A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

  Iltar could see the pain in his father’s face, but that didn’t stop Adrin. Only death could do that. Kaescis lunged to attack, but Adrin leapt, striking the prince with his lone fist. The violet aura disintegrated Kaescis’s armor and dropped him to the ground. Adrin moved through his foes, slaying or wounding each enemy he touched. He fought his way across the yard, leaving no one standing. In that moment, Iltar realized what drove his father—Adrin was fueled with a righteous fury, a fiery imperative to protect his son.

  The resentment Iltar once had for his father was washed away in that moment.

  Adrin’s violet aura lessened, and then completely dissipated. Iltar’s father was vulnerable. And then Rovin emerged onto the battlefield. He stepped from the flaming forest with his brother, Cordis. Each had acidic javelins hovering about them. Weakened from his rampage, Adrin turned to see the men who would be his killers. The brothers struck, one after the other. Adrin fell to the ground, an acidic javelin protruding from his chest. The Hero of the West had been slain.

  A fifth surge of fury swelled within Iltar.

  Armored footfalls sounded from the burning woodland, and those three arrogant men approached the battlefield. Rovin and Cordis abruptly bowed with awed reverence. The armored trio walked through the corpse-ridden field, waving their hands while uttering sharp words. Those words sounded as if they were part of an incantation, but they were too sharp, too guttural.

  Some of Adrin’s foes stirred, including the Mindolarnian Royalty. But before anyone rose from the ground, the three mysterious men vanished, disappearing within mists of blackness. The benefactors of his father’s enemies were gone.

  Kaescis was the first to rise, followed by Laedar, and then the rest of the royalty. Adrin’s valiant last stand had been undone. The renewed survivors made their way to Iltar’s fallen father.

  A sixth surge of fury burned within Iltar. He felt as if his soul were about to burst.

  “Our pact has been fulfilled,” Medis—the then-emperor—declared. “My brother’s killer is no more.”

  Now Iltar knew why his parent’s had died. Vengeance. That realization ignited an unquenchable fury.

  Iltar blinked and staggered forward. He was no longer at his family’s homestead. He was back within the three-story hallway of the palace.

  Appalled gasps sounded from down the hall.

  “Are you all right?” Elsia demanded. “You looked like you were about to collapse.”

  Had he relived that entire battle in a single moment? That question was fleeting amidst the fury burning within him.

  The Mindolarnians had killed his parents. They had destroyed his life. And Iltar would not let that go unpunished. The image of Adrin—erupting in a glorious blaze of magic—persisted in Iltar’s mind.

  Iltar knew what he must do. He dashed ahead of Elsia, running down the hall to the throne room. Raw power surged from his core. Iltar focused on those latent energies buried deep inside him. He dug deep, pulling that power to the surface. He commanded it to manifest. It was akin to mustering magic, but this could be accessed without incantation. And it would devour all it touched.

  Blackness misted from his clothes. It came from his pores and gathered around him.

  His fury peaked.

  Iltar screamed, reaching the end of the hall. He turned, launching himself into the chamber filled with the highest echelon of Mindolarn society.

  All eyes were on him. Soldiers spun, twirling their weapons. Praetorians dashed to protect the Royals atop the dais. Incantations rang above him. Panicked screams echoed all around.

  It was pandemonium.

  An eruption—like a repulsing wind—shot from Iltar and rippled through the throne room. The hovering lightstones shifted. The hanging silks wafted. A tint of blackness covered Iltar’s vision. He smiled, relishing the raw power surging through him. It invigorated him. Renewed him. A thrill for battle pulsed through his veins. He yearned for conflict.

  Iltar was himself again.

  * * * * *

  Alanya was crying.

  Defeated, she slumped against her captor’s grip.

  And then he appeared. An enraged battle cry—from a man burdened with glorious purpose—rippled across the throne room. It was followed by a burst of wind that left the ears buzzing. Alanya started and found herself gaping with the rest of the ball’s attendees.

  Iltar dashed into the throne room and exploded with an colossal energy. A burst of blackness washed from him, waves of black mist seething from his every pore—the unbridled power of the Unspoken One. It was the power of a god—the Ko’delish. Its erupting force eroded the polished ground.

