The Third Sign Read online

  The Third Sign

  Book 2

  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 Third Sign, Book 2, The Legacy of the Ten Saga

  Copyright © 2011 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. A Colorado Company

  www.mythforgellc.com;

  www.ScottDMuller.com;

  www.facebook.com/scottdmuller

  Merry Content Faeries: Dan Barber, Chris Coslor, Phil Neufeld

  Editor: Jill Maxwell

  Map and Cover Design: Scott D. Muller

  Elf and stonework on cover credits to:©[email protected],

  Trees and lightning effects: Obsidian Dawn: Border effects – princess RxYaNgl

  Grass – Charfade: Mountains – Angelic Devil

  ISBN-13 978-0615579306 (Softcover)

  ISBN-10 0615579306

  First Edition: January 2012

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  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.”

  Acknowledgments

  For my two fabulous children Aysia and Zander, who have shown me the wonder and amazement that young children have when embracing life. I can’t thank you enough for letting me be part of your creative world of make-believe and role-play. You have constantly shown me how living in the moment makes all of life sweeter. Most of all, thank you for letting me be your daddy.

  A special thanks to everyone who read my first book, Eyes of the Keep. I appreciate all of your support and the emails you have sent.

  Thanks to my beta readers for your patience.

  Legacy of the Ten Saga

  Eyes of the Keep, book 1

  The Third Sign, book 2

  Darkhalla, book 3(mid 2012)

  Table of Contents

  Avaelador

  Exhaustion

  The Way

  Glamour

  The Dubh Forest

  Puzzled

  Meager Choices

  Out of Options

  Clarity of Purpose

  Toulereau

  The East Tower

  Forgive Me

  The Third Sign

  Seer

  The Master

  Pariah

  Trapped

  Skin

  Traitor

  Temptation

  A Demon Ploy

  The Closing Ceremony

  Premonition

  Warvyn’s Return

  Between

  Glossary

  The Seven Near Realms

  Note: The true location of the elf villages are not known and have remained a mystery these many years. Bah’ran is presumed to be northeast of the Keep, the other farther to the north.

  The Prophecy

  “... a woeful time of darkness shall stretch over the aontaithe lands, poisoning all it touches, for the Lord of Chaos reigns, the realms stand divided, and the art of magic is lost. None shall be observed and the lost will venture forth as a child who is not a true child is born. These three signs shall be as a gate comharraidhean (marking) the age that will come to be known as ‘The Age of Darkness.’ [...] An awakening of the ancients shall shake the earth, as eyes long shut are now wide open. The divine shall again roam the lands while the Lord of Chaos will free vile snakes that shall poison and suck the energy of life from the bosom of the land. Death walks the earth and safe havens will crumble.

  Taken from the Tome of the Ages, written during the First Age—‘The Age of Reason,’ by the Prophet Xi’am.

  Note: the text presented above comes from a well-worn and tattered papyrus dating back over seven-thousand years. The banail (female) druid called Cliste Àilleachd (Wise-beauty) had carefully translated it from the ancient glyphs to Torren, prior to the first battles of Ror, and although every effort has been taken to accurately translate the ancient Torren language, scholars still argue over word choice, and their meanings. Much of those times have been 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.

  Avælador

  Grit rolled to his stomach and vomited. His lungs felt on fire, burning, making it impossible to breathe. He pushed himself to his knees and curled into a tight ball. After coughing up more of the water he had swallowed, he rested his head on the grass. His body quivered from the cold and his teeth chattered. Unable to open his eyes, he rolled over to his back and took a painful gasping breath. A moan escaped his lips; he could feel every cut and bruise from his trip over the waterfall. Frankly, he was surprised he was still alive.

  An elf knelt down and helped Grit to sit. Grit opened his eyes and tried to focus, but his head was swimming and his vision double. He was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm and he couldn’t feel his numb legs.

  “Take it easy. You almost drowned,” the elder elf said, in a melodic singsong voice.

  “Where am I ...?” Grit sputtered, disoriented. “I n-need to—”

  “You’re safe,” the elf said. “You are in Avælador.”

  “W-where …? I need to get to Three Riv—”

  “You don’t have to worry about that for now, you must rest! I’ll explain everything in due time.”

  “Are m-m-my friends around?”

  The elf shook his head, “No, you were alone when we found you.”

  Grit chattered uncontrollably, “T-t-the last thing I r-r-remember was g-going over the w-wat-waterfall ...”

  “Waterfall?” the bewildered elf asked, wrapping his arms around the man and sliding him over to a nearby tree. The elf carefully placed his back against the tall pine, making sure he faced the warmth of the sun.

  There were no waterfalls of that size near the lake. The only falls in the D’Sharran valley were the thin, hidden, Raku falls at the far end, but there wasn’t enough stream there to wash anyone down to the lake. The stream wasn’t deep enough this time of year and was spread like a spiders web across the boulder field. If he went over the those falls, he would have been crushed on the boulders below.

