagra explained grinning at Sheila who was rolling her eyes.

Dra’kor nodded. He thought he understood. He could see where the ability to finely control the magic would come in useful.

“Let’s demonstrate,” Hagra said. “Everyone make as small a water ball as you can and hold it in front of your face.

Dra’kor made his and looked at Hagra’s and Sheila’s. Hagra’s was the size of a large peanut, Sheila’s the size of a big walnut, and his was the size of a small raindrop, barely visible hanging there in the air.

“That’s what I mean,” Hagra said, letting her water fall to the floor. “You can manage the magic with such control, that you can do things that we cannot imagine.”

Dra’kor nodded as he came to understand.

“You would also make a great Healer,” Sheila added. “Most of the finest healers in the past were spellcasters.”

“I agree,” said Hagra, nodding. “One of them Ten was a spellcaster. Druxell his name was. He was a very clever and powerful spellcaster. Next to Duvall, he was the most feared of all of them Ten. Not because he would likely smite you down, but because he could make you do things and make others do things, and ye be thinking it was yer idea! It’s said he could heal people with just a glance.”

Dra’kor was a little surprised. He had heard the name before and had known that Druxell was feared, but he had not known that the Ten were all different types of wizards.

“Do you know what kind of wizard Duvall was?” Dra’kor queried.

“Ah, Duvall. Now there was a piece of work. She is a bit of a puzzlement. She seemed to be a spellcaster, but by all stories, she was more of a war wizard. Some even say that she was a demigod, able to summon and control demons, and talks to the gods herself.”

Dra’kor had not known anything about Duvall, all he had ever been taught was that she was the mightiest of all wizards, feared by all, loathed, unscrupulous and that she had rightly earned her reputation through deplorable deeds.

Dra’kor was curious to get a different perspective than that of the Keep. “Were the Ten really as bad as we have been led to believe?”

Hagra picked out some sausage from between her teeth, “Yes and no. Always two sides to every story ye know!”

“One has to remember that they was wizards, same as everyone else. Along the way, they made gettin’ more of the power the most important thing and they were willing to pay them costs required to become the most powerful. Mind you, they were the single reason the Keep exists, that the wizards were gathered together and that the realms won the war at Ror.

“Some say that the original Ten was a bit of a misnomer, there were actually closer to twenty wizards in them early days. The stories among the races say that they parted ways over arguments about what magic should and should not be used and studied and that the Ten cast the others out of the Keep. That is what eventually led to the Great War.

“The Ten that were cast away made deals with the Under Lords of the lower planes and over time, became the dark magi. What little conscience they had ebbed away and all that was remaining were hollow shells that contained an evil beyond comprehension. The war was about control of the races.”

Hagra leaned back, happy with her story.

“So why do wizards have such a bad reputation outside of the Keep?” Dra’kor asked, feeling like he was still missing a big part of the picture.

“That is a bit of a mystery to all of us on the outside,” Hagra said, as she rubbed her chin.

“After Ror, the Ten became paranoid. They questioned every act of magic, often punishing people for learning and using the gift. We assumed it was out of fear of another uprising or fears that another group would leave the Keep and become dark magi. They became more and more reclusive and they became more powerful, often spending entire months in seclusion in their rooms creating new spells, artifacts and such.

“That beast you control, they summoned or created it to train raw mages and it seemed to be playing a bigger part of the Keep. We was guessing that they no longer taught real magic, but had no idea how they made all the Keep forget their heritage. We suspect that Druxell had a good deal to do with that.”

Hagra stood up and paced in front of the fireplace, warming her old bones. She took a big sip of her tea and continued.

“I remember when they erected the totems and for a while things seemed as if they would return to normal, but over time, the Keep pulled back from the Guild and after a few decades we never heard from them again. The Guild was effectively dissolved, although the other races still maintain contact with each other. You know, Ja’tar and I were a bit of a couple back in the day. He was young, and charming. I was — younger then, and I looked a lot like Sheila.”

Dra’kor couldn’t keep his brows from arching as she told her yarn. “Let me get this straight. The Ten created the totems?”

“Yep, sure did.”

“Does Ja’tar know, ‘cause that’s not what he told us.”

“I suppose he does on some level, but it sounds like he’s not remembering things straight anymore.”

“You can say that again!”

“We don’t know exactly what happened. We don’t know where the Ten went; we don’t know what happened inside the Keep. Wizards just stopped coming around and helping. The only contact we ever had was from the occasional traveler. The one thing we were sure of was that the travelers we met didn’t know how to control real magic. We rarely saw the same traveler twice. The rest of the story, you probably lived —”

When Hagra finished, Dra’kor sat very still. He didn’t know what to say and he had a hundred questions.

“I have so many questions,” Dra’kor mumbled. “This is quite a bit to absorb.”

“I’m sorry,” Hagra said. “Truth is truth. Best you know where yer from.”

“I think we should get back to your lessons,” Sheila said. “We’ve had enough of a break.”

“— guess my questions can wait,” said Dra’kor quietly.

“I think we should work on your ability to juggle two spells. We should try to make two water balls and hold them in the air,” Sheila quietly suggested.

She knew that Dra’kor’s world had been shattered. All in all, she felt he was handling it fairly well. A lot better than she handled finding out whom her father was.

Dra’kor made his first water ball, about the size of a fat nut and floated it in the air.

“Got the first one —”

He tried to make another, “I think I got it … almost there …”

The first ball wobbled erratically and he fought to keep it in the air as he tried to create the second. The ball collapsed, splattering on the floor.

“Damn!” Dra’kor exclaimed, wiping his wet hands on his pants.

Dra’kor apologized, “Sorry, I just couldn’t hold it.”

“That’s okay,” Sheila said. “This isn’t easy. Ready to try again.”

Dra’kor nodded and got his first ball up in the air rather quickly.

“Now, pump a lot of energy into the ball to hold it together. As soon as you do that, make the other ball, you can work on mirroring the spell to hold them together,” Sheila explained.

“I’m trying, I’m trying. Give me a second — to just … get …”

“Focus!” Sheila instructed sharply.

“I am focusing,” Dra’kor growled back. “You don’t have to keep telling me.”

Dra’kor tried to do as she said, and almost succeeded.

“If I could just … get the —”

He tried again and this time, he managed to form a small second ball that was sitting on the table.

“There. Wait! I’m … loosing con…trol.”

The two balls oscillated and undulated, but he finally managed to gain control over both of their shapes. He broke into a grin.

“By the Ten …!”

Sheila looked over his handiwork, “Now, do the same thing with the energy you weave to keep the ball up, send some to the second ball. Try to slowly lift it up by alternating between the two balls.”

Dra’kor fed a bit more magic into the first ball and quickly sent a small burst into the second. The second ball bounced up a couple inches before falling back to the table. He concentrated harder, trying to make the switch faster.

Sheila startled, “Easy! Work it gently.”

“It’s harder than it looks. Got to …,” Dra’kor stammered.

He slowly worked both balls. The first ball was going up and down about three feet in the air and the second was now about a foot off the table. His brow was damp from the exertion.

“Can’t … move the weaves fast enough —”

Dra’kor kept at it, and slowly mastered his weaves. Both small balls were now holding steady in the air in front of his face.

“You did it! Good job,” said Sheila gleefully. “Mom, he did it! Two weaves.”

Hagra nodded her approval.

Sheila was eager to move on, “Now you need to learn to move them independently, but first you should try to recreate this until you become quicker at it.”

Dra’kor let the two balls fall apart and splash to the floor. “It’s harder than it looks,” he said, catching Sheila’s eye.

Sheila smiled and gave him a hug. “Yes, it is. But you managed it. It takes a lot of concentration to learn to juggle multiple weaves in your head.”

Dra’kor repeated the lesson again, and again. Each time it became easier for him to make and maintain control. He was learning little secrets to his control. He found that he could squeeze the magic into two parts and add to it, bringing both balls up at the same time. That worked fairly well, but he felt like he was cheating because you didn’t always need two identical spells to do something.

What he eventually determined was that if he treated the first spell like a master and fed it lots of extra magic, it gave him plenty of time to work on the second while the magic of the first was being consumed.

“That is enough of that lesson,” Sheila said. “Let’s learn how to move one of the balls around.”

Dra’kor nodded, however he wasn’t as sure of this as she seemed.

“The first thing I want you to do is to move the first ball left and right about three feet.”

Dra’kor concentrated on the first ball and moved it a little to the left before he had to stop and regain control. The balls were bobbing up and down until he steadied them.

He moved the ball a little further and then, a little further still. He found it was becoming more difficult because he had to keep moving his head back and forth to see what he was doing.

Sheila was grinning to herself because she had made the exact same mistake when she was just learning. “Dra’kor, you don’t need to watch the balls, you need to feel them and just know they are where you put them.”

Dra’kor nodded shallowly because he was concentrating so hard, “Uh-huh.”

He didn’t even notice that Sheila had gotten out of her chair and went to grab a scarf. When she returned, she stepped behind Dra’kor and put the scarf over his head.

A moment of panic hit him as he realized what she was doing and he lost sight of the first ball.

“Relax. Feel where you put the ball. You can think and control far faster when you don’t rely on your eyes. Believe me!” Sheila said, as she wrapped the cloth around his head.

At first, the balls went crazy, moving about and wobbling out of shape, but as Dra’kor relaxed, the balls began to behave themselves. Soon, he had both under control and was only listening and responding to what Sheila was asking him to do.

Dra’kor imagined the balls in his mind and made them move as Sheila instructed. He grinned to himself. Sheila was right. It was easier to control the objects when he didn’t rely on what his senses told him. He made his demands and wove the magic. He just knew that the magic did what he asked.

After several hours of practice, Sheila removed her scarf. Dra’kor found that he was now able to easily move the two balls around independently.

“You feel up to trying three balls?” Sheila asked.

“I guess. I’m getting a little tired, can we break after that?”

“Sure, we can break now if you want.”

“Might as well give three a try, at least a time or two.”

“You sure?”

Dra’kor nodded.

To Dra’kor’s surprise, he managed to get all three balls up his first try. By the time they finished, it was time for him to take another short break because his head was beginning to throb. Dra’kor went outside and sat down on the grass, leaning up against the cottage. The late afternoon sun felt good on his face.

Sheila sat down across from Dra’kor, “You should feel good about the day.”

Dra’kor squinted, “I do. It was a lot easier once you covered my eyes. How did you know?”

“I had the same problem when I was learning,” she sheepishly admitted. “That was how I learned to do multiple spells.

“I think I can do more than three …,” said Dra’kor as his voice trailed off. “At least I’m making progress.”

“You’re making great progress. I think you are being too hard on yourself.”

“It seems so slow,” Dra’kor mumbled as he dragged a small stick through the grass.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I think you are ready to start learning the aging spell.”

Dra’kor’s head shot up when she mentioned the spell. “You think so?”

“I do, but you need to have a good rest before the next lesson. Would you like to go hunting with me?”

Dra’kor nodded as Sheila grinned, stood up and brushed off the dead grass from her pants. “Let’s hunt!”

The two entered the cottage and grabbed their swords and spears. Sheila slipped on her leathers. In a matter of minutes, they were sneaking out the back of the town behind the cottage through a hidden exit that Sheila had fashioned. She stood in front of the hidden door and cast her spell, while Dra’kor was on the lookout. The wooden barricade twisted back and the two quietly squeezed out and left running into the forest.

Skree

They had gone out hunting nearly every day and had bagged several wolven and even a couple catomen. They burned the catomen on the spot so that they couldn’t return right after skinning them. Sheila found that their pelts made excellent leather and warm boots. She had even fashioned a fine winter coat from the luxurious black fur. She had made Dra’kor a new pair of pants with several of the hides, a gift that had not gone unnoticed by Men’ak.

They spread out and swept the forest, stopping every few yards to listen and feel with their magic for any prey. Lately, they had to go farther out from the town to find any of beasts. Their regular trips had whittled down the numbers of the beasts, reduced the number of alarms rung in the town and even allowed a few of the men to go out hunting for venison, which greatly aided the townsfolk who were doing poorly from the hard winter and failure of the spring crops.

Dra’kor and Sheila slowly crept along a narrow valley trail deep in the forest. The ancient trees filtered the sunlight and dappled the ferns and low growing shrubs with golden light. Sheila raised her hand and motioned for Dra’kor to stop. They heard an unearthly growl and hissing coming from in front of them.

Sheila crouched very low and slowly inched forward, her spear at the ready. Every nerve and fiber of her being was focused, listening, ready to respond to her command. Dra’kor held back, waiting, watching her move. He could see every muscle in her body flex under the thin leather. It was intoxicating to watch. He followed her as she motioned for him to keep up. The smile on her face told the whole story. She lived for the hunt.

They paused at the edge of a small clearing and peered out from their forest hiding-place. Sheila slowly moved the oversized deep-green leaves out of the way and peered into the opening. There in front of them was a great upright animal looming over the top of a deer, feasting on the recent kill. Its head tore at the deer’s neck as it ripped large chunks of flesh free and swallowed it without chewing. Dra’kor could see steam rising off the recently dead carcass and could hear the systematic slurping and chomping as the beast’s lengthy fangs rubbed each other as it gnawed on the animal.

The beast had its back to them. It was leathery, with small spines along its spine and bony battle plates lined its skull and back, protecting its neck. Dra’kor looked on in horror for he had never seen a beast such as this. He heard the clicking of its teeth and the low guttural sound the creature made as it fed. The ground was damp with the spilled blood of the fallen deer, drained from the long three-pronged gash that had slit its throat, the head lay awkwardly off to one side, its eyes vacant, tongue draped from the side of its mouth. Dra’kor assumed that the beast had broken its neck as well, although the carcass still twitched involuntarily with each ripping bite of the demon.

Sheila caught his eye and motioned to him that she was going to circle around to the west and that she would let him know when she was going to attack. Dra’kor nodded and watched her as she silently retreated and moved off into the forest, quickly disappearing from sight.

Sheila carefully set her foot to the ground; each step purposefully placed to assure no sound was made. She ducked under branches and moved them slowly to the side; all while quietly and meticulously moving into position.

She could smell the beast now. Its putrid stench was being carried downwind from where it was still feasting. It ripped at the doe’s carcass with long fangs and wolfed down mouth-sized chucks of gut and meat without chewing simply by throwing back its maw and swallowing.

Something made the beast stop and its head shot up as it gazed directly at where Dra’kor was hiding. Dra’kor could see its festered face and outsized jaw. Blood and gore dripped from jaws, which were still filled with the last piece of venison that it had torn off the fallen deer. Bloodshot black lifeless eyes scanned the forest where Dra’kor stood cowering, fighting back the bile rising in his throat.

Fear consumed Dra’kor, he stood there frozen, eyes wide, sweating and weak. He could feel his heart racing and he tried to summon some magic to quell his beating heart in case the beast had extraordinary hearing. The beast sniffed at the air and scanned the horizon again before it turned its attention back to the kill.

Dra’kor never saw or heard Sheila let loose the spear. The first thing he heard was her thrashing through the brush, next he saw her sword flashing, as she pounced at the beast that was howling in angst as the spear had plunged deep into its side. The beast yanked the spear free with its left claw, cracked it into pieces throwing them on the ground and turned to face its attacker as if the spear were but an annoyance to be tolerated.

It threw open its claws, grunting a string of guttural unintelligible sounds and let loose a spell bolt that Sheila narrowly avoided by tucking into a ball and diving to the side behind a tree. The bolt hit where she had been standing laying the ground open with a mighty explosion.

“Magic?” Dra’kor said, as his jaw dropped open. He hadn’t expected that.

“Stay back,” he yelled. Sheila made no indication that she had heard his plea.

Twice more the beast sent magic her way. Each time, she bounded out of the way in the nick of time. Each time frustration grew in the beast and it began to carelessly stomp and thrash around trying to corner the insignificant woman who was disturbing its meal.

Sheila stood, waving the sword in front of her, looking for an opening. She balanced on the balls of her feet and wove back and forth shifting her balance between her two legs.

By now, Dra’kor had recovered from his surprise and was charging in to meet the beast.

“I’m almost there …,” he cried out, just before a root caught his foot and sent him tumbling.

He hit the ground hard, “Uuumph. Damn!”

He grimaced at the pain in his knee, which had hit a protruding rock on the way down, slicing through his pants and leaving a bloody gash on his kneecap. He stood up, favoring his leg, but charged on as best he could.

The beast turned to see him running and cast another spell of some kind of fine mist that settled like a web on the trees and shrubs in front of Dra’kor. Dra’kor cast his own spells of protection as he ran, but once he entered the fine threads, he was bound in place barely able to move.

“What the —?” he mumbled looking down at his tangled feet and arms.

They were sticky beyond belief and made the branches cling to him. Every time he moved, it held him tighter. He knew he shouldn’t struggle, but panic gripped him.

Dra’kor grunted, “Ugh. This stuff is … so … uh, sticky.”

Soon, his legs were bound and his arms were stuck to his sides as he struggled to get free.

He felt himself wobble, “Oh, damn!”

The last thing he saw before he toppled over was Sheila rushing in to meet the beast with her sword held high.

Dra’kor could hear the battle, but the low-lying shrubs and weeds were blocking his view. He tried to roll over and sit up, but couldn’t. He heard the beast grunt and moan and the sound of sword on bone, or was it metal, he wasn’t sure.

He wiggled his fingers and cast a spell to burn off the sticky mess. The fine threads that bound him burst into flame, as the magic coursed up the thin, but steely threads. The heat from the flames scorched his cloak and leggings. Dra’kor bared his teeth and growled as the flames burnt his exposed skin, leaving scorch marks and the smell of burnt flesh and hair hanging in the air.

He pulled at the burnt mess, “I’m coming … hold on!”

He regained his feet just in time to see the beast catch Sheila with a wicked backhand across the face that spun her around, lifting her up off the ground and tumbling her onto the rocks several feet away. Dra’kor watched in horror as he saw her eyes roll back in her head.

Dra’kor screamed, “Sheila! By the god’s, no —!”

The beast rushed to where she laid listless and raised both claws for a deathblow, extending its talons to full.

“Not this time you foul demon,” Dra’kor screamed casting his strongest spell. He spun his arms to add speed to the spell, and let it loose into the back of the beast.

The giant ball of energy hit the beast in the center of its back and exploded, crackling over the demon’s body making the demon rear and convulse, but causing no real damage. But, it bought him time.

Dra’kor saw a large boulder, summoned the magic, and flung the heavy stone at the beast’s back using everything he could muster.

He took great satisfaction from hearing the beast’s spine crack as the boulder hit, staggering the beast as it exploded and sent shards of the beast’s own bones deep into its back. The beast threw back its head and howled in agony struggling to reach and pull the bone shards from its back.

Dra’kor had hoped to buy himself some time and sighed with relief as the demon froze for a second before refocusing on the prize in front of it. Again, the abomination dropped to its knees and opened its large maw, it fell on top of Sheila to sink eager fangs into the soft of her neck.

Sheila was still groggy and saw the beast coming in for the kill. Her hands shot up and she grabbed either side of the beast’s jaw and wrestled it to the side.

“Help!” she shouted as she twisted her face away.

The beast’s teeth were sharp and they dug into Sheila’s hands, cutting flesh and tendon. Still she held on. The smell of the beast from this distance made her wretch and she could feel bile rising in her throat. She ground her teeth as she strained against the stronger foe.

By that time, Dra’kor had managed to reach the clearing, rushing in sword held high. He used both hands to plunge his broad sword deep into the beast’s side, driving it halfway to the hilt before yanking it back and forth to scramble the beast’s guts.

The beast swiped at him, and Dra’kor had to jump sideways to avoid the razor sharp claws.

“Why won’t you die?” he grunted, clearly surprised at the beast’s resiliency. He looked down and saw fear in Sheila’s eyes.

“Can’t … hold … on much longer,” she grunted out, as she tried to avoid the dripping gore from the beast’s maw falling into her face. The beast had one front claw sunk deep into her chest and its talons were digging into the softness of her breasts —

Her hands were bleeding freely now and the blood made it even more difficult for her to keep the demon’s teeth at bay.

Dra’kor threw his foot to the demon’s side and pulled with all his might, yanking the sword free. The beast barely acknowledged his presence. He reeled backwards a couple steps as the blade broke free, making an unsettling suction sound as it slid from the beast’s flesh.

“Arrgh,” Dra’kor screamed as he pitched himself upright and with all his might, swung his sword completely around in a full circle. It cleaved the beast’s neck, narrowly missing Sheila’s hands, as she let loose her right hand at the last instant. She grinned, as she hoisted the beast’s head high with only her bloody left hand.

The beast’s body thrashed, quivered and went limp.

Dra’kor saw the surprised look in the demon’s black eyes as the beast still tried to sink its fangs into Sheila’s neck, making a gurgling sound, its tongue whipping back and forth.

Dra’kor raised his blood-soaked sword and using both hands hacked down on the boney spine that connected the head to the body. His arms jarred from the impact as he heard the blade crack the dense bone separating the head. He drove the blade down again and again.

“Get it off …” Sheila growled as the beast’s blood oozed out and covered her arms and chest. “It burns! Curse the gods it burns!”

Sheila rolled to the side and tossed the head to the dirt. She sat upright and took a deep agonizing breath, pulling air in past her bruised ribs. Her hands were lacerated from the teeth of the beast and her fine leathers were covered in blood and were smoldering. She trembled and quivered as she ripped off her top exposing her ample breasts. Dra’kor’s jaw dropped open.

“A-a-a little help here,” Sheila requested as she opened her goatskin water bag and poured the cool liquid over her arms and breasts, rubbing fiercely to remove the gore.

“H-h-huh?” Dra’kor stuttered as he stood there jaw agape, sword dangling.

“Quick! Before the acid burns me even worse,” she sputtered back.

She gasped as the gore found its way into her open wounds igniting every fiber of her being. She fought hard to remain conscious, staggering a couple steps to the side as she lost her balance. The puncture wounds in her chest burned like the Fire of Alzaer, the smoking and burning rocks to the north!

Dra’kor stood there unable to move as he watched her blood mix with the ooze and icy cold water. He eventually managed to kneel down.

“What do you need me to do?”

“H-h-help me wash off … g-g-get this vile stuff off,” she sighed stuttering. Dra’kor was white-faced and practically paralyzed with concern. “Move it —!” she growled.

Dra’kor gently started wiping her off with his hands as she dribbled the water over her skin. Each time she groaned, he pulled his hands away afraid that he was hurting her.

“I’m not going to break,” Sheila said, wincing from the acid eating into her skin.

Dra’kor’s voice quivered, “Your skin is so red and raw.”

“You can rub a little harder; it’ll help it from getting worse.”

Dra’kor was having a very hard time focusing his attention. Her warm soft skin was leading his mind to places it shouldn’t be going, but he found he was unable to focus elsewhere.

Sheila felt him rub up against her and noticed that he was getting rather … excited. She smiled to herself and arched her back to meet his touch. She felt his hand tremble. She gently put her hand on his and pulled it away.

“I think you got it all off,” she said. “Can you heal me please?”

Dra’kor lowered his eyes, “Uh, sorry … sure.” He cast his spell and she groaned as the spell took effect. She felt the puncture wounds in her chest seal over. Her hands quaked and throbbed as the magic took effect. It was different from when her mother healed her. She couldn’t see the magic or feel its source. It just worked. It was more than a bit unnerving.

“I was just …,” he babbled.

“Bet you were! Mind if I borrow your shirt?”

“What? Oh, sure,” Dra’kor said, as he stripped off his cloak and began to untie his field shirt.

He handed it to Sheila who met him with a big wet kiss, throwing her arms around his neck. He felt her smooth skin against his chest and her hands grab his hair, pulling his head tight to hers. He returned her kiss strongly.

“Thank you for saving me,” she said as she looked into his eyes. “I thought I was a goner.”