  “No…” Negaris gasped. “It can’t be!”

  Iltar rebounded and continued running. His hand raised, fingers splayed. The horrifying darkness condensed into spheres all around him. But the mist continued to flow. It turned to a steady glow that persisted around his body—a deadly aura that would protect him but devour all it touched.

  Nearby, guests fled, though many turned toward Iltar, revealing weapons previously concealed by illusionary magic. They were an army disguised. Iltar dashed into them, a destructive force that dissolved all he touched.

  “Weighed down with sorrow, the Channelers of Aridia enacted their plan. They sent some of their members across their beautiful continent with the tevisrals that would ensure peace. Once at the edges of Aridia, those in their mountain sanctuary performed that cruel and unforgivable act. The tevisrals that were sent out—along with those around the mountain refuge—turned solid ground into an ocean of despair.”

  - From The Thousand Years War, Part I, page 55

  Pagus darted up the steps to the palace’s third floor. Jeridi huffed beside him, barely keeping pace. The plump prince looked exhausted. The palace’s guards stared at Jeridi quizzically, but didn’t bar him or Pagus passage.

  “To… the left,” Jeridi struggled between breaths. Gasps resounded from that direction. “It’s… happening,” the prince groaned.

  Pagus dashed ahead of the prince, running toward the entrance of the throne room. He could see the wealthy guests staring across the room—they looked appalled.

  Then a resounding battle cry echoed from the throne room, reverberating into the hall. An eruption followed, akin to explosive magic.

  Master Iltar? Pagus wondered, reaching the entrance to the throne room.

  Panicked screams followed, and those near the entrance fled into the hallway. They nearly trampled Pagus, but he pushed his way toward a pillar, taking refuge behind it.

  Dying wails pierced the air. Incantations sounded throughout the throne room. Armor clanged. Weapons sang.

  As the stampede lessened, Pagus inched around the pillar, seeing a figure alight with black flame. Dozens upon dozens of orbs formed around him, zipping into a small army. The black magic tore through the armor and turned flesh to dust—not like disintegrating magic. Whatever the magic touched was eroded.

  The man aflame turned briefly and Pagus saw him.

  Master Iltar.

  Pagus gawked. How had Master Iltar learned to harness that power? Pagus had suspected—Iltar was the Unspoken One. Why else had he been so engrossed in the subject? Iltar didn’t research things because he was curious. Master Iltar always had a purpose behind his studies.

  “What…?” Jeridi gasped, coming beside Pagus. “Why?!”

  “Haven’t you read the prophecies of Soron Thahan?” Pagus asked smugly, glancing at the prince. Jeridi panted, but didn’t reply.

  Pagus turned back toward the battle, but a thunderous crash resounded from his left.

  The throne room’s towering windows shattered, and the wall crumbled. Glass, metal, and stone sprayed across the throne room. The debris, however, formed the outline of something enormous. What exactly Pagus couldn’t tell—as it was invisible—but it was something with wings. The hanging silks were torn from their ceiling mounts or pushed upward. The floating lanterns flew across the room, crashing into the wall. Soldiers
fell to the ground. It was as if something had pushed everything.

  And then a brilliant flash, like lightning, surged across the throne room, zipping to the floor in front of the dais.

  Pagus squinted against the light. The brilliance persisted, but Pagus saw the outline of a kneeling man glowing with a splendor that exceeded the combined luster of every light on Kalda.

  * * * * *

  Lirathay’lu had embraced the winds.

  And now it was time for battle. Today he would slay an emperor. The light of his glorious transformation subsided. Those around him were still dazed. Some blinked with disbelief. Others cried out his identity with vehemence. Praetorians gathered in front of Lirathay’lu, barring his way to the throne and the accursed emperor of Mindolarn.

  Rising from the throne room’s stone floor, Lirathay’lu uttered a swift incantation in the true magical tongue. “Rina’milista ul’irg shail…” Brilliant blue barsion shone from Lirathay’lu’s hands, surging along his arms and spreading across his body. Unlike the spell he had cast within his shop, this barsion would protect him.

