The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Read online

  Darkhalla

  Book 3

  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.

  Darkhalla, Book 3, The Legacy of the Ten Saga

  Copyright © 2012 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; Twitter: @ScottDMuller

  www.facebook.com/scottdmuller

  Merry Content Faeries: Christine Muller and Phil Neufeld

  Additional content advice: Chris Coslor

  Map and Cover Design: Scott D. Muller

  Trees, smoke and lightning effects: Obsidian Dawn: Border effects – princess RxYaNgl: Grass – Charfade: Mountains – Angelic Devil

  Demon and elf rendering - Jesse-lee Lang, Fotolia, based on DAZ 3D characters

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  ISBN-13 978-0615803050 (Softcover)

  First Edition: April 2013

  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

  In memory of my friend Howard Goldstein. I will miss him every day for the rest of my life. Thanks for being my best friend these past twenty-seven years; I wish it could have lasted longer. Although he had never read one of my books, he supported my efforts throughout the years.

  Novels by Scott D. Muller

  Legacy of the Ten Saga

  Eyes of the Keep, book 1

  The Third Sign, book 2

  Darkhalla, book 3

  Webs of Chaos, book 4( Late 2013)

  Table of Contents

  Prelude

  To TheLastMan

  Demon

  Warvyn

  Tunnels

  Ravine

  Rags

  Remorse

  Climb

  Captured

  Exposure

  Ice Spires

  Lair

  Exposed

  Seduction

  Darkhalla

  A Father’s Son

  A Step at a Time

  Denied

  Defenses

  Tala’fein

  Challenge

  The Sickness

  The Staff

  Change of Plan

  Siege

  Abandon

  Bah’ran

  Dreams

  Just an Elf

  Klan of the Wolf

  Seeking Council

  Collar of the Cursed

  The Wilds

  Battle of the Kings

  Soulless

  Glossary

  The Northlund

  The Northlund is approximately 200 leagues north of Five Peaks and 70 leagues west. It is bordered by the Norlantic Sea.

  The Seven Near Realms

  Note: The true location of either elf village is not known and has stayed a mystery these many years. Bah’raan is presumed to be northeast of the Keep, the other 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 beasts shall rise and fly once more; the divine shall again roam the lands while the Lord of Chaos will free five 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, the chapter titled, The Reckoning, 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. It had been carefully translated from the ancient glyphs to Torren by the banail(female) druid called Cliste Àilleachd (Wise-beauty) prior to the first battles of Ror and although every effort has been made to accurately translate to the ancient Torren language, scholars still argue over word choice, and their meanings. Much of those times has 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.

  Darkhalla

  Prelude

  Dark times have fallen on the near realms. Ja’tar, the Keeper of the wizards, has sent out three scouts to investigate—even though the Guild threatened him with death by the Zola’far assassins. One of these wizards was lost when he tumbled over the towering falls at Haagen’s Cross, leaving the other two to fend for themselves. After surviving an attacked by lower level beasts along the way, the other two made it to the nearest town, Three Rivers, although questions about their magic came to light.

  Dra’kor and Men’ak sent back disturbing news that lead Ja’tar to uncover a ruse that impacted their magic. Ja’tar and his best friend, Zedd’aki, worked feverishly to untangle the threads of deceit woven by the Ten, considered to be the greatest wizards to ever live, and the founding fathers of the Keep. The depth of their treachery is still unknown—as are the reasons for their betrayal of their own kind.

  A dark unnamed mage has risen and has begun to place her plan of conquest and destruction into place. Ja’tar had assumed, as many had, that the great battle of Ror and the subsequent Cleansing, had rid the world of all traces of the dark wizards and their heinous magic. Yet, as long as the Master of the Underworld exists, there is risk.

  This dark mage managed to secret a copy of the Book of Rah’tok into the wizards Keep and made sure it fell into the hands of an inept mage called Bal’kor. Bal’kor, Ja’tar’s naïve nephew, is unable to work normal magic. Instead, he dabbled in the dark magic of runes and chants, and ultimately called up the demon Mica. He mistakenly trusted the beguiling demon, was deceived, and has been sent off to Bar’haan through a gate.

  The demon masqueraded as Bal’kor at the Closing ceremony for the realm of Naan. The Closing, a risky ceremony that harnessed the beast of the gates, would hopefully prevent easy travel access to the remaining realms and into the Keep. Although the Closing was successful, and the flow of magic to the gates of Naan extinguished, the connection to the ephemeral beast that controls the magic was never truly terminated because the requisite thirteen mages were not present to sever the link.