“You’re welcome,” Dra’kor sputtered as she pulled away and grabbed his shirt. She deftly slipped it on and began to tie it up the front. It was too big and draped over her awkwardly, falling off her shoulders.

Sheila walked over to the creature’s head and kicked it over.

Dra’kor stooped on his haunches and stared down at the beast. “What the hell is it?”

It had oversized almond-shaped eyes, black as the night set deep in an elongated skull. The tattered wedge-shaped ears were thick, pointed and laid back. There were three rows of teeth, but only the fronts were long enough to do real damage. The skull was rough and lumpy and wrapped with a gray-green skin that was smeared with a slick ooze that burnt when touched. Its back was covered with spines and had bone armor along the spine. The feet were bulky and had three forward-facing claws and two that faced to the rear. Skin, if you could call it that, was course and scaled and it hid a very muscular frame comprised of largely deformed, oversized bones. The entire demon probably weighed twenty stone, although that was just a guess on Dra’kor’s part.

“I’m not sure, but I think it could be a skree,” Sheila scowled as she turned the head over again with her foot.

Dra’kor asked looking quickly from the dead demon to Sheila and back. “A skree? I don’t recognize that from my studies, is that bad?”

“It’s very bad,” Sheila grumbled. “Anything from the lower planes means serious trouble.”

“Lower planes? How low are you talking about?”

“If it’s a skree, we’re talking second or third …”

“And that’s trouble?”

“Didn’t they ever teach you anything in that Keep of yours? You had a thousand years to learn something, what did you waste your time doing if not learning your craft?”

“Well, I …” Dra’kor stammered. “I guess I should have paid attention, but it seemed a waste of time considering we never left the Keep!”

“Well, it means big trouble,” Sheila nodded.

Dra’kor stood up, “How so?”

Sheila’s voice quivered, “Well, for one thing, the lower-plane critters cannot get to this world without the help of magic, and that magic has to be powerful and comes from a very dark place.”

Dra’kor furrowed his brow at her reaction, “So you’re thinking it’s a dark mage?”

“Dark mage? Are you crazy?” Sheila gasped. “You know there aren’t any dark mages anymore, more likely a demon lord …”

“How can you be so sure?” Dra’kor countered with a tremor in his voice.

Sheila looked at him as if he were daft, “They were all killed during the last battle of Ror. They were all accounted for.”

“So we assume,” Dra’kor grunted and spit on the ground. “Given what I’ve seen the last few days, I’m not too sure about anything anymore. All it takes is one …”

Sheila shrugged, knowing he was right.

“If it wasn’t a dark mage, what else could it be?”

“I don’t know, maybe it was called by some other race. Others have magic too!”

“Like what?”

“Giants, maybe Orcs, demons or Gobbons.” she said as she grabbed her smoldering shirt by a corner and shook it out flat. She crinkled her nose as she used a dead stick to put the skree’s head in the center. She jabbed the stick into the soft tissue of its brain through its neck and using both hands took care to not get any of the blood on her hands.

Satisfied, she tied the bundle closed and anchored it to the end of Dra’kor’s spear.

“Gobbons?” Dra’kor frowned as she handed him the spear. “I’m not familiar with that race … either!”

“They’re a bastard race of goblins. We aren’t sure what the other race was. We think it was demons, so we call them Gobbons.”

Dra’kor nodded as he set the spear to one side and wiped his still-dripping blade clean on the demon’s back.

“You better use leaves and dirt to clean that well —”

Dra’kor sighed and did as she requested, “Ever seen one?”

“— one what?”

“Gobbon —”

“Oh,” said Sheila, remembering their conversation. “Seen many. They each seem a little different, like some strange creature abomination. The browns are the worst. They’re greedy, wily, ugly and deviously crafty. They got big-ass ears. They seem to relish causing trouble.”

Sheila searched around the edge of the clearing until she found what she was after. She pulled some three-lobed leaves off of a short plant that had purple berries in clusters. She wadded them up and pulled up her shirt, rubbing the oily secretion on her skin. She sighed in relief as the soothing balm did its work.

Dra’kor tipped his head as he watched her. “What’s that?”

“Witch’s Wart. The sap of the plant helps ease the pain of the burns and makes the swelling go down.”

Dra’kor nodded, “Funny name for a healing herb …”

“If you boil it, and put it into a potion, it’ll cause warts,” said Sheila sarcastically, before she snorted.

Dra’kor rolled his eyes.

She smirked, “Remember, you asked!”

Dra’kor snickered, “Back to the Gobbons. Tell me more —”

“They’re evil little troublemakers, always mucking with things. They make a lot of contraptions,” Sheila said, as she finished tying the bundle. “They have huge deformed hands; I remember their hands … mostly.”

Dra’kor raised his brow. “They dangerous?”

Sheila shook her head, “Didn’t think so, but we don’t know much about them. The old Goblins weren’t. These? Who knows …”

“Hard to imagine such little guys causing much more than an annoyance.”

Sheila shrugged, “They’re bigger now. Saw one last year that was almost the size of an elf.”

Dra’kor shivered and rubbed his chest and arms, “Really? Is that big?” Dra’kor’s body temperature was dropping now that the sweat was evaporating and he was getting cold. He had goose flesh on his arms and his teeth were beginning to chatter.

“That’s huge. They used to be little pint-sized creatures. Barely as high as a stool back.”

Sheila wadded up the leaves and wiped down her arms and chest one last time, letting the calming oils soothe her raw and burnt skin.

Dra’kor looked around for where he had set his cloak. “That doesn’t sound menacing to me. When did you first see them?”

“A couple decades ago Mom and I ran into a pack of them when we moved out of the mountains. They were willing to trade and we needed some things. We had to leave in a hurry,” she said grinning. “Funny, they wouldn’t trade for anything but gold!”

Dra’kor spotted his cloak, “What? That seems odd.”

“Yeah, I thought it was strange too. We tried to trade some gems we had for some pots and a sword, but they turned us down.”

Dra’kor frowned, “Turned down gems? Know anything else about them?”

“Not much. I tracked them a few times, they seems to keep to themselves. They do seem to breed like rabbits!”

Dra’kor threw the cloak over his shoulders, “Smart?”

Sheila shrugged, “Don’t know, but they ain’t much good at fighting, least as far as I know. They fight in this rage, just slashing and stabbing, screaming and growling at the top of their lungs.”

Sheila snickered, and burst into laughter, “It’s actually a bit comical to watch, even if it’s you they’re attacking. There’s not much organization to them, they’re kind of like bees around a honey-pot. Did I mention that they prefer to live underground?”

“No, you didn’t. You mean in caves?” Dra’kor bent over and tied his boot which had become undone in the rumble.

“Can’t say for sure, but the dwarves swear they can dig like there’s no tomorrow — they’ll go places no dwarf will dig!”

Dra’kor asked, as he stood fully straight and wrapped the cloak tighter. He wove a little spell to warm himself, just enough to take off the chill. “Interesting. What now?”

“A little heat for me?” Sheila asked bluntly.

“You could feel the spell?”

“No, I saw the steam coming off your cloak, but others might sense it!” she scolded him.

“Sorry. I was very cold. You walk around without a shirt on for a while.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” she said with an indignant nod.

Dra’kor grunted and grinned like a fiend, “Absolutely!”

“That’s what I thought,” said Sheila sardonically.

“I know what I like …,” Dra’kor muttered under his breath as he adjusted his cloak.

“What —?”

“Nothing, just grumbling to myself ….”

Sheila had of course heard his comment and smiled to herself. “We should show this to mother. She’ll know what it is for sure.”

Dra’kor nodded. As Sheila picked up the bundle using the tip of her spear, the metal tip sizzled as the acid took effect. “Hope this holds until we get home.”

Dra’kor looked at the smoldering bundle. The leather was turning dark brown and scorched as the acidic smell filled the air, burning his nose hairs.

“Make sure you wipe that sword clean before you put it away. This thing’s blood burns like fire.”

“Already took care of it,” Dra’kor shivered and pulled his cloak tight. He rubbed his hands and stomped his feet to get his circulation going. It was still early spring and without direct sunlight, cold. He wondered what they should do with the body. “Should we burn it or something?”

“Bury it. I doubt it would burn …,” Sheila demanded testily. “Being from the lower planes … that’s all I’m saying.”

“Catomen burn! I can at least try,” Dra’kor suggested.

Sheila waved him on with her hand. He wasn’t going to listen to her, so she might as well let him broadcast that a mage was here when he tried to burn the damn demon.

“Men. You’re all daft!” she spat.

Dra’kor drew up as much magic as he could hold and sent a ball of wizard’s fire into the beast. It hit, spattered and crackled, but when all was said and done, the body remained much the same as it was before.

“That’s what I thought,” said Sheila smugly, “now every magic user for leagues knows we’re here. You aren’t too bright —”

“Didn’t hurt to try …” a chided Dra’kor said, resigning himself to the limitations of his rogue magic.

“You miss the point!”

“Wha —?”

“You just let every magic-using creature in ten leagues know that a mage is around. Nice work.”

Dra’kor looked up befuddled.

Sheila gave the dead creature a good kick. “Probably need to use old magic or something from the dark arts to affect these things …,” Sheila said, as her voice trailed off.

“Probably!” Dra’kor agreed. “Do you have enough use of the ancient magic to do it?”

Sheila looked up from the beast, “No, not even close.”

Dra’kor looked at her a bit surprised, “No?”

Sheila was visibly agitated, “I’m not really a war wizard. That’s just what mom calls me. My magic is exceedingly weak by war wizard standards, it’s elven magic. I use it to do small stuff like make my sword faster, or soften a blow. That’s about all … really!”

Dra’kor was surprised at her candor, “So, what do you think we should do?”

Sheila was glad Dra’kor dropped the subject, “I guess we should bury it! Can you dig us a hole?”

Dra’kor nodded and after a brief twining of his fingers, his rogue magic dug a big furrow in the ground. They stood and watched the dirt pile to the sides as the hole grew. He wove another spell when it was deep enough to hold the demon.

He used the spells he knew to lift things, placed the body in the hole, and commanded that the dirt cover the body and pack down hard. Just to be sure, he cast another spell on the grass to quickly grow and cover any sign that the ground had been disturbed.

Sheila used a spell to blow some leaves over the top, making it appear even more natural.

They heard an unearthly howl off in the distance.

“We’d better git,” said Sheila hurriedly. “I’m not up to another encounter today. Every magical beast or demon around probably knows we’re here the way you go about blasting things.”

“It could just be wolven,” said Dra’kor optimistically.

Sheila turned her ear toward the sound and stared off into the distance, “Don’t sound the same to me, it’s not wolven.”

Dra’kor grew worried. He scanned the dense woods, trying to see what Sheila was looking at. “Are they coming this way?”

“I can’t tell, but I don’t think we should take the chance. We should go,” Sheila said.

They hastily gathered their things, quickly setting off for the town.

A hooded creature stepped into the small clearing and looked around for its pet’s body. It found it off to the side in a new grave, which was already covered with grass and groundcover. It raised a gnarled and twisted hand to its bony chin and contemplated the sight. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to make his pet a proper grave and to hide it.

“Ah, my friend. What have you done to deserve such treatment? I believe you have been caught by the elf girl. Once again she proves herself to be quite a formidable opponent.”

It extended hands and an aura of green and vile yellow magic covered the new grave. The ground settled and the hole hollowed as the beat’s body was sucked down into the underworld.

The creature had not noticed that the beast’s head was missing.

They walked back to the town’s barricade, and stealthily let themselves in. They carefully made their way to the cottage, hiding their prize. After entering, they placed the bundle next to the fire and called Hagra over to see what they had found.

“This not be good,” she said as she picked at the head with a sharp stick. “You be right my dear, ‘tis a skree. If there be skree about, there’s bound to be a demon or two with them.”

“We buried the body. I think it was alone,” Sheila said. “But there is no way to know for sure, we heard howling as we left.”

“We’ll need to take this back to the forest and bury it,” Hagra said, grumbling. “Don’t want it in here, just in case there’s another of those skree’s out there. They can smell their own, they can.”

“I’ll take it out, right after I finish changing,” Sheila promised. “Beast’s blood is like acid. Ruined my best shirt.”

Hagra watched as her daughter stripped off her shirt and put on a new one, arching her back as she pulled the shirt over her head. Hagra raised a brow.

Sheila shook out her hair, “He’s already seen everything. I had to strip in the woods; I was covered with the beast’s blood. I got it on me, had to get it off quick.”

“He helped me wash it off after a little coaxing,” she added with a hint of a smile as she reached for another shirt that was draped over the back of one of the chairs.

Dra’kor blushed when Hagra gave him a dirty look over her shoulder.

She put on the shirt and turned to button it.

Hagra smiled knowingly at her daughter. Sheila’s back was to Dra’kor and he didn’t see any of the secret smiles that were exchanged between mother and daughter. Sheila turned, handing Dra’kor his shirt, which he quickly put on. It smelled of Sheila and he took a deep breath taking her in.

“I need to make a new shirt,” Sheila said, shaking her head at the sight of the smoldering holes in her old leather one. She pulled her knife out of its sheath and flipped it over twice, checking it’s blade before she slid it back into the sheath.

Dra’kor looked around the room, “Where’s Men’ak?”

“Probably sleeping. He says he’s been having lots of weird dreams lately. He’s a seer,” Hagra said, nodding as if she had spoken a tome.

“I guess I’ll get rid of the skree,” Sheila said, scooping up the smoking bundle with the spear.

Hagra placed her hand over her daughter’s.

“I’ll try to figure out what’s going on with the skree. You two should work on Dra’kor’s magic. I’ll take it out back when I’m done,” said Hagra, as she turned her attention to the beast’s head. As she grabbed her daughter’s spear from her hand and used it to lift the acid-eaten shirt and set it outside the door, covering it with an old flour bag.

“Should be back soon,” she mumbled as she walked out the door and closed it tight.

“See you mom,” said Sheila.

Sheila and Dra’kor sat down across from each other at the small table and started to work on the living spell. Sheila talked him through the incantation and showed him the magic weave. She repeated the instructions several times, to make sure he understood all the parts.

“That’s very complicated,” Dra’kor mumbled. “I wasn’t expecting it to be that complicated.”

“Well, it’s simple as far as spells go, but it has to be pretty detailed after all, it keeps you alive,” said Sheila sarcastically.

Dra’kor sighed, “Well, let’s get on with it then …”

For the next few hours, they worked on the various components of the spell. One by one, Dra’kor learned them. Finally, it was time to put the components together.

Dra’kor’s frustration set in, “So, this was why you said I had to be able to put three balls in the air …”

“Pay attention!” Sheila scolded.

Dra’kor blurted, “I’m trying …”

“Try harder,” Sheila answered bluntly with steely eyes.

Sheila pointed to the spell he was assembling, “Now, create the first part, the one spun of air and earth.”

Dra’kor did as he was asked, and held the spell in check.

“Next, you need to spin the part that is of fire and magic itself.” Sheila said, as she instructed him on how to assemble the three spells.

Dra’kor made the second component and held it in place next to the other. He was beginning to sweat from the exertion.

“I think I’ve got it,” he hesitantly mumbled.

“Make sure you have it or you’ll need to start over,” said Sheila harshly.

Dra’kor became defensive, “Give me a second. You’re being —”

“Being what exactly —?”

“You’re being mean and impatient,” Dra’kor spat back as he almost lost control of the spells.

Sheila balked at the very idea. “Get over it, this is business.”

“Right!” Dra’kor grumbled. “Pushy, bossy, ungrateful little …”

Sheila ignored his blustering.

“Next, you need to make the last part. Be careful. This part is the link to the magic itself,” Sheila instructed as Dra’kor struggled to get the final piece of the complicated weave in place. He was now balancing almost fifteen different parts to the spells.

Sheila saw that he was ready for the next piece, “Good,” she nodded. “Let’s wrap the other two spells with this one,”

She watched carefully how his spells held together and to make sure that he was weaving the rest of the spells correctly.

“Not that way, wrap it around the spells in the right order.”

Dra’kor finally got the entire spell together on the third try. He held his final weave of magic in front of his face as he watched the weave pulse with life, mesmerized by the various sized threads of red, yellow white, and blue shimmer. After a little while, the weave settled down.

“I c-c-can see it!” he shouted.

“I think you did it!” Sheila giggled in delight. “How do you feel?”

Dra’kor struggled to talk at the same time as he held the spell together, “F-f-fine.”

Sheila let him hold the spell in place for several minutes. “We should tear it down and build it again.”

“Please? I want to hold it for just a little while — I’ve waited so long … I just …” he broke down and choked back a sob. He struggled to contain his emotions.

Sheila let him. After all, it was quite an accomplishment.

After a short while, Dra’kor nodded and let the spell fall apart in a spray of sparkles.

He built the spell three more times; with each attempt, he executed the casting quicker. On the last try, he managed to build the entire spell in less than a minute.

“You have one more thing to learn,” Sheila said, nodding. “You need to learn to tie off the weave so that you don’t have to constantly think about it.”

Sheila explained to Dra’kor how to tie off the weave, “It’s like you squeeze off the feed to the magic until the magic is just there by itself. The third component, the one that is of the magic itself, will provide the energy the spell needs for the day.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much. Any weave can be tied off. Some can last days, some only seconds, depending on what they are, and how much power you have at your command. You can’t tie off battle spells, but you can tie weaves of air, earth or fire. They’re all different. You’ll just have to experiment.”

To Dra’kor, it seemed so obvious now that she had shown him how. He cast his first knot and let go of the life spell. It held there in the air, twinkling.

“Well I’ll be!” Dra’kor exclaimed. He felt a jumble of emotions. He was proud, relieved. “What now?”

“Now we wait to see how long you can go without needing to step outside,” Sheila said, as she critically checked his spell.

Hagra had returned as he was finishing up. She wandered over and took a good look at his handiwork. “Well, look at that! A fair bit o’ work! A respectable spell for one so young in the magic.”

“I’m not new to magic —”

“Ye are. Ye can’t be so arrogant when ye knows the truth. It’s unbecoming to ye.”

Dra’kor apologized, knowing she was right. He didn’t know what was coming over him. He had been short of temper, arrogant and snippy. He wasn’t used to being this way and was having a hard time controlling himself. He considered that it had to do with the magic, or lack of it, but it just didn’t seem to reason.

“Ain’t no shame in not knowing. The shame would be in not knowing, finding out ye don’t understand, and then not trying to learn. You should be proud of yerself, yer doing just fine.”

Dra’kor looked up into her wise eyes, “How long do you think it will last?”

Hagra eyed it up and down, “Two hours, maybe more …”

Dra’kor was clearly disappointed. That’s all?”

“That’s all. But, you’ll get better with time, stronger too. For now ye will need to check yer spell every couple hours, but that’s better than being chained to the beast, don’t’ ye think?”

Dra’kor nodded weakly.

“Aye! It most certainly is,” Hagra said, walking away. “Now ye don’t need to be taking so many breaks and courting my daughter!”

“I-I-I’m not courting anyone,” Dra’kor stammered defensively.

“Course ye ain’t —!”

“I’m not!” he insisted.

“Don’t get your pants up in a bunch, I’m agreein’ with ye!”

Dra’kor sat there sputtering while Hagra cackled. Sheila rolled her eyes and gave Dra’kor a look that could kill.

“What?”

“Nothing …”

“You sure? I think —”

“I’m fine.”

Dra’kor turned to Hagra, “See! Everything is fine.”

“Excepting when it ain’t,” she replied.

Dra’kor’s head turned from side-to-side as he eyed both Sheila and Hagra. “What does that mean?”

Hagra waved her hand and turned around, heading for the door.

“Ye might be a mage after all,” she snorted, calling back over her shoulder.

Dra’kor thought about what this meant. He was a mage. It meant he was no longer bound to the Zylliac. That he could go where he desired and enter closed realms to see what was going on. As far as he knew, he was the only real mage alive. He was also relieved in that if the realms were ever closed, he would be able to carry on his work. To him, it meant life.

Sheila looked up at Dra’kor and saw that he had tears in his eyes. “Are you feeling right?”

Dra’kor wiped away the tears. “Yes, I couldn’t be better. It’s just a bit overwhelming that’s all. I’m finally free!”

Struggles

Dra’kor returned to the inn late that night, well after midnight, to find Men’ak sitting on the edge of his tousled bed with his head in his hands. His hair was wet, greasy, and disheveled. He was sniveling and rocking back and forth, his legs tucked up tight under.

Men’ak wearily looked up with his red-puffed eyes. “What do you want?” he asked bitterly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“W-what …?”

“You heard me. What do you want?” asked Men’ak, grinding his teeth. “I suppose you’re here to gloat about your recent spell or something. Well, congratulations, good for you.”

Dra’kor took a step back, raising his hands, “What’s gotten into you?”

Men’ak looked up with bloodshot irritated eyes, “I’m tired of hearing about how you did this, that and the other. Good for you, Dra’kor the Great! Now leave me alone.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know I was being so annoying,” Dra’kor spat back. “I thought you’d be happy for me, being my friend and all.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m not happy at all …!” said Men’ak hoarsely, rubbing his eyes. “I’m mad enough to wrestle a wolverine. I hate this … this … this whole adventure bullshit.”

“Hate? What are you saying?”

“I hate this place, the new magic, everything. I hate the dreams; I hate what I’m becoming …,” Men’ak cried as his whole body shook and quivered. “I hate it, hate it, hate it!”

Dra’kor looked with pity at his friend, “Whoa! Slow down. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I haven’t slept in almost a bloody week, that every time I close my eyes I see cursed demons and dead people, horrible bloody things. I’m so tired, I fall asleep walking.”

“Demons and dead people? I had no idea —”

“Of course not! You are always too busy with Sheila and the magic, you never even ask how I’m doing,” Men’ak said, in a desperate plea for understanding. “You haven’t said ten words to me in days.”

Dra’kor realized that Men’ak was right, he had been busy—consumed even. He had not even returned to the inn yesterday night and instead spent the evening sleeping outside the cottage with Sheila. They had talked until the crack of dawn, and he didn’t have the energy to walk all the way back to the inn for only a few short hours of shuteye.

Dra’kor hung his head, “You’re right. I haven’t been a very good friend.”

Men’ak grunted, shifting his weight around on the bed.

“I’m sorry. I’ve just been caught up in all this.”

“Obsessed …!” Men’ak added bitterly as his voice faltered.

“Obsessed,” Dra’kor agreed with a hesitant nod.

“We’re supposed to be in this together. There’s only us. Grit is probably dead … there’s just us,” Men’ak wept.

“We’ll find Grit. He could still be alive somewhere,” Dra’kor said.

“Don’t patronize me, he’s dead!” Men’ak yelled. “Probably dead ….”

Dra’kor let him have a few seconds to calm down.

“Men’ak?”

Men’ak looked up with narrowed bloodshot eyes, “What?”

Dra’kor sat down on the bed next to his friend and draped his arm over his shoulder, “Tell me, what’s this about strange dreams?”

Men’ak pushed the arm away, but Dra’kor put it back almost immediately. Dra’kor could hear him trying to take a deep breath. His breathing came in gasps as he tried to regain his composure.

“They’re horrible … horrible, so horrible!”

Dra’kor rubbed his friend’s back.

“I have these disturbing dreams, nightmares, every time I fall asleep. Demons and spirits visit me, tell me things, show me things — hideous things,” Men’ak whimpered as his body shook uncontrollably.

“Do you have any idea why you’re having them? I haven’t had any weird dreams,” Dra’kor asked.

Men’ak shook his head and wiped his leaking nose on his sleeve.

“Because I’m some kind of deathwalker or seer or something, at least that’s what Hagra keeps telling me,” said Men’ak venomously. “She says I could be the first Walker since Ror, that I should be proud. He could talk to all the recently killed soldiers and even dreamers.”

Dra’kor’s eyes shot open wide, “Deathwalker? I’ve never heard of deathwalkers in the stories of Ror? Hagra never mentioned to me that you were a deathwalker either. What the Ten does that mean?”