  The barsion completely veiled Lirathay’lu as his nearest foe—a Crimson Praetorian—swung his fanisar. The Praetorian wasn’t slow by any means—he had reacted as soon as Lirathay’lu appeared. But Lirathay’lu was just that fast.

  Lirathay’lu blocked the blow and then spoke another incantation. “Xu’tak ilmis’ra.” Vibrant red light burst from his hand, instantly forming a sharp shaft the length of a long-sword. It was a blade composed of condensed annihilation particles—a powerful variant of the disintegration line within the Xu or Destruction Channel of magic.

  Once the blade formed, Lirathay’lu forced his eyes to return to their natural state. With his irises swirling around his pupils, Lirathay’lu locked a brief gaze with the advancing Praetorian. Lirathay’lu didn’t want to freeze this foe as he had with Constable Hashar and his watchman. No, he only had to know one thing: was his foe human or qui’sha?

  That answer came quicker than a heartbeat. Human. Lirathay’lu kicked the man away, propelling him with what many would deem unnatural strength.

  Another Praetorian advanced. Again, Lirathay’lu probed his foe’s mind. Qui’sha. Lirathay’lu lunged toward the Praetorian, stabbing his annihilation blade through the abomination’s chest. The Praetorian gasped and fell backward.

  Before the Praetorian fell, Lirathay’lu spun to meet another foe. He didn’t have time to watch his enemies die. More were upon him. At every clash, Lirathay’lu probed his foes, determining wither they were human or qui’sha.

  The humans he repelled or wounded. The qui’sha he killed.

  Glorious! Lirathay’lu rejoiced, repelling a Praetorian. He hadn’t had this much fun since helping Zulsthy’l capture the Vik’sha—what a treacherous endeavor that had been.

  Six Praetorians had fallen, but there were still thirty more. And then there were the Royals. The ruling qui’sha remained upon their dais, gazing contemptuously at Lirathay’lu.

  * * * * *

  Alanya’s tears subsided. Awestruck adoration replaced her sorrow. She gawked as Iltar tore through the ranks of soldiers, relentlessly killing all who stood in his way. He was a man possessed.

  Raedina tugged on Alanya’s bonds, forcing her to stand. Something cold pressed against Alanya’s neck, about the size of a fingertip. “If you mutter as much as one word of an incantation, I will kill you,” the princess threatened.

  “I’m not an Alathian…” Alanya muttered.

  “Then you are a traitor,” Raedina growled.

  Alanya tensed. She glimpsed what Raedina had pressed against her neck. It was a wand. Sharp words left Raedina’s lips, and a blue hue shone from the princess’s forearm, followed by a constant hum. Suddenly, a wave of blue light rippled around Alanya and the princess. It was barsion, mustered by some kind of tevisral. Amid the forming of Raedina’s shield, the emperor said something, and then Deathcleaver—the blade that had pierced Iltar’s illusory transmutation—flew back to his gauntleted hand.

  “I take it that’s the herbalist?” the emperor asked. He pointed the tip of his sword toward the short man slaying the Crimson Praetorians.

  “I assume so,” Raedina said contemptuously.

  The herbalist? Alanya wondered. They weren’t talking about that hostile little woman from the market, were they? Iltar had insisted she was a man, but she had definitely been a woman.

  “I’ll kill him,” Prince Laedar snarled, thrusting his hand to his side and mustering a blade composed of black magic—it looked like the Ko’delish.

  “And I’ll deal with this so-called Iltar,” Prince Negaris said. His anger tinged his strange incantations—the likes of which Alanya had never heard. The robed prince descended the dais with magic forming about him.

  * * * * *

  Iltar created a front for himself, his reanimated soldiers, and Elsia. He kept the Mindolarnians at bay with his deadly projectiles—what he referred to as “globes of darkness.” Prior to his discoveries in Mindolarn, Iltar had always referred to this power of his as simply “the Darkness” or “the Darkness magic.” But now he knew its true name—Ko’delish.

  The globes of darkness continually formed, coalescing from the streaming blackness seething from his pores. Elsia dashed beside Iltar, running to engage a soldier dodging a zipping globe of darkness. Settling into a wide stance, Iltar focused his mind on Elsia’s blade. What would have normally been an enhancing incantation was merely thought. He willed her blade to burst with a flame of Ko’delish, and the power obeyed.