  “Y-yes, my friends and I were at Haagen’s Cross tr-tr-trying to get to Three Rivers,” Grit said, his head clearing.

  “Haagen’s Cross?” the elf said, half to himself.

  Grit looked up at the man who was helping him sit. His eyes cleared. “You’re an elf ...” he managed to sputter out.

  He had seen one before, a long time ago, but he thought they had left these realms and returned home.

  “And you’re a wizard,” the elf replied with a slight smile. He found it curious that the Mage had mentioned Haagen’s Cross. That was a full two-days walk and you needed to cross two mountain ranges to get there.

  Grit smiled, “I’m j-just surprised, that’s all.”

  Then he blurted, “I-I-I haven’t seen an elf in over six-hundred years,
except Staven and Raven.”

  “Well mage, I haven’t seen a wizard in over a thousand!” X’all replied, while rubbing Grit’s back. “Are you strong enough to stand?”

  Grit slowly shook his head, “Not yet!”

  “I’m X’all,” the elf said, extending his delicate hand.

  “Grit. I’m Grit,” Grit said, returning the handshake, surprised at the steely grip.

  Grit raised his hands and started casting a spell. X’all saw the mage’s hands forming an unfamiliar pattern.

  X’all shot to his feet and in one motion pulled his blade free. Before he could blink, Grit found himself staring at a red-faced elf with a blade at his throat. “Don’t move,” the elf growled.

  Grit froze.

  “Hands down...!”

  “Oh! Sorry. I’m was just going to dry out my clothes, I’m f-f-freezing,” Grit chattered, lowering his hands to his sides.

  X’all frowned warily, but pulled his blade back a few inches, and prepared a defensive ward just in case. “I warn you—do not try anything that I would consider threatening.”

  “I..I... won’t. I’m j-j-just ... so c-cold!”

  Grit slowly lowered his hands and finished his spell. Steam soon rushed into the air from his wet robe and smallclothes, warming him. In a matter of minutes he was dry and his chattering subsided. X’all sheathed his blade and calmed himself down, taking several deep breaths. He was edgy, that was for certain.

  Grit opened his robe and X’all saw the fresh scars on his chest.

  “You were in a battle recently?” he said.

  “Oh, those ... a catomen. My friends and me were attacked a couple of days ago. They surprised us in the middle of the night. We ended up using our blades since the magic didn’t seem to work.”

  X’all frowned. Magic not working? Magic he couldn’t sense? He had heard rumors that the magi of the Keep had lost touch with their magic, and Grit’s summoning of the beast confirmed it. Perhaps his visit was an accident. Another thought came to him; perhaps the magi didn’t know that the end times were upon them. He would have to think on this.

  “I want to heal my wounds. Is that okay with you?”

  X’all nodded, but kept his hand on the butt end of his blade.

  Grit chanted while he cast his healing spell. His cuts were on the mend and the contusions were losing their purple tint and were changing to yellow. Grit grimaced at the pain and groaned as the magic took effect. By then, an old regal looking elf dressed in fine doeskin had arrived, being towed by the lad. He had stood silent for some time, observing the last of the healing effects. X’all stood and walked to the elf, bowed deeply, and then using the ancient language of talking hands quickly had a curt conversation.

  “No magic as we know it!”

  “None?”

  “He calls the beast.”

  “Confused ...”

  “The beast of the Ten.”

  “Ah! Did anyone see him at the Gate?”

  “He claims to have fallen over the falls at Haagen.”

  “Lies?”

  “I think he believes it to be true.”

  “Is he here because of the return of the demons?”

  “I don’t think he has any idea of the return.”

  Shar’ran frowned.

  “None whatsoever?”

  “He has had a run-in with a catomen.”

  So, they have returned.

  X’all nodded.

  “He has friends..”

  “So, he is not alone?”

  “Apparently they journey to Three Rivers.”

  “Anything else to report?”

  “He knows of Staven and Raven, but has never seen an elf in the woods.”

  “Curious.”

  “I’m Shar’ran,” the tall blond elf said, stepping closer and extending his hand. He summoned a simple spell and read Grit’s thoughts. Satisfied that he posed no threat, he visibly relaxed.

  A startled Grit jerked around and reached up and extended his hand, but got a puzzling look on his face. He faced a senior elf with fine features, a strong jaw line and nary a wrinkle. He could see that the elf was in good shape, his muscles rippled when he walked and he could see his well-carved chest through the opening in his shirt.

  “What puzzles you,” the elf asked, bending over to reach down to the kneeling man.

  “I don’t want to appear rude, but I know your name ... from my studies. Are you any relation to the elf Shar’ran El’ror? A son or grandson perhaps?”