“Visions! Visions of the dead, or soon to be dead, or so she says. She says she’s only known a single other deathwalker and that he was one of the Ten. He could talk to people in their dreams too”

“Go on …” Dra’kor bade him as he looked at the dark circles under his eyes.

“She says I’m gifted in the sight. Dra’kor, I hate it! I can’t close my eyes without seeing them. They’re everywhere and they yell and scream at me.”

“Yell? Like what do they yell?”

“You know, yell at the top of their lungs! Warnings mostly. Do this, don’t do that. They argue and bicker amongst themselves,” said Men’ak drowsily. “They get right up in my face … it’s horrible. They’re all dead and decomposed … the smell … it’s so foul …”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Damn! Of course it’s not right!” Men’ak yelled as his voice cracked.

“Can’t you control it?”

Men’ak burst into tears, “No, I can’t …”

Dra’kor patted his back, “Maybe we can get you some potions or something to help you sleep.”

Men’ak looked up, his bloodshot eyes staring at Dra’kor in the pale light, “Nothing helps, don’t you understand? I tried drinking myself to sleep, I’ve tried spelling myself to sleep, but I just wake up more exhausted from fighting the dreams all night. Each day it’s worse. More of them show up. First, it was just one or two, next time there were four or five. Each day there’s more of them and they yell louder.”

“What does Hagra say?”

“Hagra,” Men’ak spat. “She says I have to work through it, learn to turn them off. She says I have to figure out what they want.”

“Hasn’t she helped you do that?”

Men’ak started sobbing again, “She’s tried, but I guess I must be too slow. I just can’t seem to get it.”

“Maybe I can help somehow?” Dra’kor offered.

“I don’t see how … if she can’t do it, how could you?” Men’ak groaned.

“We have to try. You have to beat this thing!”

Men’ak’s voice trailed off, “I know … I know …”

“Maybe you’re supposed to talk with them. Have you tried answering them or talking to them?”

“Answering who?”

“You know — the demons and things.”

“No, not really. Mostly I try to ignore them and tell them to stop,” Men’ak sighed, “but they never stop …”

“Maybe you need to talk to them; maybe what they are telling you is important, or a warning. Maybe that is the gift! Maybe they can’t have peace until they deliver their message to you … or get your answer or something.”

Men’ak looked up at Dra’kor with a blank expression. Just like Dra’kor to offer up a simple solution. He supposed he could be right. He had never really tried to ask them questions or tell them he understood. He had been too busy trying to get away, make them go away!

“You think that could work?” he said weakly.

“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. I’ll sit with you if you want to sleep a bit,” Dra’kor said, pulling over the pillow. “But I’d try talking to them.”

“I’m so tired …,” Men’ak mumbled as he put his head down. “Maybe I’ll just rest for a … minute or two.”

Dra’kor watched as his friend fell instantly asleep. He wasn’t asleep for more than a few minutes before he started thrashing and moaning. He clawed at the air and yanked at his pillow. His body seized and he foamed at the mouth.

Dra’kor’s face went white with worry. No wonder his friend looked so bad. Dra’kor swallowed hard, leaned over him and patted his back, “I’m right here Men’ak. I’m right here!”

Men’ak jerked spastically and finally seemed to calm down for a bit, but soon, he was sweating profusely as his mouth twisted and his face grimaced. Men’ak pulled the blanket to his face and cowered.

“N..n..no … no!” he shouted.

“Men’ak, you need to talk to them,” Dra’kor said, in a soothing voice. “Talk to them.”

“Go … g-g-go away. Leave me …”

“Talk to them Men’ak …”

Men’ak mumbled, almost unintelligibly, “No. No. Whhahhh … whyyyyeeeii … No, no … yezzzz. Don’t.. Oh, tha … not now …”

The conversation went on for several minutes. Dra’kor kept patting his friend’s back and shoulder, saying soothing words. He kept trying to calm him down. After thirty long minutes, Men’ak stopped thrashing and started snoring. Dra’kor broke into a grin. He felt that maybe, just maybe, Men’ak had made a breakthrough. He pulled the blanket up over him, crawled over to his own bunk, and blew out the candle.

He looked over at his friend in the orange glow of the moonlight and saw him grumble to himself. Well, he thought, at least he is sleeping. Dra’kor rolled over, pulled the blanket up tight to his head, and closed his eyes.

Men’ak felt himself nodding off as the room began to blur and the sound of Dra’kor’s voice trailed off into the distance and became a soft soothing murmur. As his mind relaxed he felt himself spinning as the ethereal mist of dreams took grip of his former reality. It wasn’t long before he found himself standing in the middle of a swirling mist on some barren patch of dry red dirt.

He was alone. He felt the dusty soil under his bare feet and looking down, noticed that he was naked. Why naked, he wondered, as he looked around for something to wear. Unfortunately, he saw nothing in this place. He walked a few paces in each direction, but again, he seemed to be going nowhere.

Men’ak wondered why he always ended up in the exact same location every time he fell asleep. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it just looked like the same spot. Maybe it wasn’t a spot at all, but just a nowhere because he didn’t know where he wanted to go, or how to get there.

He heard them first, the groaning, the growling, the moaning and the shuffling sound of dragging body parts. They came out of the mist. One by one, the dead and the demons gathered. They staggered across the dirt, dragging feet, wearing the wounds and scars of battle. Some were badly decomposed. It wasn’t always obvious to Men’ak, which was which.

They came in battle armor, street clothes, some shredded, some burned beyond recognition. They were carrying weapons, pots, baskets, their dead children. The walking dead children dragged dolls, toys. Their eyes were white and glazed, their skin pasty gray, and festered. They twitched and jerked as they walked, as if they were being pulled by some set of imaginary chains tied to their limbs.

As soon as the first reached him, he started screaming at the top of his lungs. Soon, they were all screaming. Men’ak couldn’t make out what any of them were talking about and the loud wailing hurt his ears. He clamped his hands tight over his ears and tried to back away, but he was surrounded. They pushed in on him from all sides, forcing him to shove back, trying to get a little breathing room.

In the back of his mind, he heard Dra’kor telling him something. He focused on his voice and slowly, he heard Dra’kor’s calming advice, “tell them to shut up and you will listen to each person’s story. Tell them if they do not stop yelling, you’ll leave again…”

Men’ak held his hand over his ears and yelled at the top of his lungs at the crowd, “Leave me alone! Stop yelling, or I will leave and you will have to wait for me to return. Calm down and I will listen to your stories. I want order! I want a queue.”

Initially, nothing happened, but slowly, one by one, the dead all stopped screaming at him. As it became clear that he was going to let them speak, they started fighting amongst themselves for position. They pushed and shoved, trampling the weak and pushing them out of the newly formed line. The line faded into the mist and Men’ak had no idea how far it stretched. It was going to be a long night, but at least they had stopped screaming and howling.

Men’ak motioned for the first person in the line to come forward, “Let’s get started, come on up …”

The battle-weary man stepped forward, dragging his spear behind on a half-detached arm that had been cleaved near the shoulder. He had large chunks of his leg and torso missing and his chest was clawed. As he stepped closer, Men’ak saw that the deep gashes were to the bone and his ribs were exposed through the gaping wounds. He looked like he might have been a farmer at one time. He wore a simple peasant’s wool shirt, his britches were worn thin on the knees and his boots were covered with mud.

“I’m a little new to this,” Men’ak stammered, trying not to stare.

The dead man just stared at him through hollow lifeless eyes.

Men’ak swallowed hard, “What is your story.”

“I was just kilt yesterday morn, my name’s Dane. I’m from up in the Five Peaks area. You must come, we are being eaten alive. There are beasts on the prowl that defy killin’. Me and my kin tried, we really did, but we all just ended up dead.”

“Are these beasts cat-like or wolf-like?”

Dane nodded, “Both, but some of them don’t look like nothin’ I’ve ever seen. They be manlike, but beasts at the same time. They have skin tough as oak, can’t even cut through it with a good blade.”

Men’ak didn’t have any idea what Dane was talking about, what he described didn’t sound like any beast he had ever run into, although admittedly, his experience was rather limited. Men’ak figured he’d just listen to what else Dane had to say and leave it at that, no sense stirring up mud from the bottom of a clear pool.

Dane moaned and looked like he might fall over, but he managed to lift his head up with dignity and continue, “Folks are just barely hanging on, they can’t leave their homes, they’re starving. We tried to build a wall around some of the buildings, but the beasts kill us whenever we venture outdoors, some even broke in through the shutters. Now there’s a bad storm a brewing. They need some help and they need it quick, there’s kids and women folk there too. Thought you should know. That’s all. Someone should know….”

The story just tore at Men’ak’s heart. He knew that he and Dra’kor should have been in Five Peaks by now, but what could they do? Hagra was right when she pointed out that they needed to wean themselves off of the magic of the beast. And rightly so, nothing would be gained if they were in Five Peaks and it got closed. Of course, if they hadn’t ended up in Three Rivers, they too could have been killed. And subsequently, they’d be trying to find a seer to listen to their story. That would have been ironic. Still, there was the possibility that they might have helped the local folk fend off the beasts and they all could have lived on for another day. Men’ak thought that a man could go daft trying to figure these things out.

“How many people live there?”

“Used to be over three score in town proper. Now? Maybe thirty left, could be more, could be less. Course, I don’t know about those livin’ outside the town. Reckon there could be a few score more there. We had lots of settlers movin’ in last couple years.”

Men’ak watched a horsefly crawl across Dane’s injured eye. The fly twitched and rubbed its legs, as if eager for a tasty bite.

“Anything else, Dane?”

“Nope, said my piece. Think I’ll go lookin’ for my friends …”

He staggered to the side, and saw a group of people walking toward him that he seemed to know. He walked over and was greeted with swollen arms thrown across his back, welcoming him into their midst. Once they joined him, they all turned into a whirl of gray mist and dissolved from sight.

Men’ak watched as one by one, all the dead souls killed near Five Peaks faded away. Men’ak stared blankly wondering where they went when they disappeared like that. He motioned for the next person in line while thinking to himself that he wished he had asked Dra’kor what to do weeks ago!

Of course that didn’t help him figure out what to do with the information he was collecting. He suspected that he needed to take some kind of action, but didn’t know what that action should be. He was hearing stories that were way beyond his ability to affect. Others seemed to be contradicting stories about things that may or may not happen. How he would ferret out which story had merit was beyond him at this point. He made mental notes to discuss all he heard and learned with Dra’kor when he had the chance.

The next person in line was a soldier, still dragging his ancient sword and his dented and battered shield. He was in terrible shape and barely recognizable as human. Most of the flesh was gone, only the tendons remained. His clothes were shredded to the point that Men’ak could see the bones of his legs through the material. His joints popped and snapped as he stepped forward and set his weapon to the ground.

“What’s your story?” Men’ak asked, wondering how the man was going to talk with no tongue or lips.

“I were kilt in da hunt,” he said with a heavy accent, as he leaned on the hilt of his rusted sword.

Men’ak watched the man’s jaw go up and down, but the sound was in his head, not coming from the man’s mouth. It seemed very odd at first, but after a minute or two, he hardly noticed it at all. The dead man’s jaw wobbled and fell to the ground.

For a second, they both stood staring down. The man bent over, picked the jawbone up with his bony fingers, and tried to reattach it to his skull. He wiggled it from side-to-side before there was a sharp snap. His jaw was finally in place and clicked loudly as the man opened and closed his mouth, testing it out.

“Like I was saying, I was kilt in da hunt …”

Men’ak closed his eyes and tried to understand. “Which hunt?”

“— Exactly!” the man nodded.

“Exactly what?” Men’ak responded blankly.

“Beg yer pardon?” he asked. “I thought ye understood —”

“So which hunt are talking about?”

“The Witch Hunt, is there any other? They kilt our whole coven, hunted us down like vermin. It was Skra, that weasel of the Ten with the ink black eyes it were,” the man cursed. “The bastard trapped us and slaughtered us, women, kids and all.”

Men’ak finally caught on, “Wasn’t that right after Ror?”

The man opened his mouth to speak as a worm crawled out and slithered across his chin, before dropping to the ground. Men’ak tried not to pay any attention to it, but it was difficult.

“Right after we took the day, I was in da final battle you know. We were betrayed,” the man said, shaking his head.

“Any idea why he attacked you —?”

“Who knows with the Ten? They ain’t much for ‘xplaining their actions. We had no quarrel with them magi, none at all. None in our coven had even talked to them.”

Men’ak shook his head in dismay, “Was he by himself or was it all of the Ten?”

“Aye, he was alone he was. Should have seen it coming, but we didn’t. Can you be telling my kin … my family?”

Men’ak scratched his head, “It might be a bit hard. It’s been almost sixteen hundred years. Who would I tell?”

“Huh! That be a long time. Well, thought someone should know about the Ten. Please don’t trust them. We did and now we’re dead. None left of my coven to tell, but if you know any other witches, you might tell them. Couldn’t hurt, I suppose.”

“I know a witch named Hagra,” Men’ak said, as his eyes lit up.

“Hagra? I knew a Hagra back in the day, young, dark black hair, shapely. A fine witch ta boot! She went off with some fool mage if I recall. That must have been a huge disappointment to her father!”

Men’ak smirked. “That’s the one. Anything you want me to tell her?”

The man thought for a second, and replied, “Tell her that the Great Druid’s staff is at the bottom of the Covenburg well. I saw the old man his-self toss it in there as I was dying. He was being chased by Skra. A fine piece of work, that staff be, shouldn’t just be wasted when someone with the gift could be using it to help folks. Tell her that O’Roy told ye so!”

And with that, the man stepped to the side, dropped his sword and shield, and turned to dust. It wasn’t until after he was gone that Men’ak had thought of a bunch of questions he wanted to ask.

And so it went for better than a couple of hours. One by one, the dead and demons alike came forth to explain their plight, confess to some devious plan, apologize for some atrocity or just ask who he was and where he came from.

It was a long time before another soldier from the time of Ror appeared with three quarrels in his chest, piercing right through his armor. He still had his helmet on, which seemed odd to Men’ak since there was little left but bones under the sheet-armor and chainmail. His left foot was turned almost full backwards, so he had to drag it as he walked. He used his sword as a cane, gripping the hilt tightly with his skeletal hand.

Men’ak decided to dig right in with his questions, rather than putting them off until they were finished.

“Are there more of you soldiers that died when you did?”

“I suppose so, sire. Soldiers are always dying,” the man said. “Always seems to be a never ending amount of fighting to be done.”

“And your leg?”

“Broke and twisted. The horse dragged me a far piece before my ankle broke and my leg was free. The bolts killed me, but I still remember that horse running wild.”

“Are the others here too?”

“Not that I know of — just me, sire.”

“Why wouldn’t they be here with you waiting for me?”

“I suppose they got nothin’ to say,” he shrugged. “Can I say my piece and get on with it. I’ve been waiting a long time ….”

“Answer one more thing first. How did you know to come here?”

“I don’t really know for certain. Kind of saw ye and heard ye at the same time, it was like ye was callin’ to me,” the man answered. “So I followed the sound.”

“Why?”

The man shrugged, “Your voice seemed to pull me in. You seem important, like I should be telling you my story.”

“So if you wouldn’t have heard or seen me, you wouldn’t have come?”

“Can’t say for certain, but I suppose not,” the man said. “I’ve been wandering a long time. I just happened to see you … er … hear you one day.”

“Have you run into any others like me?”

The man shook his head, “There used to be one, when I first died, but I couldn’t get close enough to say my piece. He always moved far away. He only talked to the ones he wanted to.”

Men’ak grinned. If what the man said was true, every time he went to another area, he would have new souls to question, but if he stayed in one place, his nights might, just might be quiet until another dead being wandered across his path.

“So you wander this mist?” Men’ak reasoned.

“I never really thought about it, but yes. The mist is always around. Sometimes I get a glimpse of the world, just like the mist clears for no good reason. Never lasted long though, and I don’t know why it happened either. Just did!”

“Thanks, you’ve been helpful! Go ahead and say your piece,” Men’ak bade.

“How long has it been?”

Men’ak looked puzzled.

“You know, since I died?” the man asked.

“Probably over fifteen-hundred years if you were fighting in the battles of Ror,” Men’ak said. “Why?”

“Well, dead bones — what I had to say don’t matter anymore. That’s all.” The man said, as he dissolved into gray smoke and was swept away.

A little girl stepped up and stared into Men’ak’s face.

“I don’t know you,” she said.

“I’m Men’ak.”

“Hail Men’ak. Have you seen my mom and dad?” she asked as she looked around at the mist.

She was holding a well-worn rag doll that only had a single arm. The girl clung to the doll tightly and rocked back and forth. Men’ak wasn’t sure what to say.

Men’ak stooped down. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Lana,” the girl said. “Pleased to meet you!”

“Well, Lana. I’m not sure where your mom and dad are. What do they look like?”

“Oh,” the little girl said, with a heavy sigh. “I miss them a lot. They took me away. My mom is in a blue dress and my dad is wearing green pants and a brown shirt.”

Men’ak shook his head, “I don’t recall seeing them today.”

“Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said with a sniffle.

She stepped away and wandered back into the mist. Men’ak was so surprised he just watched her go. She was gone before he realized she had been different from all the rest. He called after her, “Lana? Lana?”

She didn’t answer. He had expected her to disappear like the rest. He stood for a while trying to puzzle out what had just happened, but he couldn’t make any sense of it. He knew it would bother him and dig in his craw until he figured it out. That was just the way of things, sometimes you had to fret for a while before the answer came to you.

For a while, the people came and went. Next, he had a couple encounters with dead demons, if there were such a thing. He wasn’t sure why demons were there, that was another conundrum about this place that left him baffled. This place had no rhyme or reason to it, and he didn’t have the sagacity to figure it out.

On the positive side, Men’ak found the information that came from the demons to be most interesting if not cryptic. Some spoke in old tongues he didn’t recognize, some quoted prophecy he wasn’t familiar with — but most told him snippets of things they had done or seen done. Many of the tales didn’t seem to fit into any puzzle he knew about.

Men’ak scratched his head. He hypothesized that as time passed, he would have gathered enough stories to get a handle on the larger picture, but right here and now? Well, that was a different animal and it wasn’t anything he recognized.

In the end, after all had come and gone, there was a single small gray-skinned demon waiting in the field. The small wrinkled and leathery creature stood to the side pacing nervously letting every other soul talk. As Men’ak bade him to come forward, the demon turned and began trying to run away, but he was being pulled to Men’ak’s side. His feet slid over the ground even as he dug his heals in. Men’ak was befuddled as he watched.

The demon appeared to be fighting with all his might to get away clawing at the ground, but could not. Men’ak was not sure what strange creature or power it was that caused this behavior, but something appeared to be holding the demon in place, if not shoving him backwards until he was standing in front of Men’ak.

Men’ak stared down at a nearly baldhead, creased with scars, scratches, boils and caked blood. “Well, you’re the last, what do you want demon?”

“I want nothing from you,” the demon spat looking the seer.

He scowled into Men’ak’s eyes, but quickly averted his gaze and stared at the ground. Men’ak could see how much it despised being asked to talk as it sneered, twisting its mouth. Long pointy ears twitched uncontrollably as the demon pulled at the tufts of fur growing from them, “Leave me be.”

It’s pasty skin seemed almost wet, almost translucent and a sickening green gray color. The demon crossed his little arms and turned his back to the mage.

Men’ak was repulsed by the mere sight of the creature, but figured he really didn’t have any choice if he wanted to eventually get some rest, “Surely you stood in line for hours for some reason?”

“Didn’t! I tell you. Didn’t expect to be here, besides, I can’t tell you…,” the demon groaned. “Let me go.”

Men’ak threw up his hands confused by the demon’s behavior, “I’m not holding you. Can’t you just tell me what you wanted to say so we can both leave?”

“Can’t tell you about the master plan,” The demon hissed, shaking its little head vehemently from side-to-side. “No, I can’t.”

“Ah, the Master Plan — and what plan would that be?”

The little demon turned around hesitantly. “Well, it’s not the plan about taking over the Keep, or killing all the mages — oh, no it isn’t. There’s no plan like that …,” the demon said, as its small frame began to violently shake.

“It’s not?” Men’ak asked playfully, cracking a smile. “Pray tell me, what evil and troublesome plan do you have?”

“Okay, so it is. No, it isn’t,” the demon pouted. “You wouldn’t understands it anyways, you’re a human.”

Men’ak stood straight and placed his hands on his hips, “So why can’t humans understand?”

“Because humans don’t know all abouts demons and demon kind,” said Zax arrogantly. “Only the old mages knew about us. They learned it from the Great Book, but the book is lost ….”

“Wizards do!” Men’ak pointed out.

“Yep! But you ain’t no wizard. You’re just a simple seer,” said Zax snidely, eying Men’ak up and down.

Men’ak raised a brow, “I’m not, aye? What makes you say that? Maybe I am ….”

“Not!” said Zax, shaking his undersized head and holding up his hand with his fingers held just slightly apart. “Ye got no magic. I knows magic, and ye got just a tiny, tiny amount. Amount, that amounts to nothin’!”

Men’ak tried not to show any surprise. Apparently, only ancient magic registered in this place. What really surprised him, was that he was in this place at all. He didn’t understand how he could be here and back in his room at the same time, and it really made no sense at all that the little demon in front of him could tell if he was or wasn’t a wizard, since by rights, he wasn’t even here, there … whatever, or was he?

Just the thought of it made his head hurt. He’d have to think long and hard on it later when he had gotten some sleep — a mead or two wouldn’t hurt the cause either!

“So which is it? Either the plan is about the wizards and the Keep, or it’s not.’

“It is, it is. Don’t tell anyone I told you…,” the demon said, with a scared look on his crunched up face. His small black eyes darted back and forth, as he looked around searching the mist. “The Master would be displeased, and he would burn and hurt Zax again.”

Men’ak was surprised that the demon had leaked his name, “You’re Zax?”

“NNnnnn..yes!” the demon replied as he grimaced.

For demons, at least as he’d read, knowing their name is paramount with being able to summon and control them.

“Do you have to answer my questions,” Men’ak supposed. “Zax?”

Zax bit his lip and squeezed his eyes closed a he wrung his hands, “Y.y.y.yyyessss! No-no-no-no…”

“Why is your master not here?” Men’ak queried, curious that a master demon would allow a servant to wander this far without some kind of supervision.

“Cause he’s not dead like me,” he said, placing his small claw-shaped hands on his bony and protruding hips.

“You’re dead. Aren’t all demons dead?”

Zax looked at the seer in absolute confusion, “Of course I’m dead, everything here is dead but you. Why you asking such silly questions? Everyone knows that there is dead and there is really dead. I’m really dead now, but not for long. No, no, no! You better hurry, cause I’ll be back in the planes in a while. A little while. Hmmm, yes!”

“So how did you end up dead?”

“Another silly question? You’re a silly seer, not like the other one. He’s cruel and very mean. But, he is so, so very smart in the demon ways. Scary smart he is! You want me to play along, so I will, yes, I will. I’m dead because that’s what happens when demons die, but we don’t die,” Zax laughed, amused by his own logic as he slapped his knee. “We get deader!”

“Master was angry and killed me really dead. Master killed me slow. It hurt so much. Zax screamed, Zax begged master to be quick, kills Zax quick,” Zax said, before lowering his voice to a whimper. “Screaming doesn’t help…the Master likes screaming. Better to just swallow the pain.”

Men’ak shuddered, “What do you mean you will be back in the planes?”

“Silly seer! Demons is already dead like, we are either here or there. We cannot be staying dead in the mist plane forever. You need to either sink back to the planes or go away…” Zax nodded.

“Go away? Where do you go?”

Zax shrugged, “How should Zax know? Zax has never been to the other place, I always am sinking back to the planes. Zax doesn’t know where the others go…but once you go there, you don’t ever comes back here no more … or to the planes! You be gone then! Real gone-gone.”

