by Dan Zangari
Iltar fought his way through the throne room—as Adrin had fought through the homestead’s yard years ago. Iltar’s aura dissolved all he came across. None could withstand his presence. More soldiers were rappelling into the throne room, but Iltar’s prolific globes of darkness felled them.
Iltar was nearly to the far side of the dais when a ball of vibrant green arced across the throne room. It was too big to be an offensive spell—although he had heard of mages mustering orbs that were larger around than a man was tall.
Iltar recoiled from his latest foe, ready to attack, but started. A person was within the green magic. Someone familiar… Gasping, Iltar clearly saw who was within that acidic barsion.
It was Pagus.
The boy landed, looking smug. “Fancy meeting you here,” Pagus said with a smirk, rebounding from his magically assisted vault. He came beside Iltar, standing just out of range of the streaming Ko’delish. Pagus wore affluent attire, as if he were dressed to attend the ball.
“How?” Iltar demanded. “How were you freed?”
Pagus grinned slyly.
Never mind that, Iltar chided himself. “Get to your aunt,” he commanded his apprentice. “I’m fetching Alanya. Then we’re getting out of here.”
“You mean you don’t want to kill every last one of them first?” Pagus asked.
That question stoked another wave of fury. Iltar felt compelled to kill every last Mindolarnian in the room. No, Iltar fought the urge. That was not why he was here.
But, they had killed his parents.
Iltar spun back to the battle. Officers called for more soldiers to reinforce the line between Iltar and the throne. They were determined to protect their monarch, even in the face of inevitable death.
* * * * *
Pagus bounded across the throne room, dashing through piles of ash—the remains of soldiers who had foolishly stood against Master Iltar. He mustered a life-draining incantation as he neared his aunt.
Aunty Elsia was struggling to keep several soldiers at bay. They sliced at her barsion, their fanisars bathed with violet disintegration particles. Pagus finished his spell as he neared the fray, flinging two life-draining tentacles toward a pair of soldiers. The tentacles shot through the air, wrapping around the soldiers’ necks. Both soldiers struggled, but succumbed to the magic, collapsing on the floor.
That gave Aunty Elsia an advantage. She parried a blow, then sliced across one man’s arm. Her enhanced weapon left the man’s arm hanging by a few sinews.
Still focused on his life-draining magic, Pagus hurled the two tentacles—with his mind—toward two more soldiers dueling with his aunt. He sapped their strength, and they dropped to the floor like their comrades. Their deaths, however, expended the spell.
Aunty Elsia killed the rest of her foes and turned to Pagus. Bolts of deadly magic zipped from above them, all focused across the throne room—undoubtedly intended for Master Iltar.
“Pagus?!” she blurted. Her face was a mixture of emotions: panic, anger, and disbelief.
“At your service, Aunty Elsia.” Pagus smirked. He settled into a stance beside her and surveyed the battle. Soldiers were jumping from the upper stories—shielded by barsion—and running toward Iltar and that incredibly short man. “I guess we’re not important…” Pagus frowned.
“Oh, Pagus…” Aunty Elsia groaned. She looked beyond the battle to the throne. “How-how did you escape?”
Pagus gave his aunt a quizzical gaze. “They never captured me. I don’t know who Master Iltar saw in Vabenack, but it wasn’t me.”
Aunty Elsia looked aghast. Her perplexity didn’t last long. “We can’t leave Alanya…” she said, her face contorting. Aunty Elsia was formulating a plan—or trying to at least.
“Do you think you can break through their ranks?” she asked.
“To the throne?” Pagus asked. “Of course! I got all the way over here, didn’t I?”
Aunty Elsia rolled her eyes at Pagus. “Iltar was right,” she grumbled. “You really are an arrogant ass.”
Pagus chuckled. “Just give me a moment.” He uttered an incantation. Illusionary magic formed, creating a replica of himself veiled in acidic barsion. Pagus cast another spell, making a replica of Aunty Elsia. And then Pagus created a third illusion. This one would evoke fear. It was an illusion of Master Iltar—in all his dark splendor. Pagus hoped this final illusion would cause the soldiers to disperse.
“All right, let me send these—”
“Oh no!” Aunty Elsia interrupted. “Those stupid boys!”
“What?” Pagus spun.