  Black particles shot from his hands and wisped around Elsia’s sword, imbuing it with a deadly power. That enhancement was like any other spell. It could be countered by a dispel, and Iltar would have to command the power to resume. But the process wouldn’t take long. In fact, it would be much quicker than any incantation.

  This power of his was based completely on his mental state. The keener his mind, the faster it manifested. And today his mind was sharp, honed by his fury.

  While Elsia cut down her foe, Iltar uttered an incantation. Green magic—acid mixed with barsion—shot from his hands and surrounded Elsia. As the spell formed, Iltar commanded the Ko’delish to mingle with the acidic barsion. It formed a deadly shield that would send bursts of acid and darkness at anyone who struck the barsion. Now fully enhanced, the countess engaged another foe. Elsia dueled with the man for a moment, then ran him through. Her blade tore through his armor like wet parchment.

  Incantations finished above Iltar, and a rain of magic plummeted from the upper floors of the throne room. A flood of bolts and orbs—consisting of a variety of magics—struck Iltar, his reanimated minions, and Elsia. Elsia’s barsion flickered but persisted.

  The Mindolarnian mages blew holes through the reanimated soldiers, but Iltar’s minions continued fighting—the necrotic magic bound them together, keeping their moldering bodies whole. And when Iltar was struck, the Ko’delish streaming from his body consumed the deadly orbs.

  That was a surprise; usually, the Ko’delish acted like barsion. Sure, it would consume whatever physical matter came in contact with it—but it never swallowed up magic.

  An odd steam rose all around him—a result of the consumption.

  Panicked commands resounded above Iltar, and the mages frantically uttered more incantations. Archers readied their bows, and soldiers tossed ropes over the railing. Were they actually going to rappel into the throne room? How foolish.

  Iltar turned his focus to his reanimated minions, commanding the Ko’delish to enhance their fanisars. The bladed staffs glowed black within seconds. He enshrouded them with barsion next, but not like Elsia’s. Their barsion consisted only of the Ko’delish. It was more of a countermeasure against a dispel rather than a protection.

  With his tiny force enhanced, Iltar returned his attention to his foes.

  Soldiers were rappelling from the fifth floor. Those in the throne room were dodging his globes of darkness—but nearl
y fifty had already fallen, mostly wounded. That did not include any of the Praetorians.

  Eight Praetorians had fallen, slain by that mysterious combatant who had joined the fray against the Mindolarnians. Iltar didn’t recognize him. He was short—almost to an extreme—and wore a black garb. The man mustered magic at an incredible, unnatural speed.

  When the mysterious stranger had suddenly appeared, it was as if he had shot through the western wall of the throne room by some magical means. Iltar had only heard the crash and seen the eruption of light zipping to the dais. After determining the stranger was not another foe, Iltar had turned his attention to more pressing matters.

  Iltar’s gaze fell upon the dais. Alanya was bound beside Princess Raedina, a wand held to her throat. A perfect ovoid of barsion surrounded them both.

  Pagus, however, was nowhere to be found… Hadn’t Reflection said Pagus was on his way to the throne room with that fat prince?

  Another wave of fury rose within Iltar, and he dashed into the enemy ranks. More globes of darkness formed about him, and Iltar hurled them across the throne room, striking the soldiers who were rappelling. Iltar lunged toward a distracted soldier, punching the man’s helmet. The streaming Ko’delish instantly eroded the helmet before the blow connected. Iltar’s fist went right through the man’s head—the Ko’delish devoured everything above the man’s shoulders.

  Nearby soldiers cringed. Some gasped. Iltar could feel their dread. Their fear further fueled his fury. He lunged toward another soldier, nearly flying into him. The soldier withered in Iltar’s presence, turning to a pile of ash. Another soldier—an officer denoted by the crimson plume atop his helmet—called for the soldiers to strike. The soldiers swung their fanisars with trepidation, but Iltar’s streaming Ko’delish dissolved the weapons’ blades and shafts.

  “You throw away your lives so recklessly,” Iltar growled, then lunged toward the nearest man. The soldier was gone within seconds.