Men’ak nodded. At least he understood what the demon was telling him, even if the context eluded him, “So Zax, can you tell me about the Master’s plan?”

Zax collapsed onto the dirt and started pounding down with his fists, “Don’t make Zax say, pleases? I don’t want to be deads again. Zax hates this ugly nowhere place.”

“It’s okay Zax, I won’t tell anyone — but I really need to know.”

Zax looked up, “Means it?”

“I mean it. It’ll be between you and me,” Men’ak said, as he smiled.

“You smiled, you smiled,” Zax cowered and yelled pointing. “You means to hurt Zax. Zax knows that look. Master always smiles right before he kills Zax.”

Men’ak looked down at the small cowering creature, “Zax, I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not even going to touch you!”

“How does Zax know?” he said as he inched forward, looking into Men’ak’s eyes with the coldest black eyes Men’ak had ever seen.

“I will stay over here and I will put my hands in my pockets. You can stay there. That way, you can run away if you think I am going to kill you.”

Zax stopped whining and stood up. He didn’t even brush himself off. He eyed the seer with disdain, “Keep your hands in your pockets, seer!”

Men’ak looked down and saw that he was now wearing a robe. Where the Ten did that come from? He could have sworn he was naked just a second ago.

“Master is planning a big plan. A big, big plan to gets rid of alls the wizards”

Men’ak’s jaw dropped, “All the wizards?”

“Yes! Yes! Alls of them, they’re almost all gone and dead anyway. Just a few more wizards that aren’t really wizards left to go. Master says there’s just a few more.”

“But why? We don’t bother demons and demons hate the surface?”

“Ugly place, it’s true. Don’t like it much — wait a second, you said we! We ain’t a wizard! Why did we says we?”

“Well, wizards are human and I’m human so I just said it. So why is he doing it?”

Zax stared at the seer suspicious that he was missing something. He rubbed his chin and paced back and forth.

“I’ m waiting —,” said Men’ak.

“He needs wizards to …,” Zax said, as he started to fade away. Zax looked down at his hand and broke into a big grin, shoving his festered and decaying teeth.

“What does he need wizards for? Tell me?” Men’ak demanded.

“Zax is going home. You’re too late wizard ….”

And with that, the demon sank into the ground and faded away.

Damn! He had been so close. Men’ak felt denied, as if he had just been bested at a game of King’s Keeper. What the demon had said, bothered him, and bothered him to his core. What was this master plan? Who was the master? How come the demon didn’t believe he was a mage? He realized that he would have to get better at asking questions, sticking to the point and getting what information he needed, especially with demons, which as he learned, can be called back from the nether at any time.

Men’ak looked around. He was alone. There were no dead souls yelling, no demons fighting, just him and his patch of red dirt. The mist slowly got heavier and the fog denser until Men’ak couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Men’ak got down on the ground, curled up in a ball and closed his eyes.

Men’ak lazily stepped his way down the narrow stairs, making sure he didn’t bump his head on the low-hanging beam. He saw Dra’kor and D’Arron sitting near the fire, deep in conversation. He raised his hand to shield his eyes as he squinted peering out the window through the bright sunlight filtering in through the wide-open shutters. There was a light breeze and it rustled the thin cotton curtains as they blew in and out of the open frame.

“Am I too late for breakfast?” he said cheerfully as he grabbed a stool from near the staircase, and pulled it along behind as he walked across the room. It creaked as he dragged it across the floor, bumping its legs across the grout lines between the large soft tiles.

Dra’kor looked up, “Good Afternoon! How about lunch?”

Men’ak nodded, “I’m starving!” He finished his walk over and set the chair down to join Dra’kor and D’Arron. He lifted a leg over the stool and leaned on it with his right leg firmly anchored on the floor.

“I’ll get you some lunch,” said D’Arron curtly. “I have some mutton cooking in the back. I’ll bring you a couple slabs and some fresh bread and butter.”

“Thank you,” said Men’ak thoughtfully.

“You don’t have to thank me,” D’Arron said, brushing her hair back behind her ear as she got up and excused herself from the room. She lowered her eyes, “I’m glad you feel better.”

“Much better, thank you!” Men’ak smiled back although he knew she didn’t notice. “I’ve been feeling horrible these past few days and I’m afraid I’ve been rather unpleasant to everyone. I’m really sorry!”

“You have been a bit of a curmudgeon,” D’Arron gathered their tea cups and hurried out through the door to the kitchen.

Dra’kor looked at Men’ak, “You look better. The bags under your eyes are almost gone.”

Men’ak lowered his head, “I still feel beat, but I’m better. Look Dra’kor, I’m sorry about what I said last night, I was out of line —”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Dra’kor said, waving it off. “Some of the things you said were — Well, let’s just leave it at that. I have been a bit of an idiot.”

“Will you forgive me?” Men’ak said, as the corner of his mouth turned up. He searched Dra’kor’s face for a hint.

“Why not?” Dra’kor joked as he took a drink from his rather huge mug. “We’re best friends, right?”

“We are! Now if I can get D’Arron to forgive how rude I’ve been the past few days.”

Dra’kor laughed as he wiped the mead from his mustache, “That won’t be so easy. You’re going to have to be awfully sweet to make up for your foul mouth!”

“No, I don’t suppose it will be,” Men’ak echoed somberly. “Was I that bad?”

Dra’kor had been in the middle of another sip when he almost choked and sputtered, spitting mead everywhere.

“I see …,” Men’ak groaned.

“But for me,” Dra’kor leaned over with a grin and patted his friend’s leg, “— you’re forgiven. Now tell me how did you sleep?”

Men’ak yawned, “I slept great. Well, not great, but a hell of a lot better than I have in weeks. What you suggested I do — and once you sat with me, it worked. I didn’t wake up until this morning.”

“— this afternoon,” Dra’kor corrected.

“Well, yes!” he grinned sheepishly. “Afternoon.”

Dra’kor leaned close and lowered his voice, “So, the dead left you alone?”

Men’ak chuckled, “Not exactly. I did what you suggested and tried to find out what they wanted. It was harder than I thought, but eventually, I got them to wait their turn and tell me what they needed to say. They fought and talked, but eventually they all left.”

“Left?”

Men’ak shrugged, “Yes, they just kind of wandered off, faded away, dissolved into a cloud of smoke.” He motioned with his hands. “All except for this one little girl named Lana. She just walked off into the mist. It was the weirdest thing. Still haven’t been able to figure that one out.”

“Where do they go?”

Men’ak got a quizzical look on his face, “Back to the nether I suppose, pass on to another plane. Who knows? I didn’t really ask —”

“Suppose not. What did they want?’

“Varied I guess. I suppose some wanted to meet me, as if they were compulsively driven to do so. Others had warnings, some wanted to apologize.”

Dra’kor’s brow raised, “Apologize? For what?”

“All kinds of things. For what’s about to happen, for disturbing me, scaring me, and for things did, or said … you know?”

Dra’kor harrumphed, “How could I possibly know? They don’t talk to me. You’re the deathwalker.”

“Deathwalker, I’m —” Men’ak felt a bit foolish. He was struggling to come up with the right words to describe what he experienced. “Some deathwalker! They seem to have to talk to me. It’s almost as if it causes them pain to not confide in me, well some of them anyway. The one dead man I remember most told me we have to go, that they need us in Five Peaks.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said that they were hurting, being hunted. Sounds like the same beasts as here, but there was also this other beast that he couldn’t really describe. He wouldn’t be any more specific than that.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

“I had an encounter with a diminutive demon,” Men’ak said, as his eyes lit up. “Well, more than one, actually. But this one, was really quite unusual. He kept talking, but he kept saying he shouldn’t be talking, mumbling something about a ‘Master’s Plan’ to kill all the magi that were still alive.

Dra’kor raised a brow, “Specifics?”

“Not really. The one thing I remember was that he knew that the magi in the Keep didn’t have magic, at least what he called old magic. He said that his master needed the wizards for something. After that, he spent the next ten minutes or so trying to convince me to forget everything he said.”

“Needed them for what?”

“Don’t know. That’s when I found out that demons could be called back to the planes. When that happens, they can stop answering questions.”

“He just stopped mid-sentence?”

“Seriously, it was as if he was duty-bound to advise me about everything he knew, but he seemed torn, as if he knew what he was telling was upsetting the grand plan and he tried to discredit himself and everything he said.”

“So what is this grand plan?” Dra’kor wondered aloud.

“Something about killing all the wizards —”

“Huh! Go figure? Demons are always looking to kill wizards.”

“Not exactly. This seemed different, like some big secret plan that involves all the demons.”

“Well, next time you meet a demon, ask more questions,” Dra’kor said, with a wry smile.

“Sure, when and if! And the bothersome thing was they disagree about a lot of events and what they mean.”

“So what, they argue?”

“More like fighting, jockeying to be the one to reveal some great truth or something. It seems that some want to tell more and some refuse to talk at all.”

“Refuse? They don’t answer at all? If they refuse, why do they bother to be in your dreams?”

“I don’t rightly know, but it seems to me that they are bound. A little like flies being drawn to honey. They beat around the bush and don’t directly answer the questions. They seem to be very adept at telling half-truths.”

“Well, I’ll be. I suppose they would be.”

“Funny thing, one of them said I can learn to control the dreams.”

Dra’kor’s eyes narrowed, “Control them how?”

“Well, you know—choose who I talk to, where I visit. This one demon, said the other deathwalker was mean, actually — cruel was the word he used. He also said he was brilliant in the ways of demons. And this one soldier said that he only talked to who he chose and teleported away whenever he desired. I need to learn that trick. It could be handy.”

Dra’kor nodded, “It sounds like you had a productive night! I’m sure you’ll figure all this out as you get more practice. Look at you being a deathwalker and all.”

Men’ak rolled his eyes and grunted.

D’Arron came back into the room carrying a big tray of food. She set the tray down in front of Men’ak who dug right in and began shoveling it into his mouth by the fork load. D’Arron just shook her head in amazement. She had never seen anyone eat like Men’ak. He didn’t even need to breathe!

Men’ak seemed to be in a hurry. He finished his food and excused himself, leaving D’Arron and Dra’kor to talk.

“Wonder what’s gotten in to him?” D’Arron asked. “He didn’t even ask for seconds?”

“Or thirds,” Dra’kor grinned.

“Well, he seems in a better mood than the past few days.”

Dra’kor shrugged his shoulders and watched as his friend rushed out of the inn and headed down the street.

Men’ak hurried toward Hagra’s cottage. He wanted to have time to talk to Hagra before his lessons later that day. He spotted her in her garden and waved, calling out her name.

Hagra leaned on her staff and stood straight. She saw Men’ak rushing toward her, waving frantically. She frowned. When magi ran like that, they wanted something. They always seemed to want something.

“Hagra! We need to talk,” he panted.

“So talk,” she said sourly. “I got hoeing to do if we’re gonna eat.”

“I have a message for you, from the mist,” he stammered.

Hagra’s eyes widened, “Well, spit it out lad. Don’t keep me a waiting!”

Men’ak paused to catch his breath while Hagra eyed him impatiently. Men’ak took a couple of deep breaths and delivered his message as promised.

“I met a guy named O’Roy who said he knew you. He said that there’s some old famous druid’s staff at the bottom of a well in Covenburg,” he finished, “He said he was sure you’d want to retrieve it.”

Hagra stood up and set her hoe to the ground. She scratched herself most unlady-like and pulled the large hat up out of her face.

“O’Roy the sorcerer? Wondered what happened to him. How’d he die?” she asked, as she wiped her forehead with her apron.

Men’ak wiped the sweat from his brow, “He said his coven was wiped out by Skra, that they were double-crossed.”

Hagra’s eyes narrowed, “Skra? You talkin’ about the pasty looking paranoid mage of the Ten?”

“That’s the one. He, O’Roy, said that the Ten ain’t to be trusted. Skra hunted them down and trapped them right after the last battle. Killed everyone of their coven while they were celebrating.”

“Remember I told ye about the Hunt! Now ye believing me?” Hagra sighed.

Men’ak nodded, “What’re you gonna do?”

“I gotta go to Covenburg,” Hagra said.

“Should I go too?”

Hagra shook her head no, “This is something I better handle myself. Can you give Dra’kor and Sheila a message for me?”

Men’ak nodded.

“Tell ‘em I’m a heading out to Covenburg on witch business. Don’t you be telling them about no staff. I’d rather be saving that for a big surprise, if I can find it.”

“Is the staff important?”

“Important enough! That staff held strong druid magic, ifin it belongs to who I think it did. We’re gonna be needin’ it ifin we have to face the demons, or another bloody-halla dark mage!”

“I’ll keep your secret, but you have to be careful. Where is Covenburg?”

“It be back in the direction ye came from,”— Hagra frowned and scratched her chin— ‘bout four or five leagues past yer Keep, so I’m figurin’ it to be a — oh, I don’t know, maybe a three or four day trip.”

Three days?” Men’ak was confused. “But it took us over two days to get here, and that was downhill — and we were well rested.”

Hagra grinned, “Yes, but I know how to use them gates — and ye don’t —!”

Men’ak’s jaw dropped and he just stared.

Hagra chuckled on the inside. Men’ak was so cute when was all confused and all!

“Close yer mouth boy! You’ll catch yerself some flies — ifin ye don’t.”

“But the beasts are —” Men’ak moaned.

“Them kitties and doggies don’t bother me none, I got real magic ye see!” she said with a wink. “They’ll be hurtin’ mightily if they be messin’ with Hagra!”

Men’ak frowned, but had to admit to himself that she was far better suited to this whole adventuring thing than he, Dra’kor and Grit. She would probably be just fine. Probably —

“I’ll keep your secret, but you have to promise me you’ll stop in and visit Ja’tar on your way back. Maybe you can make some sense of what’s going on … talk some sense into him.”

Hagra guffawed. “As if —”

“I mean it!” he said earnestly, shaking a finger at the old witch. “You have to promise me that you’ll do it or —”

Hagra frowned, but she nodded her concession.

“Good!” said Men’ak, changing the subject. “Can we get in another practice before you go?”

Hagra shook her head. She was right. Mages always be wanting something. Always.

Confusion

Ja’tar sat in his big oversized chair staring at the note he had recently received from Dra’kor. He took another sip of his drink and puffed on his pipe. He watched the thin curls of smoke rise and spread out across the ceiling.

His head hurt. The throbbing was almost unbearable. He set the notes aside and rubbed his temples, slowly. He blankly stared at the stack of three parchments he had been puzzling over these past four days.

Initially he had sent the notes back right after he read them, but these recent notes had far more information in them and they seemed to contain puzzles as well, so he made duplicates. Now they sat on his desk and bothered him, causing him much consternation.

It wasn’t so much what they said that bothered him; it was the fact that inside he felt they had told him the truth, but to his chagrin, he couldn’t remember or recall any of the things Dra’kor had written. They all went completely counter to what his gut told him. And yet, he just couldn’t bring himself to toss them away. It seemed as if they said more.

The first few notes he had received seemed normal, at least as far as they were exactly what he had expected. The third note bothered him. There were two lines that dug deep in his craw. The first was that they were going to stay in Three Rivers for a while and study real magic. The second was that a witch named Hagra sends him fond greetings, would like him to meet her daughter, Sheila.

Ja’tar shook his head and sighed heavily. He couldn’t fathom what Dra’kor had meant when he said he was going to study ‘real’ magic. As opposed to what, he wondered. Did Dra’kor mean to imply that the magic he knew was not real? Worrisome, but unlikely. Or was he being taught some forbidden form of magic? Maybe the witch was teaching him some magic that the Guild didn’t allow, some form of dark magic. This worried Ja’tar.

The second issue was even more bothersome. According to Dra’kor, Hagra was a very dear old friend with whom he had spent many years. Try as he may, he could not remember her. He couldn’t even recall the time or location of where they supposedly met. Yet, she knew far too much about him to be making it all up.

He took another puff on his leaf and blew the smoke to the ceiling. If he couldn’t remember this woman, what else couldn’t he remember? Another short phrase scared him; Dra’kor had said that he was less than thrilled about being a spellcaster, and that Men’ak hated being a deathwalker.

Ja’tar picked up the notes and read them again, for perhaps the hundredth time. It was clear as day, spellcaster and deathwalker. Ja’tar was unfamiliar with both terms, and yet the tone of Dra’kor’s letter implied that these would mean something to him, should mean something.

Ja’tar paused to reflect. He intended to seek council of his friend Zedd’aki, but had hesitated, hoping that he could ferret out what the basic meanings of the notes ordained, good news or bad. He tossed the notes back to his lap. He had no idea.

As far as he could tell, the phrases were not of the Keep. He had searched a few of his favorite places and found no reference to those words or even to words similar enough to imply that the phase or name might have changed over the years.

The final straw was the last letter. He had only read it once. The news it held was so disturbing that he couldn’t force himself to pick up the parchment and read it a second time.

It was the shortest. It had simply said, ‘trust no-one. The Guild doesn’t exist. Hagra and the elves agree, none have contacted you or heard from you in almost a millennium. Whomever you regard as the Guild cannot be.’

Ja’tar turned the carefully folded note over in his hand. He knew he had to figure out this puzzle. It didn’t sit well with him that all three of these messages together painted a very bleak and disturbing picture of the Keep and the Guild. It bothered him more that Dra’kor would say such things without proof, but what proof could he have? Ja’tar knew full well that he had made his monthly contacts just as he always had for hundreds of years.

There was one other part of the last note that gave him pause. Dra’kor had said that he would finally be free of the medallion in a day or two. Ja’tar knew that Dra’kor didn’t know the spell of eternity and he was modestly certain that Dra’kor couldn’t maintain that spell on his own. The question that came to mind was why would you want to carry that burden and why would Dra’kor be so happy about being free of the medallion in the first place.

He had no answers, just questions. He sat in the dark room, listening to the fire crackle, wracking his brain to piece together the puzzle that sat in his lap. He took another sip of his wine. He rolled the glass and let the slightly cool liquid slide over his tongue. He swallowed and put the glass down. He had to go see Zedd’aki. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

Ja’tar found Zedd’aki where he expected him to be, in the common room having a midnight snack. He sat with his back to the mammoth stone fireplace, the fire had already burned down and only a deep bed of red glowing coals remained. Ja’tar pulled out the bench across the table and sat down across from his friend.

“Up late again?”

Zedd’aki nodded and shoved another forkful of apple pie into his mouth and chewed slowly. He picked up a wedge of the strong-flavored odiferous cheese and added it to the medley in his mouth.

“We need to talk,” Ja’tar said, with a serious tone to his voice.

Zedd’aki looked up from his plate and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s about the letters from Dra’kor…”

“What about them?”

Zedd’aki wiped his mouth with a clean napkin, folding it when he was finished and setting it next to his clean plate. He eyed the crumbs around the rim of the plate and after licking his index finger, ran it around the edge and licked it clean.

Ja’tar looked around the room and saw a few other magi enjoying the same pie.

“Some place a bit more — private,” he said in a hushed voice.

Zedd’aki nodded and stood up, brushing the crumbs from the front of his robe, “Got a place in mind or —?”

“How about my room?” Ja’tar quickly proposed.

“Now, or can it wait until morning?”

Ja’tar feigned a smile, “Now would be best. This may take us a while. We have plenty to discuss ….”

Zedd’aki shrugged, as the two walked off together.

“You seem quiet,” Zedd’aki commented.

“I’m frustrated.” Ja’tar said. The tension could be heard in his voice.

Zedd’aki raised a brow. “Are the boys okay?”

“I’m not sure. I think so, but —” Ja’tar cringed, staring off into the distance. “Honestly, I’m not really sure…”

The two barely talked as they made their way down the deserted halls toward Ja’tar’s quarters. They climbed the circular stairs in silence and Zedd’aki stood idle while Ja’tar unlocked his room and released his wards. The door opened on its own accord with a squeak, and Ja’tar motioned for his friend to enter.

“Drink?” Ja’tar walked to his table, opened the decanter, and poured himself a glass of the ruby beverage.

“Sure, why not!”

Ja’tar poured another glass and handed it to his friend. He walked over to the sitting area and plopped himself down in his favorite chair, “Pull up a seat!”

Zedd’aki grabbed a big padded chair from the desk and pulled it over next to the fire. Ja’tar threw another two logs on the fire, which exploded in sparks as the pitch and bark caught flame from the stirred embers. It had been a cold spring day filled with light snow flurries as was common here in the mountains. The glass panes of the windows were heavily frosted at the edges, nearly white with the intricate patterns of the frost with a small area in the center being the only remaining part that was clear.

Zedd’aki watched as Ja’tar grabbed his small wooden note box off of his desk and opened it. He pulled out three thin sheets of parchment and handed them to Zedd’aki. Zedd’aki swirled the wine and took a oversized-sized sip, rolling it around in his mouth before swallowing. He set his drink down, took the notes from his friend’s shaking hand, and leafed through them.

“You need to read these,” Ja’tar mumbled quietly.

Ja’tar sat back down and watched Zedd’aki’s face as he read the notes. He watched for expressions and he wasn’t disappointed. He read everything from quizzical and confused, to downright angry.

When Zedd’aki set the notes down on the small marble-topped table that sat between them, Ja’tar knew he was finished.

“I don’t know where to begin,” Ja’tar confessed. “Let’s start with the witch.”

“Hagra?” Zedd’aki nodded. “That’s a name I haven’t heard from your lips in a thousand years —”

Ja’tar scowled. “My lips?”

“Yes, why?”

Ja’tar’s jaw dropped open, “I knew her?”

Zedd’aki got a confused look on his face, “You don’t remember her?”

Ja’tar got a blank look on his face.

Zedd’aki laughed and rolled his eyes, “You should remember her! You and she were all the talk of the Keep for several decades. She was a stunning woman — as I recall, smart as a whip, jet black hair, and her figure was … well, let’s just say it was voluptuous.”

“I have absolutely no recollection of her,” Ja’tar confessed, rubbing his temples.

Zedd’aki shook his head, “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Ja’tar nodded.

Zedd’aki stared in disbelief.

“I cannot recall a single thought of the woman, even now after you described her.”

Zedd’aki slapped his knee and burst out laughing, “Oh, Ja’tar. You got me there … you really had me going —!”

Ja’tar glared at his friend as he wiped his eyes.

Zedd’aki’s jaw dropped, “What? You were serious? Come on, you two practically mated on the floor of the library. Surely you didn’t forget … couldn’t forget her —”

Ja’tar looked up with weary, vacant eyes.

“Oh, by the Ten, you’re serious!” Zedd’aki said.

“I can’t remember the damn woman,” Ja’tar cursed, turning red-faced.

This delighted Zedd’aki to no end and elicited another round of guffaws and belly laughs.

“Wait! Wait! I know. Since I remember her, I can bring up a likeness of her using the gift. Give me a minute,” Zedd’aki said, as he tried to get his laughter under control.

He wove his spell and slowly and image of a stunning woman with a voluptuous figure began to take shape. Ja’tar stared at the image, walking around it as it gained detail and texture. She had long legs, was rather busty, and had flowing dark black hair. Her eyes were the strangest color of yellow-green Ja’tar had ever seen. He stood back and admired the image, wondering why he couldn’t recall her or their time together.

“I have never seen this woman in my life,” Ja’tar declared forcefully. “But you seem to recall incredible detail …”

Zedd’aki shrugged, “She’s not the kind of woman one forgets!”

Ja’tar harrumphed. “Wish I could remember —”

Zedd’aki tied off the spell and turned back to see his friend scowling. “How can you not remember her? You spent almost thirty years with her, practically married her, begged her to join the Keep. By the Ten, you two shared a room.”

“I’m telling you I don’t know that woman!” Ja’tar shouted defiantly.