  With the gate only dormant, the Keep was vulnerable. The demon form of Bal’kor crept into the chamber and secretly dialed a long forgotten destination into the gate, Darkhalla. Warvyn, the demon lord of Darkhalla, seeing an opportunity to retrieve his pre
cious Book of Rah’tok, enters the Keep with his minions and is discovered by the elder mage Menzzaren. And so they battle…

  To The Last Man

  The elder mage, Menzzaren, saw the demon horde break through his defenses. The elemental he had positioned across the hall to block their path was writhing in pain, its body torn asunder by the powerful castings of the Lich that stalked him. He swore under his breath, gathered his long robe, and tried to force his decrepit body to move more quickly—but it wouldn’t.

  Although he was still mighty in the arcane magic, his body faced the same gnawing curse that had forced Balkan, Ja’tar’s father and the Third Keeper, to ascend prematurely. Wounds from the great battles of Ror that never completely healed, festered, weakening him like a cancer—slowly draining his vitality. His wounds were less severe than Balkan’s; all that really meant was that death came slower, allowing him more time to suffer the pure agony of rotting from the dark magic. He wasn’t sure if it was he, or Balkan, who had been punished more for surviving and claiming the hollow victory that culminated the mage wars.

  The inexperienced mage who fought by his side panicked after seeing the ineffectiveness of his spells. He turned and ran, leaping over the balcony. Menzzaren watched him hit the far wall, and clutched at the tapestry that hung in the turret using his left hand. His other arm, already ravaged by battle, looked like a leg of lamb and slung useless by his side. The tapestry ripped under his weight and the screaming lad plummeted five stories to the ground, hitting with a bone-crunching thud. The tapestry fluttered to the ground and settled over his motionless body.

  A pair of ghasts, running on all fours, rushed up the stairs in his direction. The demon hell-hounds’ sunken features twisted and razor-sharp teeth clicked loudly as they caught his scent. The eyeless creatures of the lower planes sniffed at the air, attempting to sort out the plethora of aromas. Death, suffering, and fear all hung in the air like a foul stench clung to a corpse. They barely paused at the lad’s body before charging full-speed in his direction.

  Menzzaren growled loudly, pointed his staff, and uttered a short trigger word. He watched with satisfaction as potent magic coursed through the ancient bloodstone that capped his staff. Torrents of wizard’s fire exploded forth…incinerating the two demons, removing them from the pattern. Their bodies froze mid-stride, and turned to ash until all that remained was their glowing eyes. They crumbled and sank into the stone as the room permeated with the rotted smell of smoke and sulfur.

  Menzzaren had little time to bask in satisfaction as three gray-skinned demons charged down the stairs from above his position; they climbed over one-another—each trying to claim the prize. He pointed his staff and shouted another incantation.

  “To halla with you,” he screamed. “Expunge dejo le…”

  The staff jerked forcefully as the magic released, and the forked spell hit the demons in their chests. They screeched as they melted to the floor, leaving nothing but puddles of ichor on the stone steps.

  He glanced over his shoulder before starting down the stairs, and saw the extended skeletal hand of the faceless Lich pointing in his direction as it clambered over the stricken elemental.

  “There isss..z no place to hide mage…I have your sssscent!”

  Its hand filled with a throbbing ball of liquid fire as the Lich stepped past the hole it had made in the rock-elemental. The pulsating ball was still growing in its palm as the Lich swirled its other twisted hand over the top, uttering the mysterious incantation of the dead in a raspy, unearthly voice.

  “Bloody halla!” Menzzaren swore as he saw the spell building.

  Menzzaren twirled his bloodstone-topped staff, throwing up his battle wards and tried to duck out of range; he wheezed, his brow already soaked with perspiration and his stringy long hair was plastered to his face. The Lich was not to be taken lightly; it possessed very strong, dark magic—ancient dark magic that should have been purged from the pattern of the realms and long forgotten. And yet, there it was and Menzzaren could feel its sickening power…even at this distance.

  Menzzaren scowled, the battle on this floor had been lost. He flung his body over the balcony, while conjuring a well-remembered spell with fingers still nimble after almost sixteen-hundred years of existence.

  His body shrunk, grew feathers and morphed into a great grey owl; his miniaturized staff was clutched in its right claw. The owl hooted loudly and stretched its murky-white wings out to the sides, preparing to dive to a lower level.

  The Lich issued a guttural growl as it turned its hooded head in the direction of the owl. Its eyes glowing brightly as it let loose its spell. The filth that passed for magic arced across the expanse of the tower, narrowly missed its mark.