  Shar’ran looked at X’all and then they both burst into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Grit asked, not understanding what he had said.

  “It’s nothing ...” Shar’ran laughed, waving his hand. “It’s just that I am Shar’ran El’ror, although I haven’t gone by that name in a long, long time.”

  Grit’s jaw dropped open, “the King elf of lore? The battle elf?”

  Shar’ran smiled widely shaking his head, “The same, although I’m afraid that the legend is far greater than the man.”

  “But-but you’d have to be fifteen, sixteen-hundred years old ...” Grit stammered, struggling to his feet.

  “Almost sixteen, but it doesn’t really matter now does it?” Shar’ran said sardonically.

  Grits eyes were round in adulation. “Suppose not, but, it’s just that ... Oh, by the Ten, I’m just speechless. I was told you died in the last battle.”

  “Wounded, yes. Dead, not quite ...” Shar’ran said smugly, with a wink. “We battle elves are a lot tougher than we appear.”

  “So it seems ...” an absolutely flabbergasted Grit replied. “I have so many questions. I—”

  “There will be time for all of that later,” Shar’ran said, dismissing the question before Grit could get it out. “For now, we need to get you back to our village. Are you hungry?”

  “I suppose I can wait ... while we eat,” Grit mumbled, disappointed. “But you will let me ask you questions, right?”

  “Yes, I will let you ask me questions, if you let me do the same,” Shar’ran chortled.

  Grit nodded eagerly.

  He stared at the man. Here was the famed elf of Ror, the elf who led the battle against the demon riders in the last days of Ror. The stories of his bravery and cunning were legendary. He used twin scimitar blades and slaughtered over a hundred himself. The battle had been assumed to be lost almost before it began. He fought against insurmountable odds; he and a cadre of five battle elves held off and defeated an entire army of demons riders seeking to flank the Ten. To meet the man in person was a little nerve wracking, not to mention humbling.

  Shar’ran was known to be the best swordsman in the realms, a fierce student of the ancient methods of sword fighting and a most competent wielder of magic. The tomes back at the Keep were filled with detailed accounts of some of the sword battles, written in explicit detail down to the moves and counter-moves used to defeat the multiple assailants he had faced. His Dance of the Leopards, Lions Pounce, and Cranes Walk were mandatory learning for all who took up the blade. By all accounts, Shar’ran was the master in the use of the two curved elven swords detailed in the ancient dances.

  “I see you are still carrying the Sha’za...Querd medallion,” Shar’ran said, pointing. “I’m more than surprised you’re still using it.”

  “I guess we have to,” Grit said, matter-of-factly, grabbing the medallion and rolling the ancient artifact over in his hands. “I’m lucky it didn’t fall off when I went over the falls.”

  “Really? Why would that be?” Shar’ran asked softly, not understanding Grit’s concern.

  “Well, according to Ja’tar it keeps us from aging when we’re away from the Keep.”

  “Really?” Shar’ran said, already knowing its purpose, but wondering more about why he was carrying it. He sighed. Perhaps the rumors are true, he thought to himself.

  Grit shrugged, “All the travelers wear them. This is the first trip I’ve ever made out of the Keep. Ja’tar gave them to us
when we left.”

  “Ah, Ja’tar! But why?” Shar’ran asked again.

  “Why did we leave the Keep?” Grit asked, feeling like they were having issues communicating.

  “No,” Shar’ran said firmly, pointing to the medallion. “Why do you need the medallion?”

  “I don’t understand the question,” Grit replied. “We need to have the medallions for the magic they control to keep us from aging.”

  “But why not control the magic on your own?” Shar’ran queried, stating the obvious, at least in his mind.

  “I’m not sure we can do that? I was told the life spells are just too complicated for us to master,” Grit said, raising his brow as he came to understand what the Elf was saying. “Is that even possible?”

  Shar’ran raised his eyebrows in surprise. “We all do,” he said clearly, pointing to X’all and his teenage son.

  Shar’ran smiled, “We have no medallions and yet I am far older than you, as is X’all!”

  He had heard rumors that the wizards of the Keep had lost their abilities to control magic directly. Now it appeared as though the rumors were correct. This left Shar’ran with an awful sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  The revelation was very disturbing and confusing to him. He wondered why the mages had not returned to the ancient magic after the time of great need had past. Most certainly, it would have made sense to do so. Perhaps rumors of the paranoia of the Ten were not exaggerated.

  He would have to figure out a diplomatic way to broach the subject and maybe even provide a little enlightenment to the mage about history and magic. One way or another, he had to learn what had happened to the great Keep and its wizards. Ja’tar—now there was a name he had not heard in a long time. He dearly missed his friend and had thought him long dead. Perhaps they had both been erroneously presumed dead. The irony made him smirk.