“Settle down! I believe you … I just … I just don’t understand you that’s all.” Zedd’aki managed to stammer out. “You knew her almost three decades before you two started seeing each other. She was part of the Guild back in the day; she even fought at Ror. That’s almost three score years and you can’t remember a single event? Bah!”

Ja’tar’s head snapped up, “— the Guild? Impossible!”

Zedd’aki rolled his eyes. “Here, let me read some of your mind and see if I can find her in that mess.”

“I can’t let you do that! I know things you aren’t supposed to know,” Ja’tar protested.

“Listen, you can monitor my spell. You’ll know exactly what I’m searching for at all times,” Zedd’aki insisted.

Ja’tar knew he could keep Zedd’aki away from things he wasn’t supposed to know, but he was frightened of what he couldn’t remember, and more importantly, why? He nodded his acceptance of Zedd’aki’s conditions.

Zedd’aki placed his hands on both sides of Ja’tar’s head near the temples and began to chant. Ja’tar knew the chant and expected at any time to blurt out events, meetings, intimate moments, but nothing came out of his lips. For five long minutes, they stood there. Zedd’aki chanting and sweating, eyes rolled back in his head, while Ja’tar waited.

Ja’tar reached up and lowered Zedd’aki’s hands. “It’s no use I’m telling you. I don’t know that witch!”

“But … b-but that’s impossible,” Zedd’aki shouted back excitedly as he pointed at the shimmering image of the beautiful brunette. “There is no way you cannot know that woman —”

“I hear what you are saying, Zedd’aki. I am as disturbed by the fact that I cannot remember those moments as you are; perhaps more so because from the sound of things, she and I had spent a great deal of time getting to intimately know each other. I wish to hell that I could remember those moments …” Ja’tar lamented as he began to feel his anger rising.

“She supposedly had a daughter with Shar’ran —” Zedd’aki added.

“That bothers me too,” spat Ja’tar. “I’ve met with him and the rest of the Guild every month for almost eleven-hundred years. You think he would have said … something!”

“Does seem strange, even stranger than the fact that Dra’kor claims the Guild hasn’t existed for almost as long.”

“You think it’s a coincidence?” Zedd’aki shrugged.

“I can’t say yet. Dra’kor says the girl — this Sheila, is teaching him ‘real’ magic. What the hell does that mean?” Ja’tar frothed.

“You think he’s talking about dark magic? Zedd’aki said, as a chill ran down his spine. “Surely Dra’kor is wise enough not to dabble in the black arts!”

“I don’t believe that he is referring to that. I have a hunch that he is talking about some kind of lost art. He seems to imply that we used to be able to control that kind of magic, Ja’tar rambled. “But lost from who, when, how — None of this makes any sense to me. I just …”

He couldn’t finish his train of thought he was so irritated.

“He said in the last note that he was almost free of the medallion. Can he do that?” Zedd’aki asked.

Ja’tar took another sip of his wine and stared through the glass into the fire, “Well, I suppose it’s certainly possible, but why would you want to? I can’t imagine he’d want to spend every waking hour trying to cast an eternity spell.”

Zedd’aki nodded, “Dra’kor said he was a spellcaster. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No, and neither does the phrase deathwalker, but it may be a place to start. Some of the ancient tomes in the library may hold references to those names.”

Zedd’aki leaned in, “What did Dra’kor’s last note say?”

“I haven’t gotten another note. It’s been almost a week,” Ja’tar said, as he nervously drummed on the small table. “I’m worried …”

Zedd’aki paused to reflect on all the new information that Ja’tar had told him, “Maybe we should take a different approach?”

Ja’tar’s curiosity was piqued, “What do you mean?”

“Maybe we should assume that Dra’kor is telling us the whole truth, and postulate about what it would mean and how we could disprove it!”

Ja’tar smiled. Zedd’aki always had a unique way of looking at an insurmountable problem.

“I’m supposed to talk to the Guild tomorrow. I could ask about Hagra or Sheila.”

Zedd’aki pondered Ja’tar’s response as he absently stroking his beard. “I’m curious. Have we ever gone against the Guild?”

Ja’tar shook his head, “No. They never give an inch and the penalties for not following the Guild’s wishes are fairly severe.”

“But what if we made them think we went against their wishes. Wouldn’t they have to send someone here to investigate or dole out the punishment?”

“They would — and?”

Zedd’aki ran his hand through his thick hair. “How long do you think it would take them to get here?”

“A day — two at the most. They would travel through the Gates the whole way from the Mystic City, near Stonegate,” Ja’tar answered, wondering what his old friend was up to. “Why —?”

Zedd’aki extrapolated his idea, “Theoretically we should know our answer by the end of the week.”

Ja’tar knew he was up to something, “Answer to what?”

Zedd’aki thoughtfully taunted Ja’tar, “I propose a ruse!”

“What are you getting at you sly dog?” Ja’tar said, as a grin slowly spread across his face.

Zedd’aki jumped to his feet and paced while he thought out loud, “I’m thinking we could tell a lie. You know … a small fib. We need a fabrication just reasonable enough for the Guild to become concerned enough to investigate. If they visit, we could claim that our communication was in error, that we had spoken too soon, or reconsidered. They can’t punish us for an act we said we’d commit but didn’t! But if nobody comes to visit … we’d know that the Guild was a sham.”

“— or doesn’t really care.”

“Or doesn’t care,” Zedd’aki echoed. “Either way, we get an answer we can work with.”

Ja’tar nodded. His friend was indeed a very clever man. He felt better now that they had a bit of a plan; he nodded his wholehearted agreement with what Zedd’aki was proposing.

“But if it’s a sham we have a whole other set of questions we will need to answer,” Ja’tar sadly admitted. “Like why, and to what purpose?”

“But at least we will be closer to the truth,” Zedd’aki added.

“And in the meanwhile, I’ll try to do a little digging into the old tomes looking for deathwalker and spellcaster. Maybe I can find a reference or two as to what those phrases mean. I think I’ll begin in the tomes in the cave.”

Zedd’aki frowned.

“Don’t worry, we’ll go there together, but if this ruse has been ongoing for centuries, those old tomes may be the only source we have for what really happened.”

Zedd’aki smiled at Ja’tar’s reply, “When did you say your next meeting with the Guild was?”

“Day after tomorrow —”

“So we have some time to prepare and to see if we can gain some clarity,” Zedd’aki nodded. “We best get started. You feel like taking a hike down a few thousand stairs?”

Ja’tar squished up his face, “My back hurts already!”

The next morning, the two old magi sat at their customary wooden table just to the side of the grand hearth in the great dining room eating their morning meal. Their plates still held the remains of sliced ham, eggs and cooked whole tomatoes. Zedd’aki was busy expertly maneuvering his last bite of bread around the edge of the plate gathering the last of the yolk and ham drippings.

“I can’t believe we spent four hours scouring that place and came up empty handed,” Ja’tar said, sipping on his hot tea.

Zedd’aki popped the last bite into his mouth and chewed the delightful combination.

“It would help if we understood how the records were organized. The Librarian wasn’t much help.”

“No, he wasn’t. He seemed somewhat hesitant and put out about the whole thing.”

“Agreed!”

“Well, I may have found something,” Zedd’aki said, with his mouth full as he pulled out a small brown paper-wrapped package tied loosely with some jute cord. He set it down on the table and slid it across to Ja’tar.

Ja’tar stared at the plainly wrapped package. “What’s this?”

“I found an old textbook in one of the empty rooms in the south part of the Keep. I figured that those rooms were sealed and went vacant first, so it was worth a look to see what was left over from the old days when we actually had wizards to teach,” he said sourly.

Ja’tar pulled at the bowstring, the knot unfurled, and the wrapping paper came loose. He carefully unfolded the rest of the paper and turned the small book that was inside over in his hands. He read the title out loud, ‘Of Mages and their Chosen Paths.’

“Read it,” Zedd’aki said, just as he put his pewter mug to his lips and blew gently over the hot liquid.

Ja’tar cracked the book open and paged through the chapters, SpellCaster, Death Walker, War Wizard, Apothecary … there were ten chapters in all. “I don’t recognize any of these … I didn’t know we even had special gifts. Why don’t we remember these?”

Zedd’aki calmly took a sip of his spring mint tea, “Good question. I don’t have an answer — but now I definitely know what a spellcaster and a deathwalker are supposed to be.”

Ja’tar paged to the chapters that were of interest and read. It didn’t take him long to finish.

“If Dra’kor is a spellcaster, he has a great gift indeed. The ability to cast vastly complicated and devious weaves of the art. It says that Druxell, one of the Ten, was the greatest wizard of all time and he was a spellcaster. If Men’ak is a deathwalker, he would be a rarity. He would have the ability to talk to the recently dead, vanquished demons in transit between the planes and to visit through the dreams of others where ever he wished to go.”

Ja’tar was perplexed as he read a few lines in the old text. “Druxell was a spellcaster? Why can’t we remember these elementary teachings?” More importantly, what in the blazing caverns of halla are we?”

“That book was in a stack of books that were bound together and had year one written on a sheet of paper in your hand!” Zedd’aki said in an accusatory tone, as he pulled out the small note and handed it to Ja’tar.

“But I couldn’t have …,” Ja’tar mumbled as he examined the note. It was in his hand, there was no mistaking it. “Zedd’aki, I can’t remember writing this.”

“I know. I cannot remember them either,” Zedd’aki said, leaning over and lowering his voice to a whisper. “We both seem to be under the same mischievous spell, which is what I’m guessing is going on here ….”

“So, what Dra’kor has written to us is true!” Ja’tar said, as his eyes shot open wide, then narrowed as he scanned the tables in the room.

“I found another book,” Zedd’aki said, his face full of worry. “I find it to be far more disturbing than the one we just looked at.”

Ja’tar peered into Zedd’aki’s eyes and saw an expression that he had never seen before. This was the look of abject fear, terror beyond imagining. Zedd’aki appeared as if his world had just been rocked to its foundation.

Zedd’aki reached into his robe, pulled out a very small book, barely larger than the palm of his hand, and slid it across the table to Ja’tar. Ja’tar picked it up and examined it, rolling it over in his hands. It had no title on the spine, but was bound in fine leather. He folded back the cover and on the inside page was a hand written inscription, ‘Zedd’aki, May your journey to becoming a mage be fruitful. Your mom and I will always love you ….’

Ja’tar looked up to see tears in his friend’s eyes. He looked back down to the book and turned to the next page. It read, ‘Your First Spell: Step One — Creating a Water Ball.’ Ja’tar scanned down the text. With each word, his brow furrowed and his eyes widened. Ja’tar flipped to the next page and kept reading until he had finished the first chapter.

“I don’t understand,” he sighed.

“Real magic,” said Zedd’aki quietly. “This is the real magic to which Dra’kor is referring to. I’m sure of it.”

“But magic without the Zylliac is impossible …” Ja’tar grunted in an exasperated voice.

“Maybe it is now, but in the past …” Zedd’aki said, as his voice trailed off. “This short book tells of things similar, yet subtly different from the magic we know.”

Ja’tar felt his temper flaring. “But what does that mean? I know of no way to summon magic without the beast. The beast is part of my subconscious. I don’t summon it, neither do any of us, it just supplies the flows that we ask for.”

“I think it means that we are no longer the mages we think we are … if we are indeed mages at all,” Zedd’aki said in resignation. “I think that somehow we have forgotten all we knew and have forgotten about all that we were —”

Ja’tar listened and let his friend’s words sink in. They stuck in his craw and festered in his throat. What he had concluded rang true, and yet, Ja’tar could not bring himself to admit it.

“But how?” Ja’tar asked solemnly.

“I’m not sure it matters,” said Zedd’aki. “What’s done is done. But, that would explain a lot. It explains why the magic cannot kill the catomen and wolven that Dra’kor described. Derived magic could never be as strong as pure … and I reckon that the beast’s magic has been tampered with.”

“But how do we correct it? By the Ten, it’s not just us — it’s every mage in the Keep!” an angst-filled Ja’tar pleaded.

Zedd’aki’s eyes went wide, “And the travelers —”

Ja’tar’s jaw dropped as he blurted, “Aye … and the travelers.”

“If they can’t control real magic, they can’t hope to defeat demons.”

“True. They would be at a huge disadvantage.”

“Disadvantage? They’d be dead —”

Ja’tar didn’t know what to say.

Zedd’aki shook his head, “I have no suggestions. Maybe Dra’kor has some answers, can we contact him?”

“Not directly …” Ja’tar sighed. “I wish we had the birds of Yorn.”

Being ever pragmatic Zedd’aki proposed, “Aye, but we don’t! If the ruse with the Guild pans out, I would propose that we take everything that Dra’kor reports as truth. We may not like it or even understand it, but since we seem to be living a lie, it’s all we have.”

“Agreed,” Ja’tar echoed. “In any case, I’m willing to bet that this all comes back to the Ten and one of their escapades.”

“That reminds me; Dra’kor said that nobody on the outside knows what happened to the Ten. That the last time they saw them together was after the battle of Ror was complete and the treaty was signed.”

Zedd’aki frowned, “How can that be right? I remember them dying in the last battle.”

“Dra’kor said that Hagra was the one who asked what happened,” Ja’tar said with a glower. “That means she doesn’t know what —”

“That is strange, because she was at the signing of the treaty. She stood just to your left and … wait a second! The treaty! We have a copy of the treaty; it will have her signature on it as well as all the signatures of the living mages.”

Ja’tar and Zedd’aki got up from their table and rushed out of the room. They raced down to the Room of Records.

Ja’tar pushed hard on the door. “I haven’t been in here in ages.”

“Me neither. Do you have any idea where we should look?”

“No, but the room should be well organized. It shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“You think so?”

“I do. The old clerk used to keep this room in impeccable order, and it is one of the most important documents we have.”

The door creaked loudly as they pushed it open, the rusty iron hinges protested and let loose dusty-red powder as the metal ground on metal. The room was dark, and even once the lamps were lit, was dingy and gray. Shadows danced over the stacks of boxes that were haphazardly strewn about the room making it appear as if the contents were dumped in a hurry.

“By the Ten, it’s a royal mess —!”

“I can see that,” said Ja’tar bitterly.

“This might take a while,” Zedd’aki groaned.

“Then it does. Stop complaining and get to work!”

“As you command …,” Zedd’aki said, his voice layered in sarcasm.

Zedd’aki and Ja’tar pushed boxes upon boxes of documents and papers to the side as they tried to open a path to the old barrister cases that circled the outside or the room. Slowly, they made their way to the archives, the fine wood and glass cabinets that held their most precious documents.

Zedd’aki was the first to find the ornate box, covered in dust, setting on a shelf inside one of the cabinets. He opened the old wood and glass door and wiped the carved box with his sleeve before reading the inscription that was carved into a small oxidized-brass plaque, “Found it!”

He hefted the long box over his shoulder and carried it to a table in the center of the room. Ja’tar lifted his hands and the lamps adjacent to the reading table all lit. The smell of burnt oil filled the room as fine threads of black soot rose from the lamps, flattening out as they spread across the low ceiling. Zedd’aki cast a small spell and the dust in the room swirled into a rather tidy pile, before bursting into flame.

They set the box down and looked at each other.

“What are you waiting for, open the damn box!”

Ja’tar opened the lock and lifted the clasp. Although he knew that protective spells covered the documents to keep them from aging and being ripped, he couldn’t feel the magic. He broke the seal and opened the lid. Inside of the satin-lined box was a single roll of fine silk, which held the ancient parchment. Ja’tar gently lifted it out of the box and set it on the table. He untied the ribbon at the center and carefully unrolled the document, taking care to not force or crack the delicate parchment.

The top of the document was visible first, with its highly decorative elven lettering gilded in gold and decorated with elaborate pictographs, based on ancient cuneiform script, as was customary in the day. The text that followed was written in the formal language of Torren.

Zedd’aki held the top of the document as Ja’tar continued carefully unrolling the dry and yellowing parchment. The two magi stood next to each other as the names of the people who were at the signing appeared. There, at the top of the signatures was their proof. Duvall, Druxell, Skra, all of the Ten. Below them, Ja’tar’s father, next to his was Ja’tar’s signature, and next to Ja’tar — Hagra!

Zedd’aki looked up at Ja’tar who was white as a ghost. “Hagra exists!” he mumbled.

“Halla! The Ten were present,” Zedd’aki pointed out, his hand shaking as he pointed.

“This is wrong! This is all so wrong,” Ja’tar lamented, as he slammed his fist down on the table. “What in Braggart’s Lair is going on here?”

“I have a bad feeling about this. Has the entire Keep been party to some devious hoax of a dark mage?”

“Halla if I know. I’m as confused as you are, maybe more so —” Ja’tar swore and stomped his foot in anger.

“I don’t remember signing this document, but I remember being there … well, kind of remember anyway! You can’t even remember being there! How could I forget such a thing? This was the most important event in history and we had front row seats!” Zedd’aki stammered.

“Look at all the names … hundreds …”

Zedd’aki bent over and took a closer look, “I don’t remember half of these people.”

“— Neither do I.”

“But we should. The names at the top are those who were the eldest in the Keep. We should remember them. They were the teachers and the leaders during the battles.”

“I know,” Ja’tar murmured as he pursed his lips.

Ja’tar cast a gentle spell on the ancient text that made the paper more pliable, darkened the lettering and restored much of the color before he rolled up the ancient parchment. He tied the ribbon in place and gingerly placed the roll back into its protective box. He folded the silk over the roll, closed the clasp and heard the lock catch. Silently, he grabbed the box and carried it to the cabinet in which Zedd’aki had found it.

Ja’tar wiped the dust from his hands on the skirt of his robe, “We have found a weakness of the enemy. They could not cover up all of their tracks. We now have proof that Dra’kor was telling us the truth.”

“What shall we do next?”

Ja’tar rubbed his beard slowly and contemplated their next move, “We will need to be ever diligent to make sure that nobody else discovers that we know about this lie. I don’t know whom we can trust. I still need to meet with the Guild. That should prove interesting. After? I propose that we spend our evenings together trying to ferret out what is going on.”

Zedd’aki nodded, “We need to get a message to Dra’kor.”

“We do. But how, that is the question. There was one other thing that Dra’kor wrote in his last note, ‘Don’t trust anyone.’ We will need to figure out a way of making contact without using powerful magic or sending someone else out of these walls.”

The two magi left the Room of Records and made their way back to their apartments. They moved quickly down the empty silent halls as it was almost daybreak and neither wanted to be caught up this early. Ja’tar set his hand on his door and cast his spells to remove the protections that prevented any others from entering his quarters. He entered and crawled into bed, knowing he should get a few hours of sleep.

He tried to turn off his mind, but found that he could not. After lying for the better part of an hour, he got up, went over to his favorite chair and plopped down.

He drummed on the arm with his fingers which made a more or less rhythmic roll of taps, he wasn’t even aware that he was doing it. The ruse was evident now, even obvious. In hindsight, he should have seen it. He felt foolish. He blamed his complacency, his irrational fear of ruffling feathers, his fear of rejection if he rocked the boat. Whatever metaphor he chose as an excuse, ultimately he was to blame. He still wasn’t sure about the price they had paid for his folly.

The fire warmed his legs and feet as the logs crackled and spit, the pitch sputtered and hissed sending a fragrant pine smell wafting throughout the room. He held the message sheets that Dra’kor had sent in his lap. He sipped his wine as he played with the papers, flipping casually through the pages.

Reading them now, in light of his new understanding of the situation, made him keenly aware of what Dra’kor had been trying to say, without being accusatory. He shook his head to himself; if not for him sending the boys out, they would be operating in the dark without a clue that anything was wrong, either in the realms or in their own house. At this moment in time, he could care less about the world. He feared for the Keep.

Looking back, he almost had to laugh at how he had been drawn into the simple, but elegant ruse. Duped! The Guild never asked much of him — them, perhaps that was why the simple hoax had worked as well as it had for as long as he could remember. They always complimented him on carrying out his duties flawlessly, providing accolades. He thought he had been a model of perfection.

They had been ordered to maintain the status quo, no longer recruiting, or training new members. They stayed within the safe confines of the Keep and only occasionally sent travelers out to the city. And, he had followed those orders to the letter, never questioning.

The most they had ever asked was for him to marshal travelers out into the realms. They always had him route them through the city, so that they could provide final guidance. He was quite certain that the travelers had been dispatched like clockwork on assignments, but assignments to where? Where did they go, or where did they end up? It seemed highly likely to him that he had sent them to their deaths.

But then there was To’paz. She had been sent out as a traveler too, but she had come back to visit several times. Maybe there was hope? Yet, she was the exception. They had sent hundreds of overseers out, very few ever returned, most preferred to stay in the world. But he wondered …

The lack of specifics now stood out as loud warning messages, however since at the time he had no suspicions, they were not so easily recognized. He reminded himself to check the map room to see if he could locate those travelers, but he had a deep suspicion that he couldn’t trust what he would find. From what he had observed these past few days, they, whoever they were, were thorough enough to spell the obvious, knowing that he wouldn’t suspect, and therefore, search too far or deep.

He was sure, as sure as he had ever been, that no Guild member was going to show up on his doorstep tomorrow brandishing a writ to remove him as Keeper. Not that he would step down without a fight. On the other hand, what worried him now was who was behind the subterfuge and what their purpose was in concocting such a devious plan.

Ja’tar was extremely confident that someone in the Keep was behind the hoax; however, he had no idea whether that person or persons were still there, had died, or had just moved along. It was inconceivable to him that any current member could be behind this because most mages didn’t have access to the rooms, nor mastery of spells to gain entry to places that are fairly secluded and off limits to most of the Keep. However, if they knew this old magic and were using it … how would he know that to be true?

He thought about systematically searching the Keep for answers, but threw that idea to the wind. There was no way to search the entire Keep. The job was just too difficult. Besides, there could be prying eyes.

He stroked his long white beard and wondered if a stray demon, or perhaps a pixie, was trapped in this plane. Mayhap they were playing pranks on him, although, after a bit more contemplation, he concluded that the prank was just too encompassing to be the work of pixies, or even upper plane demons. Still, the idea entertained him.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that a mage was behind this and because he couldn’t be certain if the mage was still around, he would be unable to discuss the issue in the open or even make any appearance that anything out of the ordinary was going on. Talk about frustrating! He would have to continue to pretend that all was well, at least as far as the Guild was concerned. What a farce!

That presented a slew of related problems, primarily to his need to contact Dra’kor and let him know he was right. He also desperately required information that was more detailed. He needed specifics about the outside world, the old Guild members, the kings… The list seemed endless.

Dra’kor was beginning to look like his last lifeline. Fortuitous? Maybe. He reflected on how ironic it was that he intended to send Dra’kor, Men’ak and Grit away to allow him to scheme, and in the end, they might very well end up being the salvation of the Keep. Somewhere, the gods must be laughing at him!

Ja’tar stared into the flames of the fire. He wasn’t sure what steps to take next. He had to admit that he wasn’t very good at politics. He hated the game, every time he thought he was clever — Well, let’s just say that the gods have a sense of humor! He sighed as he realized he was going to have to play the best game of his life if he hoped to bring the Keep through this dark hour.

Ja’tar spent the entire day in his chair. He didn’t go down for his meals, nor did he call on his friend. He sat and thought through all the possible permutations he could think of. Toward the end, he found it impossible to focus and keep his eyes open.

After a day of reflection, Ja’tar dragged his weary self off to bed. Tomorrow would bring another day, undoubtedly more questions. He drained the last of the wine and set the glass by the door so he would remember to set it outside the dodecagon for the cleaning staff. He left the fire burning because he felt cold, cold and very alone.

He was on his bed, staring at the ceiling in the dim moonlight that filtered in through the cut glass window that faced the forest. He couldn’t sleep, even though he was exhausted. His mind wouldn’t turn off. Questions filled his mind; one after another, they assaulted his consciousness, all unanswered.