  A tower of flame, and explosive sparks shot into the air as the casting made impact taking out a large section of the rear turret wall, which blasted outward showering massive stone blocks and shards into the night. The larger slabs careened to the valley floor, crushing everything in their paths, shaking the earth. The Lich laughed maniacally.

  Cool nighttime air rushed in through the gaping hole, spreading the thick dust cloud from the explosion throughout the tower as the Keep moaned and shook from the impact. The dust roiled in the air, choking off clear sight and choking lungs already straining from the exertions of battle.

  The lone owl, desperate to escape, banked hard to its right, trying to spiral tightly in the confined space of the tower. Its nearly five-foot wingspan forced it to dive more quickly than it wished, as it swooped and wove its way, avoiding the many battles still being fought on the stairs.

  Blasts of demon fire flashed and boomed from many of the halls the owl passed as the battle continued to rage. Explosions and billowing smoke forced it to make wild corrections to avoid injury as part of the ceiling collapsed and man-sized blocks fell from high above. The pale light of the Ocht’or moon shined through the gaping holes in the roof.

  A hooked-jaw demon saw the owl fly past and extended its tattered wings to make chase, jumping from the ledge it had been fighting on. It screeched as an errant spell ricocheted off the stone wall and burnt through its wing, charring it. It ignored the pain, folded its wings tight to its body and swooped down, catching the unsuspecting owl from above. Claws already covered in blood raked the owl’s side, causing it to shriek out in agony. They tumbled together toward the boulder strewn floor as they fought.

  The demon—with complete disregard for its own safety—bounced off the tower walls and hunted the bird of prey with a blind fury. It ignored its pain and its wounds, setting its sight on downing the majestic bird. The owl knew the demon gained ground; hoping to elude the demon, it closed its wings and dove toward the floor.

  The demon followed suit, crashing into the owl and knocking it into the wall. The smaller bird careened off the wall and directly into the demons filthy claws. It squeezed its talons tight and screeched with delight as it felt them pierce deeply into the owl’s soft underbelly flesh. The owl thrashed and wailed in agony. The more the bird struggled, the deeper the claws sank and soon, a deep ruby-red stain spread across its mottled pinfeathers.

  The two fought—each raking the other—as they tumbled toward the floor. The owl’s staff glowed as Menzzaren cast his spell. The discharged magic wracked the demon with pain, forcing it to break-off its attack. It flapped its wings hard in panic, trying to slow itself down, but it slammed awkwardly into the stone-block wall, and a loud snap filled the air as it broke its neck. The demon eyes lost their luster as it slid to the floor in a heap, its tongue hanging awkwardly from its grotesque maw.

  The injured owl crashed to the ground, bounced thrice and was still. The magic was lost due to unconsciousness, and the owl transformed back into the old mage. Menzzaren’s body lay motionless in an ever-expanding pool of blood, his hand still clutching his staff.

  The sounds of the fierce battles came echoing from above, filled with the ring of clashing steel, blood-curdling screams and anguished wails. Ja’tar heard or
ders being hoarsely shouted by familiar voices, saw the brilliant flashes of magic spells, and felt the Keep’s foundation shake.

  Ja’tar turned and raced in the direction of the sounds. Rua’tor looked on in horror, raced after and tackled him in the middle of the hall. They tumbled to the stone, scraping arms and legs.

  “Let me go,” Ja’tar growled as he rolled to his back and filled his hands with magic.

  “You cannot! Rua’tor said. “We must secure the Gate!”

  Ja’tar raised his hand to attack as he was filled with rage. “I must help them. They die!”

  “Help them you may, but at what cost?” Rua’tor screamed back as he let go of the mage, shoved him violently and pushed himself to his feet. “You are the Keeper…act like it!”

  Ja’tar desperately wanted to be alongside his fellow wizards, locked in combat, but he knew he couldn’t—rather, shouldn’t. The truth of the matter was that unless he closed the great Gate, the rest would not matter. The demons would continue to pour into the Keep, and eventually, his wizards would weaken and be overwhelmed. Rua’tor was right. He was the Keeper, the leader of the wizards. He along held the key and the rings. Without him, the Keep would be lost.

  Ja’tar hesitated, considering his friend’s words. He stared with envy down the hallway toward the commotion, not yet willing to give up the fight. He looked down, noticing that his hand was still filled with magic.

  Meanwhile, Rua’tor had turned and walked away; he continued his exploration down the deserted hallway, heading away from the conflict. Unbeknownst to Ja’tar, he searched for a latch he knew was but a short arm’s reach away—somewhere.