His anxiety grew, sweat beaded on his forehead and he clung to his blanket in fear. Someone or something was playing games with the wizards of the Keep. He didn’t know whom, he didn’t know why and he didn’t know to what end the game was to be played. He knew that whatever, whoever was controlling their minds, was strong. It took a lot of magic to fool an entire Keep of Wizards. His body shook, quivered uncontrollably as he tried to calm himself down. He needed his rest; after all, he wouldn’t be of any use to anyone if he were a walking zombie.

Zedd’aki pushed the heavy wooden door and let the wood latch fall closed. He walked three steps from the door to his bed and in one motion, fell back onto his small cot. A soft groan escaped his lips as he kicked off his well-worn sandals and untied his robe. After sitting for a long time, staring into space in the dark room, he rubbed his eyes and massaged his temple.

He was dog-tired, emotionally spent and more confused that he had ever been in his entire life. Another shiver rolled across his body and his teeth began chattering, so he rolled over and threw the heavy wool blanket over his body. He clenched the blanket up around his chin, covering his head. Damn his room was cold! Even his breath could be seen in the darkness as two thin cracks between his drapes and the shutters let the white moonlight in. Every now and then, the curtains rustled as the wind outside found its way through the cracks in his shutters.

He had not been back to his room all day and the hearth was cold, the stone walls and floor had sucked every ounce of heat from his small space. He pointed a finger out from under the blanket at the fireplace and sent a fire bolt, lighting the logs that were stacked in the hearth. Soon, the fire warmed the chill from the air and he felt himself warming up. His chattering stopped and he found himself dozing off. His last thoughts were that he should have checked to be sure his shutters were still closed and latched; sometimes they came loose. He thrashed in his sleep; the events of the day were weighing heavily on his subconscious.

Ja’tar sat before the mirror, waiting for the other side to respond to his meeting request. Soon he saw the aged face of Shar’ran in the mirror.

“Let’s call this meeting of the Guild to order,” Shar’ran said, just as he had said for the past thousand years.

“In attendance are; the Prelate, the Keeper of the wizards, Shar’ran of the elves, Ironfist, and notable dignitaries of the realms.”

After the minutes were read, Ja’tar decided that the opportune time for him to start his ruse was upon him, so he spoke up.

“I hear that congratulations are due!” he said cheerfully.

Shar’ran wrinkled his forehead. “Congratulations … for what?”

“I heard that you just had another daughter with your wife. You named her Sheila I heard. Strong name!” Ja’tar said, as joyously as he could muster.

“You must be getting old,” Shar’ran laughed. “Sheila is my daughter from my first wife; she’s several centuries old already.”

“Ah, so I must have forgotten,” Ja’tar grumbled.

“Yes, Yes! That happens with age,” Shar’ran answered back with a broad smile. “My wife is doing well, thank you. Our new daughter is almost twelve. We named the girl Trio. I thought I had mentioned that back when it was — news.”

“So, her older brother Dra’kor is happy to have another member of the family?”

“Dra’kor? You must be confusing me with my brother, his son is named Drak’mar.”

Ja’tar harrumphed.

“Well, I wouldn’t say K’lieu is thrilled, but I believe he will come around in time …,” said Shar’ran as he nodded enthusiastically. “You know how these things go, he is forty years her senior.”

“I’m sure he will,” Ja’tar added. “There were a great number of years between my sister and I and yet, we are very — close.”

Shar’ran nodded. “You seem out of sorts my friend. Are you sure you are okay?”

Ja’tar nodded, “I’m just a little distracted.”

“Any new business for the Guild?”

“Well, it’s been a rather slow month here. I only have a single issue to discuss. I need to make a quick trip to Three Rivers tomorrow to see an old friend,” Ja’tar said, as he set the last trap.

“Ja’tar, you know the rules of the Guild. Only sanctioned travelers can leave the Keep at this time,” said Shar’ran sternly.

“Under normal circumstances I would agree, however an old friend, a witch of some note, who fought with me at Ror is on her death bed, and I am going to see her.” Ja’tar announced. “You remember Hagra?”

“Yes, I remember her, she was my first wife. But I’m afraid the Guild can’t sanction this trip,” Shar’ran said, as he sadly shook his head. “I’m sure you understand. I too would wish to visit her. I didn’t know she was ill.”

“She’s dying. I don’t think that you understand,” Ja’tar answered. “I wasn’t asking for permission, I was just letting the Guild know as a courtesy. She deserves our kind touch.”

“If you go against the Guild, there will be repercussions,” Shar’ran said, emphasizing the words.

“Well, I suggest you send a representative quickly, because I would love to hear how they justify to me not granting her last wishes. I will be waiting at the Gate until noon. After we meet, I will be leaving,” Ja’tar said, knowing that it was highly unlikely that anyone would come.

A masked figure appeared in the mirror, replacing Shar’ran. “I suggest you reconsider, Ja’tar Kandor’a, Fourth Keeper of the Havenhold. Your record up to this point has been exemplary. It would be a shame to tarnish it.”

The figure faded to the background.

“I have already notified the Prelate pro tem. He says that failure to comply will mean your replacement. You should think carefully on the matter before you act rashly,” Shar’ran suggested unemotionally.

Ja’tar threw up his arms, “He can come here and tell me himself if it is that important to him to oversee my every step.”

Ja’tar abruptly closed the connection to the mirror and stormed out of the room. Damn! Damn! Bloody damn Guild, he mumbled to himself.

Zedd’aki watched as his friend wove his way through the dining room toward their table after grabbing some tasty meats and breads.

“So, how did the meeting go?” Zedd’aki said, leaning over and asking in a hushed voice.

“I disagree with Dra’kor. There is a Guild, and they are the same arrogant bastards they’ve always been!” Ja’tar blurted out in a whisper as his face turned beet red. “Of all the unmitigated gall, they refused my request to honor a dying soldier of Ror!”

“Are you certain?” Zedd’aki asked with his mouth agape. “I thought you said you were sure they were no longer around?”

“Don’t rub it in … I was wrong —!”

“Are you certain?”

“Fairly certain,” Ja’tar said. “I asked about the birth of his new daughter, Sheila. Furthermore, I asked how her older brother, Dra’kor, was handling it.”

“I assume that the answers were satisfactory?” said Zedd’aki, grinning from ear to ear.

“They were!” Ja’tar said, as he tore off a wedge of bread, spread on some butter and placed a large slice of sausage on top. He shoved the whole thing in his mouth and chewed.

Ja’tar swallowed. “I felt stupid. I didn’t know that Sheila was his daughter from his first marriage.”

“Well, I guess we know another piece to the puzzle,” Zedd’aki nodded. “Unfortunately, that will complicate our lives.”

Ja’tar talked with his mouth full, “That’s not all. I told them I was going to Three Rivers to see an old friend who fought with me at Ror. I said Hagra was dying.”

“And?”

“They told me I couldn’t go — Trip isn’t sanctioned. I told them I was going anyway and they threatened to replace me.”

Zedd’aki nodded his head, “Hmmm! That doesn’t sound quite right to me, but it doesn’t sound out of character for the Guild either.”

“By the way, did you know that Hagra was Shar’ran’s first wife?”

Zedd’aki’s eyes went wide and he choked on his food.

“Me neither — never saw that coming —”

Zedd’aki wiped his mouth with his sleeve, “Well, that explains a few things ….”

Ja’tar scowled at him.

“— Sorry!”

“Well, I told them I’d wait at the Gate for their representative to come and tell me themselves why I can’t grant a dying friend’s wishes. I doubt we’ll see anyone …” Ja’tar bit off a massive mouthful of cheese and stuffed chunks of bread into his already full mouth.

“I’m confused. I thought you said you were certain that the Guild exists.”

“I am.”

“Then, why are you so positive that nobody will show up?”

Ja’tar stared at his plate for a few seconds before he answered.

“I can’t say for certain. It just seemed to me that their voices lacked conviction. They may indeed exist, but I am certain that it is not the Guild of legend. I think their bark is bigger than their bite!”

“I guess we will see.”

“I guess we will. Either way — we’ll have resolution.”

“We only have to wait another day for our answer …,” said Zedd’aki anxiously.

Ja’tar frowned. “I guess. I had begun to think that the mirror I use to contact the Guild is just like the schedulers, but a bit more elaborate. For as long as I can remember, we’ve only contacted the Guild through the mirror. Who would know if a ruse began, or when.”

“You think it may have been recent?”

“Define recent. Decades? Centuries? I don’t know.”

“But it is possible?”

“Sure, and now that I think about it, we haven’t had a single visit from the Guild in these eleven-hundred years.”

Zedd’aki was surprised, “Now that you mention it. I agree. They have never come here; we have always sent people there.”

“None of them have ever come back …,” Ja’tar grumbled as he chewed on his dried sausage.

“None of them … what? Ever?” Zedd’aki said, raising his voice.

“I hadn’t really ever thought about it before, but every mage we sent to the city, stayed in the city. There’s always been some excuse for them to stay. None of them have ever come back.”

“You think they’re dead?” Zedd’aki said in a frightened voice, as the realization of what his friend said hit home.

Ja’tar nodded solemnly, “I’m afraid so. That’s what my gut tells me.”

“But if the Guild exists, where did the visitors go?” Zedd’aki lamented as he rubbed his swollen red eyes.

“I don’t know. The Guild may exist, but I suppose it is possible that Stonegate had been overrun with the enemy.”

“Wouldn’t we have heard if that had happened?”

“One would think —”

“Still, none came back?”

“I fear we’ve sent forty or more magi to their deaths?” said Ja’tar, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Inexcusable ….”

It was almost noon. Ja’tar and Zedd’aki stood in the Chamber of Light waiting for the arrival of the representative of the Guild. Ja’tar paced nervously, cracking his knuckles every couple trips across the small room.

“Will you sit down?”

Ja’tar ignored the request.

“What are you nervous about?” Zedd’aki asked. “You know they aren’t coming.

“I could be wrong,” Ja’tar snapped back before catching himself.

Zedd’aki raised a brow.

“Sorry —”

“When was the last time you were wrong?” Zedd’aki asked, shooting his friend a big grin.

Ja’tar rolled his eyes and answered sarcastically, “Well, do I get to count the last twelve-hundred years?”

Zedd’aki grew impatient. “How long do we wait? It’s already two.”

“How the hell should I know, they haven’t visited in over a thousand years …,” Ja’tar fired back. “Stop asking stupid questions!”

“I’m not the one who may have been duped for twelve-hundred years,” Zedd’aki responded flatly.

Ja’tar grunted and shot him a look, “We wait —!”

Zedd’aki started whistling an old dance tune.

Ja’tar stopped his pacing, “Do you have to be so annoying?”

Zedd’aki shrugged.

They waited for the sand to drain from the hourglass and watched the glass turn itself over as another ball slid down the multi-level rack, winding its way around into the second row of hour slots.

Zedd’aki read the clock, “It’s four hours past noon. Can we go?”

“We wait one more hour,” said Ja’tar defiantly.

“They wouldn’t wait for you —” Zedd’aki mumbled.

“I’m not the Guild!”

“No, you are the Keeper of the Havenhold.”

Ja’tar stood and stared at the Gate. The stone carvings and glyphs on the sides were dull and looked like all the other rock that the gate was made of. There was no activity, no mist, no feeling of energy from the dead artifact. Ja’tar walked into the small half dome and admired the craftsmanship of the carvings and the gilding. He ran his hand over the raised lettering and felt the magic in each symbol.

“I remember when this Gate was in constant use —” he reminisced. “We were traveling and doing good work. What the hell happened to us?”

Zedd’aki sighed, “We changed …?”

“Did we? Or did something change us?”

Zedd’aki turned to face his friend, “It doesn’t really matter now does it?”

“Suppose not,” Ja’tar said, under his breath.

“We have a choice here. We now know where we are and have an opportunity to change. Our choice is whether we accept that challenge, or not.”

“The Guild won’t be happy about it —”

“Since when have they liked anything?”

Ja’tar shrugged, and held the door open for his friend as they made their way out of the room, “I for one, am not ready to roll over and play dead.”

“Good! So what do we do next?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I think we need to contact Shar’ran for a face to face, if he’s still alive.

“You doubt he is alive?”

“Don’t know for sure, even though he answered my questions.”

“He chaired the meeting of the Guild?” Zedd’aki spat.

“Didn’t I mention that?”

“No,” Zedd’aki glowered, “you didn’t! You just said you talked to him.”

“Does it matter?”

“Does if I’m supposed to provide you counsel ….”

“Point taken,” Ja’tar ceded, “— and we also need to talk to Dra’kor.”

“How do we do that? If we send someone, we are found out, if we go ourselves, we raise suspicion. Can’t we use the orbs?”

“Actually using the orb to single out a person and communicate with them is far advanced, I’m afraid that I’m just not qualified. If I was better at using them, I suppose we could. I’m also concerned about whatever bridged the orb killing Tar’ac.”

“I suppose you are right.”

Ja’tar gave him a sly smile, “I have an idea … but you’re not going to like it!”

Zedd’aki hated it when Ja’tar said that. It meant that he was planning something stupid and dangerous. Zedd’aki shook his head, “Tell me, so I can be angry with you.”

“I was thinking that we may be able to use Men’ak to help us.”

Ja’tar’s response was not exactly what Zedd’aki had been expecting, “How can Men’ak help us?”

Ja’tar’s voice was giddy as he explained, “He’s a deathwalker, remember?”

“And …?”

“And, we can talk to him in his dreams!” Ja’tar responded, unable to hide how thrilled he was with his own cleverness. “Remember the book? It said that Men’ak talks to the dead.”

Zedd’aki cringed. He saw where his friend was going with his plan. “By the Ten, Ja’tar! Listen to yourself. You said that you have to be dead to walk the world of the deathwalker.”

“Well, maybe we, I, don’t have to be completely dead … just dead enough,” Ja’tar suggested, waving off his friend’s concerns.

“Just dead enough? How much is just ‘dead enough?’ What the Ten is ‘dead enough?’” Zedd’aki flinched as he hoarsely screamed.

“Dead enough to cross over to the mist …”

Zedd’aki slapped his forehead, “— and just exactly how dead is that?”

Ja’tar was getting tired of this avenue of conversation and it showed in his demeanor. “I think that dead is dead, but back in the day, we used to practice reviving the dead from battle. You have a few minutes before your spirit crosses between planes and can’t come back.”

“Too dangerous,” Zedd’aki stated flatly. “There has to be another way.”

Ja’tar shrugged, “I can’t think of one and we are running out of time.”

“I don’t like it! I don’t like it one bit!” Zedd’aki griped. “We haven’t raised the dead since Ror. I don’t even remember. Hell! I don’t even recall anything of those days, nor the spells.”

“I think we should go tonight!” Ja’tar added full of confidence. “Before anyone catches us or is on to the fact that we know something is up.”

“What? Not tonight, it’s too soon.” Zedd’aki gasped as he shook his head vehemently. “We need more time to —”

“Now is good,” Ja’tar said, cutting him off.

Zedd’aki begged, “Ja’tar! Give me some time to relearn the spells. We don’t need to rush.”

“No time!” Ja’tar interrupted, “I won’t stay long. Just long enough to let them know what’s going on.”

“But … I don’t even know …” Zedd’aki pleaded.

“— You don’t have to worry about it. I’ll do the spells, you just be here to bring me to before I pass over permanently,” said Ja’tar, putting his hand on his friend’s back.

“I’m not sure about this. It just doesn’t feel right,” Zedd’aki protested weakly.

“Look. All you need to do is count three minutes and wake me by calling my name.”

“That’s it?” Zedd’aki said, not trusting that it was as easy as Ja’tar made it out to be. He had a history of oversimplifying things and being caught without a plan.

“Not entirely.”

“Ah ha!”

“Seriously. That’s the basic idea of it. You may need to shock me so that I hear you from the other side.”

“It’s not the basics that worry me; it’s the ‘what the hell happens if you end up dead’ part — that scares the crap out of me!” Zedd’aki expressively pleaded, throwing his hands up helplessly.

They reached Ja’tar’s apartment and he let them in, unlocking the door and canceling his wards. He walked straight to his table, pulled out a piece of parchment, and began writing.

…It is my will that if something happens to me while conducting this magical experiment of talking to the dead, my friend Zedd’aki is in charge until such a time as a new Keeper can be raised by the Guild. Follow his orders as you would mine - Keeper of the realms, Ja’tar

He chanted, pulled off his ring with the seal and set it on the desk. Ja’tar grabbed the lit candle, used it to melt some bright-red some wax over the scroll, and while it was still soft, pressed his seal in place.

“There! You’re covered if anything happens, ” he said smugly. “Don’t touch the ring unless you are sure I am dead, or you will be visiting Men’ak in my stead!”

“I won’t have my friend any longer …,” Zedd’aki grumbled.

“I’m going to walk over to that bed and cast a spell of death. It would be really nice to have your help after three minutes to make sure I don’t stay that way!”

“You are the most stubborn and inconsiderate …” Zedd’aki emphatically blustered setting his hands firmly on his hips.

“Are you helping or not?” Ja’tar bantered raising his chin and turning a cold shoulder.

Zedd’aki rubbed his head and paced tensely, “Arrgh! You are —” He yanked his beard hard.

“Well …?”

“Well —” Zedd’aki mocked his friend defiantly.

Ja’tar repeated himself, “Well?”

Zedd’aki crossed his arms and scowled. He was in a foul mood. Every time Ja’tar attempted one of these risky castings, he was the one who got into trouble. It always worked that way.

“I’m walking to the bed,” Ja’tar called out as he took his first melodramatic step.

“You go ahead and walk — I doubt that Men’ak is already asleep, it’s barely after six, and he’s probably having his third dinner. I’m willing to bet that he hasn’t even started on dessert yet.”

Ja’tar shot Zedd’aki a look like he was daft, “Men’ak?”

“So, he may be in bed …,” Zedd’aki corrected.

“I’m dying now!” Ja’tar said, as he snuggled the big comforter and threw it over his legs. He stuffed the down pillow under his head and tried to get comfortable..

“Feel free,” Zedd’aki answered steadfast. He wasn’t going to let Ja’tar get out of this world without a good fight.

“It’d be nice if you woke me up after three minutes …,” he said over his shoulder. “I’d hate to miss dinner!”

“Bah! I should let you die, but that would be too easy! You deserve to hear about this for another thousand years,” Zedd’aki sputtered throwing his hands up. “And if you die, I will personally call up your spirit and haunt you for decades …!”

Ja’tar smirked, laid down closing his eyes, and grinned to himself. “I’m almost dead —”

“Well, hurry up; I’m sick of listening to your banter!”

“Well,” Ja’tar harrumphed, “here I go …”

“Go already — I grow tired of hearing your voice.”

Ja’tar closed his eyes and began to chant. His body began to emit a slight blue aura. His breathing slowed and after a short time, his skin turned chalky white, his lips blue, his heart stopped and his body went limp.

Zedd’aki stared at his friend’s lifeless body and put his head to Ja’tar’s chest and listened. He turned a bit pale and felt his stomach churn.

He started nervously counting.

In my Dreams

Men’ak was deep asleep when the mist gathered for a second time. He had thought that he was done for the night. That had been how it usually worked. Several shadowed forms walked out of the swirling cloud and moved toward him, but one shoved the others out of the way and ran to meet him. He recognized him almost immediately.

Men’ak’s jaw dropped, “Ja’tar?”

“I don’t have much time,” Ja’tar panted. “In a couple minutes Zedd’aki has to revive me. You need to listen.”

Men’ak swallowed hard and nodded.

“You need to tell Dra’kor that he was right. The Keep is under some spell.”

“By the gods!”

“Dark forces are at work. Tell him his notes raised our suspicions and although we don’t remember much of those days, we have managed to piece together enough to know that perhaps the Guild is no longer the same as it was eleven-hundred years ago.”

“The Guild is gone?”

“Maybe not, but it’s not right!”

“I can’t believe it —” Men’ak said, shaking his head.

“We need more information from you two on the magic, Shar’ran, Hagra, and the realms. Let them know we are trapped. Someone may be watching us, so our options are limited until we figure out what is going on.”

“How did you puzzle all this out?” Men’ak stammered.

“Dra’kor’s letters. I don’t remember Hagra, Zedd’aki does. That led us to start searching the achieves.”

“That’s really something!”

“Neither of us had ever heard the term spellcaster or deathwalker before. The Guild wasn’t as simple; we derived a ruse where Sheila is Shar’ran’s newly born baby daughter and Dra’kor, his elder son. The answers were mostly correct, he knew Sheila wasn’t his youngest and didn’t recognize the name Dra’kor. However, they never showed up to chastise me when I told them I was going to visit Three Rivers because Hagra was dying. The rest was something we happened upon, the treaty at the end of Ror. We thought the Ten had died before, but they hadn’t and their signature on the document prove it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“No time to explain, but you have to let Dra’kor know that we are trying to figure things out on this side.”

Zedd’aki reached three minutes and tried to rouse his friend. Nothing happened. Zedd’aki yelled at him again, “Wake up you fool! I won’t have you dying on me.”

Zedd’aki sent a shock through his body as he had been instructed. Nothing. Zedd’aki was getting desperate. He lifted his fist and gave a strong thump on Ja’tar’s chest.

“Come on you old bastard,” Zedd’aki foamed, “Live!”

He hit him again and was getting angrier by the second. He took a good swing at Ja’tar’s jaw and watched as his head snapped sideways.

Ja’tar wasn’t aware of how much time had passed, nor did he hear Zedd’aki’s pleas. Men’ak began to dissolve.

“Where are you going?” Ja’tar screamed.

“It’s not me! It’s you,” Men’ak shouted as he watched Ja’tar fade into the gray cloud. In a flash, he was gone.

Ja’tar’s heart started just as Zedd’aki took another swing at his already bruised jaw. He felt his eyes cross and saw stars. He coughed and sputtered.

“Oh, thank the gods!” Zedd’aki exclaimed.

Ja’tar rolled over to his side, “Were you trying to kill me?” He rubbed his chin and moved his jaw side-to-side.

“You weren’t coming out of it. Over four minutes had passed. I was desperate!”

“Well, I’m back!”

Zedd’aki hit him in the shoulder.

“What the hell was that for?” Ja’tar yelled.

“That was for frightening the color out of me,” Zedd’aki said, as he gave Ja’tar a big shove.

“I feel fine, thank you!” Ja’tar scowled. “Other than my broken jaw!”

Zedd’aki turned to leave, “I’m going to dinner.”

“Me too,” Ja’tar replied.

“— Huh?”

“You heard me. We’re going to dinner ….”

And with that, the two men exited the apartment and made their way down toward the dining room.

“Well, did you talk to him?”

“I did —” Ja’tar nodded, not offering any additional information.

“And?”

“And what? We talked — I said, we needed to talk to Hagra and Shar’ran. I also told him that we needed more detailed information.”

Zedd’aki prodded. “Anything else?”

“Not that I recall. By the way, Men’ak looked fine, except he was naked.”

“Naked? Why’d you have to tell me that?”

“Like a new born babe …”

Zedd’aki smiled, “That just doesn’t paint a pretty picture. I think you just ruined my dinner.”

“I’m probably scarred for life you know!”

Zedd’aki laughed. Ja’tar snorted as Zedd’aki poked him in the ribs.

“The things I do for the Keep!”

Men’ak abruptly sat up in bed. A bit disorientated, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he looked around the dark room, checking to see if Dra’kor had retired for the evening. The bed was empty, so he threw back the heavy blanket with a sigh and shivered as the cold air hit his warm skin.

He ventured first one leg, then the other over the side and searched for his worn boots, using his feet shuffling over the jagged wood surface to find them, too lazy to light a glowing orb.

He randomly patted the floor searching and eventually located them strewn about, one near the door and the other under the foot of the bed. He grunted as he slipped them on and left them untied.

Still not fully awake, he staggered as he stood and grabbed his robe before making a grab at the door for the latch. He yanked the door hard, freeing it from the jamb where it always stuck. He took two steps, grabbed the railing and made his way downstairs, forgetting to duck and banging himself right between the eyes on the low hanging beam.

“By the Ten,” he moaned as he grabbed his throbbing head. He stood still for a second, rubbing the sting out before ducking low and continuing his trip to the common room.

Dra’kor heard the thump followed by the stairs creaking. He peered over his shoulder, “I didn’t expect to see you before morning. Are you hungry?”

Men’ak continued down the stairs and stepped into the room. Dra’kor saw a worried look on D’Arron’s face, and turned around to face the stairs.

“Are you okay?” D’Arron asked in a wobbly voice. “You’re as white as if you’ve just seen a ghost!”

“Funny you should say that,” Men’ak replied frowning. “I bumped my head on the way down.”

“I’m sorry. That beam’s a bit low. Here,” she said as she got up from her chair, “— you should sit down.

“I just had a strange dream. We should talk,” Men’ak said, as he yawned and walked across the room.

Dra’kor looked over at D’Arron, “Sure. We can talk for a while. We were just chit-chatting about the town ….”

Men’ak scratched his head, “Uh, it’s a little private. I’m sorry, it’s just …”

“That’s okay,” said D’Arron, lowering her eyes. “I understand.”

She stood and spoke to Dra’kor, “I’ll go take care of some things in the kitchen. You can come get me when you’re through.”

Dra’kor nodded.

“I thought you were free of those dreams?” D’Arron said, grabbing Men’ak’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze ….

“I did too, but this one was very disturbing. Apparently, I still don’t have a grip on things. I’m sorry to intrude ….”

“Well, I’ll be in the kitchen if you boys need me!” she said as she hurried off.

Men’ak smiled weakly as he watched her go. He called out, “It shouldn’t take long…”

Men’ak waited as D’Arron exited the room through the kitchen door. He quickly sat down next to Dra’kor, leaned close and whispered, “I just had an unexpected visitor.”

Dra’kor held his hands out toward the hearth to warm them, “Unexpected? How so?”

Men’ak blurted, “I just talked to Ja’tar!”

Dra’kor’s eyes popped wide open as his jaw dropped, “Ja’tar? How the — the mist land?”

“He came to me in the mist world,” Men’ak said, in a hushed voice. “He just walked out of the fog like it was a completely normal thing to do. Eerie, I’m telling you!”

“Damn the gods, he’s dead?” Dra’kor said, as he covered his eyes and pounded his head. “What else could possibly go wrong?”

“Not exactly dead, dead! Apparently, he and Zedd’aki were using this as a way to contact us. He killed himself using magic. I just hope Zedd’aki can revive him.”

Dra’kor shook his head in disbelief, “Why not send a messenger?”

“I’ll get to that,” said Men’ak, with a heavy sigh. “I need to get this out and get it right. First, he said you were right, the Guild might be a farce, although he wasn’t clear on that.”

Dra’kor was shocked, “He talked to you? Wait a second… he said I was right?”

“Yeah he talked, but he only had a couple minutes. Apparently there is a quiescent time between when you die and when you can’t get back, so his time was limited.”

Dra’kor hadn’t even heard a word of what Men’ak said, he was fixated, “What do you mean I was right?”

“That’s what he said, exact quote.”

Dra’kor furrowed his brow, “What else did he say?”

“He said that he needed to get messages to Hagra and Shar’ran. We’re supposed to let them know that the Guild’s orders were a farce and that he needs them to visit the Keep or something like that.”

“You can’t remember what he said?”

“Well, not exactly. I thought I was dreaming at first, so I missed a couple things he was saying…”

“How could you —?”

“Hey!” Men’ak whined. “It’s not like I’ m used to a dead Keeper showing up in my dreams. I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“I suppose. Still …,” Dra’kor grunted. “Who’s this Shar’ran?”

Men’ak threw up his arms, “I don’t know, but I think Hagra knows him.”

“Damn! I guess we’ll need to talk to her about this. Did Ja’tar have any other messages for us?”

Men’ak nodded, “Actually, he said quite a bit for only a couple minutes. He told me to just shut up and listen. You know how the old man can be?”

Dra’kor rolled his eyes, “And?”

Men’ak snapped his fingers, “Oh, and he said he needs a lot more detail on the world and the old magic. He said that the entire Keep has been under some kind of glamour spell for the past twelve hundred years. Can you believe it?”

Dra’kor thought about what Men’ak had just said for a couple seconds, “By the Ten! That would explain a lot of things.”

“Well, it explains why we’ve never seen anyone from the Guild, but it leaves a lot of questions as to where all those travelers we sent to the City actually went.”

Dra’kor nodded as he swore under his breath, “Bloody dragons! I wonder if they are still alive?”

Men’ak’s voice got very small, “He was really upset. Dra’kor, it was so weird seeing him in the mist. It means he had to die to meet me there. Something must be horribly wrong for him to go and risk his life like this.”

“I agree. So he said I was right?” Dra’kor sat back in the chair and stared at the fire.

“Can you forget about being right for a second. This is serious!”

“But it means something. Hmm, I wonder if that means that part of the spell must have been to keep us in the Keep and away from the realms? But why?”

Men’ak shrugged, “I have no idea. What if that’s not what he meant?”

“What else could it be?” Dra’kor shrugged.

Men’ak just stared back blankly.

“What do we do next?

“I think you should send him a long note about what you are learning and what we are doing. I suppose any information is better than none,” Men’ak said, answering.

Dra’kor’s head shot up, “What do you think he is going to do?”

“I don’t know. I imagine that he and Zedd’aki will try to figure out who is doing this, and what it all means.”

Dra’kor’s face got serious, “Was he planning on meeting you again in the death land?”

Men’ak rolled a shoulder, “He didn’t say. He was yanked back before we got that far. Like I said, we only talked for a couple of minutes.”

“Maybe we should ask Hagra about it. She might know more detail on what the deathwalker can do and such. Maybe you can find a different way to talk to him, in his dreams — maybe? We could send instructions in the letters.”

“Talking about the letters, I think you should tell him about the skree, the spells on the land, everything.” Men’ak nodded emphatically.

Dra’kor shook his head in disbelief, “So it turns out that Ja’tar wasn’t the problem. If the entire Keep has been misguided for centuries, I wonder what has really been going on? I bet Ja’tar feels horrible. He takes all this stuff personally you know.”

“Who can say, but it sounds like we are going to get a chance to set things right.”

Dra’kor threw his head back and stared at the ceiling, “I wonder who is behind this. Did Ja’tar have any ideas?”

“None, at least, none that he spoke of,” Men’ak replied

“How did he find out?” Dra’kor queried.

Men’ak got a confused look on his face. “Find out what?”

Dra’kor sighed, “Find out that we’ve been duped?”

“Apparently Zedd’aki remembered Hagra and he didn’t. That set them off to investigating. That along with what they found when they researched spellcaster and deathwalker led them to believe things were not as they appeared. So he said he asked Shar’ran about his new baby daughter, Sheila, and his younger son, Dra’kor. “

Dra’kor chuckled, “I assume the Shar’ran hadn’t a clue…”

“Knew enough I guess, knew Sheila wasn’t his youngest and knew you weren’t his son. Other than that, didn’t even blink, said thank you and that everything was adjusting fine.”

Dra’kor cracked a smile, “Anything else?”

“Oh, one other thing. Apparently, the Ten didn’t perish at Ror. They found some old document that everyone signed at the end of the battle. It was wrapped up in the Room of Records. I guess nobody knows what happened to them.”

“I’ll be damned!”

“That’s what I thought. So I have a question, why can’t they remember signing the document, or even being there?”

“You’d have to possess strong magic to glamour the entire Keep, especially if you glamour each person with a different story.”

“That eliminates most of the magi I know,” said Men’ak.

“Agreed! It also would take someone who has a wealth of knowledge about our lives.”

“I wonder if the glamour is as strong for everyone else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, most of us are not involved in Keep business, so it seems to me that only the people at the top would need to be charmed. Besides, we weren’t around for Ror, so that eliminates a whole bunch of stuff we wouldn’t have to forget, and we never learned the old magic!”

“That makes sense. We pretty much do what is expected, they give us the rules and direction.”

“But why —?”

Men’ak shrugged.

“Following your last thought, I guess if they took care of Zedd’aki, Ja’tar, Rua’tor, the Floormaster, and Qu’entza, they’d have most everyone who has Guild responsibilities.”

“That’s now. Back in the day, we had more wizards about. There were at least another five or six that worked with Ja’tar back then.”

“That’s still a fair amount of work.”

“It is!” Dra’kor said, “— and to pull it all off at the same time?”

Men’ak whistled, “Impossible!”

“Apparently not!”

I Was a God

After diner, Ja’tar excused himself and went up to his room. He was satisfied with how his meeting with Men’ak had gone and now he had to focus on another puzzle piece. He needed to know if Dra’kor was right about the magic. If indeed, what they called magic in the Keep was not ‘real’ magic, as Dra’kor had said, he needed to find out where the real magic went.

He also realized that he needed a way to rid himself of the glamour that he believed encompassed the Keep and its grounds. This was going to be relatively easy as he saw it, all he needed to do was get far enough away that the glamour couldn’t affect him anymore.

But there was the Guild.

He would suffer greatly if he did something that required them to formally reprimand him. Zedd’aki was right; they were sticklers for the law, and merciless, and would make an example out of him if he directly disobeyed them. He didn’t see that he had too many choices here. He could either follow what the Guild said, and let the world spiral into chaos or follow his gut and take action. If the world was being systematically attacked by demons or worse yet, a dark mage, the Keep would eventually be pulled into the fray.

Ja’tar groaned to himself. If he waited, it might be too late to turn things around.

He didn’t imagine he’d have to wander more than a league or so before he would be able to tell if his assumption was right. More than that, he wished to visit the area where he and To’paz had spent happier times. He thought that it would be a good place to craft a memorial to her.

Ja’tar looked over at the small box of items he had removed from her old room. They weren’t much, but they were all she had in the world. Ja’tar choked back a tear.

Maybe he could use the building of her memorial as an excuse to get out of the Keep. He could rightly claim that he was overcome with sorrow and guilt at not having spent enough time with her. It was closer to the truth than it was a lie.

He figured that since he was the Keeper, and he was kept from travel from the keep, there was no reason to imagine that the spells, if they really existed, would extend too far down the mountain. His first task this night would be to discover that limit.

The second task he had in mind would be more difficult. He needed a way to break contact with the Zylliac. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to accomplish that task, since the Zylliac had rule over the realms.

He pulled open the drawer of his desk and pulled out a small box. The ornate container had no clasp, and opened easily. Ja’tar stared down at the old brass medallion as he pushed it around with his finger. It seemed rather unremarkable for having such a high value. He grabbed it by the chain and draped it over his head. He didn’t feel any different, but again, that was the point. He closed the box, returned it to its resting place, and shut the drawer. He packed a bag, his journal and stepped out the door. It was well past midnight, but he still felt nervous about being caught. It was silly of course. Nobody ever questioned what the Keeper did. Nonetheless, he felt like a young child sneaking out after bedtime.

At the last second, he remembered a gift he had received from Shar’ran when To’paz was a toddler and was having night terrors of the Zylliac. Shar’ran had given him a hand-sized statue and told him to remove the protective cloth and set it next to her bed, it would rid her of the bad dreams.

He told him they used it for the elves who were going through the Rash’al’shanna, a discovery of their ancestors where a great horn called the shofar, carved from the woolly Shola beast was blown to welcome their ancestors back from the dead. In this way, the young elfling learned of his family and his heritage. It soothed the mind by separating it from contact with the dreams.

e said that they used it for elves when they went through the He quickly made his way to an enclosed storage room below his apartments where they kept mementos and souvenirs from the past. He found the delicate figurine and its shielding cloth. He tucked it into his pocket and scurried away.

He made his way to the side entrance, which led to the small courtyard and let himself out. He followed the wall until the courtyard dumped down a tight covered alley and exited to the main Keep. The rest would be easy. He knew how to open the main gate and to dispel the protections that guarded the Keep at night.

His hands sweated. He was nervous, hesitant. He walked down the path toward the wall. The heavy iron and oak gate stood almost twice his height. It looked unearthly in the moonlight and he tried to keep to the shadows as he made his way to the latch.

He felt for the spells and slowly untwined the magic. Satisfied that he would be able to open the door without notice, he wove a small spell to lift the cross-timber off and set it to the side. He summoned the door open and cast a spell over the hinges to make sure they didn’t protest.

He stepped through the door and had it close behind him, resetting the beam. He would replace the protections when he returned. He stood there for a couple seconds, staring at the outside of the door and the huge escarpment. Turning around, he set off at a quick pace down the trail toward the bridge.

When he reached the bridge, he looked back at the glamour over the Keep. The small rundown cottage still appeared as it had those many years ago when they had set the spell in place. He wondered how Dra’kor had felt when he saw it for the first time. He chuckled to himself because he imagined that Dra’kor probably cussed up a storm.

He tried to think about the time of Ror, signing the treaty and still he remembered nothing. He remembered to set his wards, and quickly wove a collection of protections. He chuckled; he remembered when that used to come as second nature. He continued wandering up the path in the opposite direction of Three Rivers.

Ja’tar listened as a hoot owl called in the distance and the sound of the stream tumbling over rocks filled the air. Crickets and whippoorwills filled the gaps with their music. It had been a long time since he had heard them sing. He felt like sitting down on a big rock and just enjoying the night. He realized how much he missed walking about the realms and being in the woods. He grunted. Sometimes you had to give up things for the better good. He wondered why it was always the more pleasurable and important things that seemed to require sacrifice.

Maybe they had it all wrong, this working hard and changing the world. Maybe the elves had it right, that art, music and fellowship are the most important, not the material things. He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and continued on.

The moon was full and the thin mountain air was clear enough that the stars lit the entire sky.

Ja’tar was glad that he had put on his heavy overcoat. He pulled the hood up tight over his head as the gentle breeze swirled the cold night air around his feet. He could see his breath as he breathed and he had small ice crystals forming on his beard and mustache. He pulled his hands deeper into his jacket. He stopped again when he could barely see the cliffs that surrounded the Keep and tried again to remember.

He sighed and took another step, placing his trusty staff in front, leading the way. The rhythmic tapping of his staff on the frozen road and the silent shuffle of his boots over the soil were the only sounds that seemed out of place. He was reaching the edge of the forest and the ancient pines towered above him. Ja’tar knew that once he entered, the moonlight would no longer light his path. He prepared an orb spell and held his hand out in front as the white light from the small orb lit his way.

He had walked another half-league or so when he paused again to test his memory. He thought back on the past. Although he still couldn’t remember specifics, he was having moments where he thought he could remember faces and events. He just couldn’t hold on to them or pull up any details. He looked back down the road; he had walked farther than he had thought he would have to go. He shook his head. The magic on the Keep and its grounds was strong. He mentally tallied a list of those he thought had enough power to do such a thing. It was a short list.

He decided that he would walk another ten minutes, and if that didn’t work, he would try again on a different night. The road wound now, making its way between the enormous pines. The circuitous path hid what lie ahead and what came from the rear. It made Ja’tar nervous and he widened his wards.

Ja’tar came to a small clearing and recognized it as the place he and To’paz used to go for late-night discussions and practice. Although he knew this place well, and remembered what they had done here, he couldn’t form a clear picture of any of their trips. He knew he should remember, but try as he might, his mind just wouldn’t stay focused on his task.

He decided that this was as far as he would go this night. He gathered up some branches and lit himself a fire on the side of the road nestled between a pile of huge boulders and the trees. The fire lit the entire area, but Ja’tar was sure that the light would not escape the thick forest. He sat down on one of the boulders and thought.

After a bit, he stood and walked to a boulder that was jutting out of the ground. He sighed heavily, extended a finger and chanted. Soon a bright arc of flame jumped from his finger to the rock and started carving out the words he had in his mind.

For my loving sister To’paz, who died unnecessarily fighting demons. Sum
Licens Solus Fidens!

- Your Loving Brother,

Jat’ar

He stepped back and admired his handiwork. He cast another spell that worked on the rock, shaping it into an elaborate shrine. He watched as the magic gradually changed its nature and before long, it was clear as glass, but it was not glass, it was a solid diamond.

Satisfied, he took out the small box of his sister’s things and held them in his hand. He stepped up to the shrine and chanted loudly waiting for his hand to glow pure white before plunging it and the items into the diamond. The diamond melted with his touch and his hand sank deep to his elbow into the stone. He let go and pulled his hand free, leaving behind his sister’s mementoes. When the diamond returned to its shape, he could see his sister’s books, necklace, and metal figurines stuck, forever encased.

He had another idea and searched for a spell. He wove an intricate weave and let it ooze into the rock. He stepped back and watched as an image of his sister floated in the middle of the diamond. He reconsidered. Finally, he cast a spell to hide the image and the contents of the monument from those with no magic. He didn’t want to intentionally rile the Guild.

Finished, he stepped back and looked at his handiwork. It looked like a simple headstone, but when he used his wizard’s sight, it was beautiful. Still, it seemed insignificant, but it was the best he could do. He took one last look before he crossed the small field, returning to where his fire was burning bright.

The minutes slowly crept past as Ja’tar meditated on thoughts of the past. He sat for a long time, staring blankly into the woods. He sighed. Nothing. He pulled a small loaf of bread and some cheese out of his pack and sat eating, thinking about how he could break the spell. Problem was, he needed to know what was being blocked to unblock it. He took another bite and a swig of wine from his wineskin.

He pulled out the small figurine that Shar’ran had given him those long years ago and fondly rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. He felt the smooth surface and it somehow gave him peace.

He closed his eyes and thought back on happier times. He was hit with a sudden rush of memories that overwhelmed him. Thoughts he hadn’t had for centuries streamed into his conscious and he wasn’t able to throttle them or hold them back. People, places, events, they all came back. He burst into tears, unable to funnel his emotions.

His eyes shot wide, a memory, a very small seemingly insignificant memory, at the end of his consciousness caught his attention. A memory of his childhood, his training, appeared in a flashback. He was sitting with his father on the old bench outside his father’s room as they practiced his first spell. He remembered his father patiently demonstrating and explaining how to control the magic. Ja’tar smiled at the memory. He remembered how his father smelled, how he smiled and how he made him feel. He smiled at the fact that his father never mentioned the Zylliac and was showing him how to control real magic. Real magic! Dra’kor was right again, he thought to himself. Ja’tar was pleased, and scared.

Ja’tar carefully removed the medallion and set it on the rock a few feet in front of him. Again, he didn’t feel any different, but he knew that given time, he would be in pain and soon, he would start to grow old. He took the small figurine that Shar’ran had gifted to him, and set it back in his pocket.

He grabbed a leaf from the ground, held it in his palm, and concentrated as his father had told him. The leaf shuddered, but slowly floated up above his hand. Ja’tar checked for his connection to the ethereal beast, and grinned when it was not present. Ja’tar felt a tear slide down his cheek as he held the dead leaf in the air. His eyes welled up with tears and soon, he was softly sobbing.

Floating a dead leaf. It was such a small feat, so insignificant, but pivotal because it pointed out that he hadn’t completely forgotten magic. He remembered how much he loved the touch of it, how it felt, how it warmed him when he used it. In his mind, he was no longer a mage, and more importantly, he had no magi in the Keep. In that moment, he realized that the Keep was in serious trouble. In far more trouble than he had imagined.

He made the leaf rise and fall, move from side-to-side. His touch with the flow was coming back to him, but he knew that it would not be the case for the rest of the Keep. They had never learned the magic. For him, it was like remembering an old friend. The more he used, the more he remembered. He couldn’t wait to get back and tell Zedd’aki.

He remembered … Hagra, and smiled. He remembered Ror, the absolute horror of it. He remembered his elf friend Shar’ran and he remembered being a god. He felt the depth of the deception, the vileness of it. His mind cleared and he remembered the Ten. He remembered the treaty and he remembered his father ascending.

The depth of the glamour shook him to his core and he blamed the Ten, for they were the only ones with the power to do this. He tried to calm himself down, but his true nature was free. He felt his blood pound at his temples and felt his lip quiver as he began to fill with rage.

Ja’tar sat for a long time, holding the leaf, feeling the cold of the boulder through his coat as he fought to contain his wrath. What should he do next? The path wasn’t so clear. For the first time in over a thousand years, he had no guidance. The choice was entirely his and the decision he made would impact every person he knew. If he made the wrong choice, people were likely to die.

One by one, his memories came back. His nature returned. He could actually feel that he was different now, not just in his ability to touch and work the magic, but he sensed subtle changes in his personality. He felt himself losing control, being agitated and feeling well, arrogant! How dare they!

Ja’tar felt his ire rising. He thought about the days that had past, and the glory the Keep had once held. They had fallen to this, on his watch. He cursed the Guild and their rules. He decided then, and there, that he would help set things right in the world. The world needed them. He stood up forcefully and began pacing nervously. He snarled and glowered.

By now, thousands of leaves were circling over his head and the wind was starting to pick up.

Ja’tar swore under his breath as he felt the spells and power return. He remembered all — he was a near god! He was the most powerful man in the realms. He thought about all the brothers and sisters he had lost, accomplished magi, good people, kind people that were trying to help the realms. His eyes filled with rage and they turned red with the mage lust, the lust to destroy.

He shouted out loud, “By the Ten, I will find you and save you if any of you are still alive. On the grave of my mother, I swear it!”

He threw his hands up, uttered an incantation, and watched as a towering funnel cloud formed directly over his head, whipping up the dirt and leaves, uprooting trees. It soon reached to the sky. His hair was flowing around him, his robe was billowing in the wind, and webs of blue and purple power arced from his hands into the surrounding air. The funnel spun on the ground in the opening around him, bending to his whim. He made it move from side-to-side as it tore the ground and sent trees, roots and all, flying high into the sky.

Ja’tar felt his face go hot as he was filled with fury. A millennium, wasted, he thought. He thought about all the good they could have accomplished. He filled himself with the power, lowered his trembling hands and spoke a single phrase in a voice that shook the very mountains, tonare e fulgur.

His eyes went white and he threw his arms up again, causing lightning to snake up the undulating serpentine funnel. It spread out like a web across the churning clouds, and sent giant white-hot bolts racing to the ground, splitting trees, and throwing rock shards in every direction. The ground split open and the earth itself burst into flame. He caught the lightning in his hands, felt it pulse and tossed it back into the clouds as he laughed. The thunder roared and the sound of the thunderclaps of the gods shook the mountains.

He screamed incoherently at the top of his lungs as he let all his rage flow up into the heavens.

The sky lit bright white, silhouetting a single mage, in full command of the energies of the universe standing in a small hollow. The trees trembled and the mountains growled. He was Kandor’a, born to be a god, fearful of no man! He cursed at what he had become. The very thought was repugnant.

He grinned widely and holding a single finger out, sent a yellow twisting cord of magic into the sky. It exploded, and all went dark. The sky cleared, the wind stopped and the funnel dissipated. Ja’tar had cleared the entire sky of clouds and all that was to be seen in any direction was the twinkling of stars, millions and millions of stars under the White moon. Off in the distance, the red Ocht’or moon was rising and it was just cresting above the peaks.

In a cave far to the north, under the ice-covered mountains, a giant blue dragon was slumbering. The cave, hidden in the Ice Spires in the realm of Northland had been the domain of the dragons since the Rotterdam pact. Here, they lived and thrived, free from the cares of man, safe, never to be hunted.

The dragon known as Voltaire opened a yellow and green sleepy eye and peered off into the darkness. It took a deep breath, filled the room with fire, and slowly moved its head from side-to-side, as the rock glowed red and steam billowed from the water-filled cavern.

Had that been what he sensed it to be? He thought to himself, Ah, my friend! I have wondered where you have been. It has been so very long. Welcome back Ja’tar Kandor’a, god of men. He closed his eye and smiled. His friend had finally returned.

Faraway, on a cliff high above Five Peaks, the lich stood stroking his chin, staring in the direction where he felt strong magic. He had witnessed the display of light and thunder. Even at this distance, he recognized it for what it was, a mage. A very strong mage, stronger than any he had felt in the past. If he could capture this mage, his master would be very happy, very happy indeed. The lich drooled and licked its lips, tasting how that much power would feel. He would drain that mage and make his power his own.

Ja’tar stood quietly in the little clearing staring at the stars as his anger melted away. He felt the tie to his familiar and heard the dragon’s words in his mind. A giant grin came to his face as he recognized the voice of his ancient and wise friend.

Voltaire! I had forgotten all about you my friend. There is evil magic at work here. We may need to dance together again. The response he received back was as he expected. Together is better. I await your visit. Do not stay away so long this time.

Ja’tar struggled with the enormity of the glamour. It had stripped him of his nature and his most precious memories. It had made him forget who and what he was, and worse, it had caused him to lose his sense of purpose. He swore that those responsible would pay, and they would pay dearly.

Finally, he raised his hands, healed the ground, straightened the toppled trees and set right all the damage he had done when he had lost his temper.

He felt a little embarrassed that he had lost control and he knew what his friend Zedd’aki would say about that! He lowered his head and walked back to the huge log, calmly reached down, picked up the medallion, and started to place it back over his head when he felt himself getting angry again. He chanted and tried to control his emotions, emotions that had been pent up for a millennium; he angrily threw the medallion to the ground and watched it bounce on the dirt, coming to rest against a huge rock.

He knew he needed to put the medallion back on, he was feeling a bit nauseated and light headed. He knew that the headaches would come soon, followed by the weakness.

He paused, remembering the life spell, which he quickly and easily spun. It should have been second nature to him, the first thing he checked and he cursed at his incompetence. He had fallen a long way from his former glory. He was so unsure of himself that he was second-guessing his craft. He used his wizard’s sight to view his handiwork. He felt an instant flood of relief as his spell took hold. He looked over at the medallion and knew that things would not go as easy for the magi who never learned the spell.

Of course, he also knew he would eventually need to don the cursed medallion, but for now, he preferred his head clear, free of all encumbrances. He pulled out his journal and wrote himself a note. He wrote clearly:

‘Dra’kor was right about the magic. I can still do old magic, but cannot remember it when I am close to the Keep. It seems to return to me quickly; however, I’m sure that I have lost much of what I knew. I seem to recall a stronger life spell, but couldn’t remember it before I had to return. None of the magi after Ror know of the old magic, I am positive of this. This presents a problem. The glamour taints your existence, and changes your nature; I could feel my head clear only after I had been clear of both the glamour of the Keep and the Querd medallion. The medallion prevents one from even remembering or accessing the old ways. I am confused, because it may be that the medallion, the Zylliac and the glamour are all related. All of this points to the Ten, although I find it hard to imagine that even they would be so evil as to cripple the Keep. It makes no sense to me their fighting the battle of Ror only to destroy the very wizards they were fighting to protect.’

He thought a bit and continued writing; knowing that in all likely hood, he would forget all that transpired this night after his return;

‘I had communication with Voltaire. I seemed to have forgotten him. This is unforgivable.

I needed to get about a league and a half away before my mind cleared, at least partially and I was able to think straight. I believe the figurine that Shar’ran gave me helped. I made a fire between some rocks and some large trees, across from a monument I erected to To’paz. I laid a fire ring with a single huge boulder on the north. The glamour seems abnormally strong. I intend to take Zedd’aki with me the next outing.’

Satisfied that he had recorded enough information to jog his memory, he signed the journal as proof and placed his seal upon the notes. He stared at it, hoping it would be enough before placing it in his bag. He remembered something else, and added to the entry.

‘..the Guild either has been crippled, or does not care, although my tests earlier in the day seem to suggest that at least some structure of the organization still controls the realms. I intend to pursue this over the next few days.‘

He felt that he needed to do that in case by morning he forgot everything. Depending on the glamour, he knew he might wake up not knowing anything about today’s events.

He gathered the small figurine and replaced the cloth before sliding it into his pocket. Someday, he would have to thank his friend for the gift. It just might end up saving the magi from extinction. Ja’tar cast a water spell on the fire, snuffing it out. He waited for it to sizzle itself out before he picked up his medallion, turned down the road and began his trek back to the Keep. As he walked, he could feel his memory fading.

His feet hurt. His back hurt. He realized he had not had any activity in a long time, and his body was protesting. He knew he would be paying the price tomorrow.

About halfway back, he felt his head throbbing and realized he wasn’t wearing the medallion. He looked down at it dangling at the end of the chain gripped in his hand, swinging as he walked. He felt a bit foolish for having removed it and couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he would do such a bone-headed thing. He lifted it over his head and instantly felt relief. By the time he reached the gate, he remembered only his purpose.

Ja’tar remembered to reset the wards, and replaced the heavy beam that locked the doors. Peering east with tired, bloodshot eyes, he saw that the sky was beginning to lighten and the morn was near. Time was of the essence, he didn’t want to get caught outside, so he hurried back to the courtyard, his cloak billowing as he ran. He kept his back tight against the wall as he slid sideways to the side door. After letting himself in and silently latching the door, he ran up the stairs two by two until he reached his room.

He fumbled with the wards, felt the latch give and stepped inside. After he closed his door, he leaned heavily against the wall, out of breath and wheezing from his sprint up the stairs. The room spun, causing him to lean over and place his hands on his knees, pulling in jaggedly drawn deep breaths.

He heard the rooster crow and knew he had just gotten back in time to avoid being found out. The kitchen staff would already be up and preparing breakfast, and soon, the servants who cleaned would be up and about.

He kicked off his dirty boots, flung his heavy cloak to the floor, and set his journal on the desk. He was too tired to even look at it. His overstuffed chair beckoned him and he slumped down letting the chair swallow him. Soon he was massaging his aching feet, and hoping he wouldn’t find blisters in the morning.

He spotted a message from Dra’kor waiting on the silver tray, so he leaned over, and grabbed it. A shiver racked him, so before he read, he stood and moved adjacent the fireplace. The room was cold and he urgently added a few more logs to the hearth weaving a simple glyph. He watched them float into place as he rubbed his hands together to generate some warmth. After several seconds, he grew impatient and sent a stream of fire into the logs and instantly, they burst into flame. He poured himself a glass of strong wine from the decanter on his reading table, sat down into his stuffed chair and after placing his spectacles over his still-cold nose, began reading.

-Ja’tar,

Men’ak told me of your visit to him in the mist. I hope we can figure out another way to communicate so that you don’t have to die again.

He remembered most of what you asked, however I can’t be sure that I will cover everything. We are staying in Three Rivers with Hagra and Sheila, her half-elf daughter. Actually, we are staying in an inn.

They have been working with us on the old magic. I finally made a ‘life spell, but can only feed it for about three hours. Men’ak is having trouble with the magic. It doesn’t seem to come to him naturally. We hope we can get him to make a life spell, but it may take a lot longer than we have.

Hagra has some strange ideas about the totems. She thinks they are used to control the movement of mages, not to prevent demons from getting out. Apparently, the magic of the Zylliac doesn’t do much to demons, so what’s the point. Hagra also says the totems don’t affect her, so whether the realm is closed or not, makes no never mind to her.

Men’ak had some visitors in his mist world from Five Peaks. I think we need to head there soon. They are under attack by something called skree. Sheila and I killed one the other day. They are also having very bad storms that don’t seem natural.

Hagra said I should contact some of the old Guild members and let them know what has happened. We are trying to figure out a good way to do this. I’ll let you know what we come up with. Maybe Sheila can help.

The people here are worried, but we finally killed enough of the catomen and wolven to allow them to get out and plant their fields. I don’t know how long this will hold. Sounds like Five Peaks didn’t have an outer wall or gate and are almost unable to move between buildings. Almost fifty people have died, most of the town.

I’ll write more tomorrow. Sorry I doubted you. I think I haven’t given you the credit you deserve.

-Dra’kor

Ja’tar read the last line a second time before he put the note away, rubbing his weary eyes. He tilted his head back and gulped down the last half glass of wine before he dragged his weary body to bed. Imagine that, an apology from Dra’kor! Now he knew the world was ending. His head had barely hit the pillow and he was sound asleep, exhausted from the night.

Alive

Grit felt his grip on the cold icy rope give way as his fingers cramped. He fell back, being held only by the crook of his knee. He cart-wheeled his arms trying to regain his handhold but knew that he was in for an icy bath and one hell of a ride over the falls as his leg slipped off the icy rope.

He glanced over his shoulder as he fell and the last thing he saw was the faces of his two friends, looking on in horror as his grip loosened. He saw Dra’kor feverishly trying to weave a spell, but he knew it was too late when he felt the spell overshoot his head and fall useless across the other side of the river.

His body slammed into the icy cold water, taking away his breath as his head plunged under. He flailed his arms and kicked his feet until his head broke the surface. He struggled against the weight of his heavy water-laden robe, a battle he couldn’t possibly win, and was quickly pulled back under.

He searched for the raft from under the clear water as he swam hard reaching for the logs far above. He had hoped he could swim to the raft, but he was already in the grips of the current and was being quickly propelled toward the dangerous precipice of the falls. He kicked hard and broke the surface again sputtering and pulling a deep breath into his aching lungs. Exhausted, it was all he could do just to keep his head above the surface.

He swam as hard as he could, but despite his valiant effort, he was losing the battle against the raging water. Grit could hear the roar of the cascade and could now clearly see the edge of the falls. He gave up and altered his strategy and concentrated on formulating a plan to survive what he knew would be a rough ride. He knew he only had seconds as his teeth chattered. To make matters worse, he was losing feeling in his hands and legs.

The first thing he thought of was a protective sphere, Ballard’s Ball, something to break his fall should there be rocks below, and he was almost certain there would be rocks. When he and Men’ak had looked over the edge, they had seen jagged boulders poking up through the frothy water. He quickly wove his spell and tied it off just in case he went unconscious.

The first spell led to his recognition of a second truth. He realized that if he lost consciousness, he would die. He would lie face down in the water and drown. He tried to remember the spell to breath under water or in a space with no air. It just wouldn’t come to him. He only had seconds …

The best he could do was to remember a spell that allowed him to hold his breath for a long time, Bard’s Folly, so named for its common use by Bards and Tinkers who wagered with local folk that they could hold their breath longer than their challengers could. He started his spell as he crossed the threshold over the edge of the falls.

He was falling, he remembered that much, the feeling of being weightless and the view of the blue sky above as he tumbled backwards. He continued to weave his spell with numb shaking hands. At the last instant, he remembered the other spell, Lazarus’s Gill, and tried as best he could to cast it before he hit. It was the last thing he remembered.

He hit the water flat on his back, the impact knocking him unconscious as well as knocking the wind out of him. The icy-cold mountain fed water pushed him deep into the pool below as his limp listless body folded in half causing him to sink ass first. The current grabbed him and tossed him like a rag doll. The eddies pushed him around to their whim like a puppeteer wiggling the wooden limbs of their marionette.

It turned out that he had narrowly missed the rocks, landing precisely between two tall, razor-sharp spires jutting out of the roiling water. He was lucky, if you could call it that, lucky to have not been impaled. But again, he was caught in a giant whirlpool that was sucking him down to the bottom. His flaccid form swirled deeper and deeper into the inky darkness until he was sucked down to the bottom and pushed through a narrow opening to an underwater cave.

His submerged body was pulled through the pitch-black cave and jostled against the sharp boulders as his body was carried along by the current. Although the passage narrowed at points, the pressure of the water always managed to push him through. Had his robe caught on a rough, jutting crag, or had his foot become wedged between boulders, all would have been lost, but lady luck was watching over him. His circuitous path through the labyrinth of caverns eventually ended with a downhill rush into a rocky tube. Within minutes, he was ejected out the other side into a deep fjord of a spring-fed mountain cirque. He floated to the surface and lay there face down, unconscious.

He drifted along the shore, his face-down body being pulled and pushed by the currents of the lake. He passed towering cliffs and eventually, he stopped moving in the shallows adjacent to a beach.

A young boy dressed in doeskin spotted something floating in the pool where he was fishing with his short barbed spear. His eyes opened wide as the man bobbed on the surface. He waded out into the water and after poking him several times with the butt end of his spear, lifted his head out of the water. Shock filled his face and he charged out of the water running to get his father.

The lad dashed along the shore, gracefully bounding over logs and boulders. He bobbed, ducked under low-hanging branches and weaved through fields of rocks without ever losing stride or slowing. He broke into a clearing and ran into the simple stone hut adjacent the larger home.

“Poppa! Poppa! Come quick. A man is dead in the lake,” the lad said slightly winded.

“What is this about a man?” The elder said, looking up from sharpening his hunting knife. A long-stemmed pipe dangled from his mouth and the herbed aroma floated cloudily in the near-barren room.

“A man,” the boy yelled excitedly. “A man like those in the mountains and stories, tall with round ears and no hair.”

The old man looked suspiciously at his son, not believing it was possible. Their village was protected from invaders by very strong magic and glamour spells. The entire valley was protected. All trails led away, the villages couldn’t be seen from the rim, and no sound could escape. Not only that, but highly skilled fighters patrolled the only two, well-hidden, entrances into the valley. It wasn’t possible that someone could get in.

The old man sighed heavily; his son had such an active imagination. “I have work to do,” he said. “We can tell stories later.”

The boy grabbed his hand and began tugging him toward the door. “Hurry! He may still be alive.”

“Tou’far, this had better not be a joke,” he warned.

“Hurry, father. Hurry!”

The man rolled his eyes, slipped the long curved blade into its well-oiled sheath, and reluctantly followed his son to the lake, breaking into a gentle, loping run as he tried to keep up with the sprinting lad. When they reached the shore, there, just as Tou’far had said, was a body floating face down in the shallows. The elf looked at the man and knew he must be dead, for no human he had ever met could breathe water.

“Hurry Poppa!” The boy stammered, “H-h-help him. Help him!”

The older elf waded out into the water and yanked the man’s head out of the water. The man’s face was pale white and the eyes were rolled back in their sockets. The old elf forlornly shook his head at the site.

He grabbed the man by his robe and dragged him to the shore, hefting him over the small sandy ledge that surrounded the lake. Although the man was larger than the elf, the wiry elf easily lifted the man on shore and rolled him to his back.

The elf’s jaw fell open and his eyes narrowed. To say he was surprised would be an understatement. There, in the center of the man’s chest was a ghoul-stone filled, filigreed medallion. He would have recognized it anywhere, a sha’za, but he had never thought to see one again in his lifetime.

He reached down and gently touched it, feeling its twisted magic. He jerked his hand back. He stood, placed his hands on his hips and stared. If the Wizards of the Great Keep had finally come to the valley, perhaps the time foretold in prophecy was at hand. He paced, not certain what to do next.

“Father, what should we do?”

Grit convulsed, coughed and spit up water. He hacked and coughed as the liquid cleared from his lungs.

The man startled and quickly turned to his son, “Run quick. Go and get Shar’ran. Tell him we have a visitor from the Keep.”

Epilogue

It was morning. Ja’tar sat in the giant overstuffed chair by the fireplace in his room and watched the sunrise over the mountains. The golden rays flooded the room with light and warmth. He had been up early, unable to sleep any longer as his mind raced with the events of the previous night. He stared back into the flames and listened to them snap as pitch in the pine logs bubbled and sparked. He felt restless.

In his lap were the letters his father had written to him a long time ago. He had forgotten they existed, but the events of the recent days had brought it bubbling back to the edge of his consciousness. It had taken him the better part of a day to locate them. He had forgotten that he had stored them away in a charmed lockbox. Once he found the box, he had spent hours trying to recall the secret to opening the container.

Ja’tar ran his fingers across the broken red-wax seal. They matched the ring on his middle finger. He remembered the day when he found it, and the letters. He remembered knowing what it meant. And even though he had been expecting it, he wasn’t prepared for the wave of emotions that wracked his body when the reality sunk in. That was the first time he spirit-searched the room, hoping that remnants of his father would still be there. He wept when he knew that the man he worshipped was gone.

He opened the frail, yellowed, pages carefully and read again. By now, he had memorized every word in the text. He had read the letters daily for years before he finally let go of his sadness and hid it away. It had given him some semblance of comfort in those early days of his rule. In those days, he was arrogant, too young, and too anxious to make a name for himself and he had missed the restrained meanings of his father’s prose, expertly written by one who knew the dangers of the Guild and the games of intrigue and politics.

Now all was evident. He could plainly see the subtle messages his father had meant for his eyes, warnings, and insights. He wondered what his father would think of what he had become. Would he be proud, or disappointed? Would he approve of his current course of action? Probably not. His father was a very conservative man, not prone to action. He would have most likely chastised him for his rash and hasty decisions. Ja’tar smirked. In many ways, his father was just like Zedd’aki.

Ja’tar shook his head and wiped at the corner of his eye as he remembered that his sister was also gone. What would his father have thought about that? He imagined that he would say that it was a risk she was well aware of and was more than willing to take. Maybe so, but there were so many things he wished he had said; so many visits he should have made.

In the end, he regretted not taking the time to visit her more often, but when you live hundreds of years nothing has that sense of urgency. At least that was the rationalization he used to keep from being consumed with guilt. Truth be told, he had always put the work of the Keep in front of family, just like his father. Would the Guild have approved the visit? Well, who knows, but if you don’t ask, they certainly will never grant.

He shifted his position and turned his head, gazing out the window, as he pondered the most recent note from Dra’kor. As Ja’tar saw things, now that Tar’ac was gone, Dra’kor and his friends were the eyes of the keep. Without them, they were blind. Even with them they were severely crippled. Ja’tar flicked his fingers nervously, causing small pops and clicks as short flames leapt from his nails as the spells took hold.

He was worried. From what little he had been able to ferret out, there was far more going on in the realms that smelled foul than there should have been. True, there had always been uprisings and waves of rogue magic spread throughout the history of the Keep, but this time, the signs painted a much darker portrait.

They portrayed a different picture that he had been expecting. If he were right, the magic Dra’kor was talking about and the notes he had made the night before were about the exact same thing, an old magic that they had forgotten. He wondered what it meant. For all the straining, he couldn’t recall a single notable fact about either the magic or what he had done the night before, and yet, there it was, written in his journal in his own hand.

He flipped open his leather-bound journal and traced the hand-written text with his finger. He didn’t recall writing it. He was suspicious of what it said. The words screamed at him, gnawed at the back of his consciousness, like memory just out of reach, or a face you can’t place. He picked up his quill and scratched a few extra comments in the margins.

Today, he would have to tell Zedd’aki of his venture out of the Keep. He expected a lecture. He shook his head and grimaced. Zedd’aki would be furious, and rightly so, he supposed. He knew his friend would quickly calm down once he understood what was at stake. Maybe …

Ja’tar got up and poured himself a tumbler of brandy. He stared at the glass; it was still early in the morning, too early for a stiff drink, or was it? He picked up the drink, swallowed it in one big gulp, and smiled as it burned its way down his throat. He really needed to calm down and compose himself. He needed to harness his energy and stay focused when he confronted Zedd’aki with his night’s adventure. There was much at stake.

And what exactly was at stake? He didn’t remember much, but the notes in his journal painted a clear enough picture for him to understand the predicament they were in. He would need Zedd’aki’s help. Whom else could he trust? It was unclear. If the Keep had been infiltrated, a misstep could prove fatal. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. What to do next?

A Closing? Perhaps. It still needed to be done, just to cover his bases. He would only risk so much. Even he had his limits.

Dra’kor and Men’ak had turned out to be valuable assets. He never would have imagined that they would be the ones to uncover the ruse, and to think he had initially wanted to get them out of the Keep so that he could maneuver and politic. He was hesitant to consider the predicament the Keep would be in without their help. It shook him to his core.

His resolve rose. He could no longer afford to stay sequestered in the Keep. He needed to get out into the world and see for himself what was going on. He pushed himself out of the chair, and stuffed the note from Dra’kor into his pocket along with his journal. He steadied himself as he felt the effects of the strong brandy. He smiled to himself.

He took one-step toward the windows in the turret and paused as he looked out across the tall pines and splendid snow-covered mountains. He turned toward the south and his face went blank. He thought he heard something, like a small quiet voice calling to him. It was muffled. He strained to focus on the tiny whisper, but it floated away like a butterfly, just out of reach.

He decided it was his imagination, turned and let himself out of his room.

Duvall frowned. She had failed to make contact again. If only she could talk to the man in the next room, but try as she might, she just couldn’t shout loud enough. She wondered which of the Ten was there. She knew it had to be one of them, because the entire turret belonged to them, and them alone. She decided that she would need to change her approach and that she would have to ponder an alternate solution to her dilemma. She stared at the crack, the bloody crack that had allowed her to be trapped. It had allowed the demon to escape the confinement spell and forced her to seek refuge in the bal’achar.

To be continued in, The Third Sign.

Glossary

Every effort has been made to accurately translate the Torren language, however some terms are not well suited to English and their nearest equivalents are taken from Gaelic, Norse, and Latin as needed. These are explained below.

AEgis - protection/protector by a strong force or terror (Norse) derivative of ‘terror’

AEsir - The God(Gaelic)

Ailleachd - beauty (Gaelic)

Alzaer - also the Fire of Alzaer. A region to the north where the ground burned and at times glowed red. A place where the earth was sick and belched the rock from festering sores (Norse).

Aontaithe - ‘united’. Pronounced: ain-taha (Gaelic)

Banail -female (Gaelic)

Balandrana - a wide cloak worn by travelers in the 13th and 14th centuries (Medieval English).

Beachdachadh Mountain - the Mountain of Knowledge. (Ancient Gaelic) word for observation, thinking, or studying. Where the Keep is located.

beul-aithris -oral tradition of storytelling(Gaelic)

Braies - short underwear tied at the waist (Medieval English).

Bovate - an amount of land which could be worked by a competent team of oxen in a year (Medieval English).

Cliste -wise (Gaelic)

Comharraidhean - marking (Gaelic)

Darkhalla - where the Warvyn lives and rules (in the lower planes).

Epitoga - wide, un-gathered robe, belted and sometimes with sleeves, mainly worn by academics in 13th century (Medieval English).

Halla - a place similar to a hell. Commonly used in an expression as in, “Go to halla!”

Maslin - course bread made of stone- ground rye and wheat (Medieval English).

Patten - wooden plates strapped to the shoes to keep them from getting wet and muddy (Medieval English).

Pau amarello - an exotic hardwood.

Pavise - a narrow shield with stakes in the front and a strong brace to the rear, shaped somewhat like an easel. Used by crossbow archers who hid behind them while reloading their bows (Medieval English).

Quintal - a hundredweight, 100 lbs. or about 7 stones (Medieval English).

Roth - a nearly extinct wooly bear with short luxurious fur, light brown in color and peppered with white striations. Prized for its skin.

Scrying - using an enchanted pool to see the future or current events

Stone - a unit of weight, about 14 lbs. (Medieval English).

Tharseo - to face with courage (Ancient Greek).

Tor Root - a mind numbing root, numbs for pain, addictive, and a mild hallucinogen. Typically dried and smoked.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements ix

Prologue xiv

Signs 19

Watcher 32

Five Peaks 53

Mourning 61

Haagen 74

Duvall 82

Suspicions 87

A Few Words 107

Confrontation 124

Perhaps a Quest 139

Naan 165

The Cave 185

Quaint Rundown Inn 211

A Night to Remember 238

Tinker 254

Haagen’s Cross 267

Three Rivers 298

D’Arron 320

Hagra 357

The Real Gift 383

Harsh Words 404

Skree 416

Struggles 434

Confusion 456

In my Dreams 484

I Was a God 492

Alive 505

Epilogue 509

Glossary 513