Aunty Elsia shook her head, staring at the broken wall of the throne room.
Eleven short figures—all shrouded in green barsion—climbed across the rubble. They were dressed in black robes, the common attire of a necromancer acolyte. Though their faces were partially concealed behind their barsions, Pagus knew who they were—his fellow pupils.
Wait! Pagus started. Why were there only eleven? He counted the boys, noting all but Kaelar was present.
“I should have known better!” Aunty Elsia shouted, her face flaring with maternal rage. Pagus had never seen her that way. “This is all your fault!” she shouted at Pagus.
Pagus was flabbergasted. How could he be held responsible for all of this?
“This is getting worse each passing moment,” Aunty Elsia complained.
Once all the acolytes were inside the throne room they began hurling magic at the enemy ranks.
“It’ll be fine,” Pagus said reassuringly. He eyed the acolytes while sending the illusions of Master Iltar and Aunty Elsia into the soldiers barring the throne.
* * * * *
Agen was nervous. This was an actual battle. An actual battle. It wasn’t some drill Master Iltar had concocted. People were trying to kill them. Of course, he knew that. They all did. Agen and the other acolytes hadn’t come to this decision lightly. But they knew they couldn’t let Master Iltar go to the palace all alone.
Agen’s fellow acolytes hurled acidic orbs into the fray where Master Iltar was dissolving people. The people just turned to ash. It was actually quite amazing to watch. Agen never knew Master Iltar could do such things. And there was someone else fighting…
He was a short man in black, wielding some kind of red sword. The Shorty was fighting those red-armored guys. The princes were eyeing the Shorty, as well as some other guy with a really, really big sword. Agen didn’t recognize him.
“Bilda, Tigan, begin your layers now!” Agen commanded. “Silmar, Waedan, you’re next.”
The young acolytes began casting their spells—barsion barriers.
Agen didn’t think their individual barsions would be enough to protect them. During their recent studies, Agen had found a story with a strategy in it that he thought worth trying. The mages in the tale moved as a single unit through a battle, and instead of using individual barsions they made one collective barrier with multiple layers.
Bilda finished his spell first, and a big dome of acidic barsion surrounded all eleven acolytes. Tigan’s barsion formed just outside Bilda’s spell. The whole thought process behind the strategy was that if someone dispelled one layer, another would be cast. It would work as long as there weren’t more dispels than there were layers.
Agen counted the mages on the upper floors. There were at least a hundred… probably. And the mages were all focused on Master Iltar. If only a fraction of the mages turned on the acolytes, the boys would be rendered defenseless.
That was something Agen hadn’t considered…
“Who’s next?” someone shouted.
Agen came to his senses. “Callon and Dreymon.” The boys began casting their layers as a figure in green barsion approached.
It was Pagus.
“What are you idiots doing here?” Pagus demanded.
“We’re here to save you,” Bilda said, sounding tough.
“Do I look like I need saving?” Pagus demanded. That gave Bilda pause.
“Look
, make your way to the north side,” Pagus said. “Follow this illusion. I’m going to need your help to punch a hole through the soldiers so we can get to the throne.”
* * * * *
Another Praetorian fell before Lirathay’lu. The battle was glorious! And the Praetorians weren’t half bad. They were decent opponents. Lirathay’lu had to recast his barsion several times. He locked gazes with a Praetorian—the forty-fifth one.
Human.
Lirathay’lu broke his gaze, cutting off the man’s lead arm. He leapt into the air, kicking the maimed Praetorian across the throne room. As Lirathay’lu landed, one of the princes advanced. Laedar, isn’t it? He evaded a swing from the prince’s black Ko’delish blade. It wasn’t that big a weapon, about the size of a long-sword. Lirathay’lu had heard of the Mindolarnians summoning much bigger blades of that accursed magic.
“Are you judging me by my size?” Lirathay’lu asked, glancing at Prince Laedar’s sword. “I know I’m short, but I’m not that short…” The snarky comment was rewarded with an enraged yell and a swift combination of swings that struck Lirathay’lu’s barsion several times. Laedar was quite skilled.
A few other hits landed against Lirathay’lu’s back—blows from more Praetorians. He still had to disable eight. While keeping Laedar at bay, Lirathay’lu uttered more incantations in the true magical tongue. Purple magic immediately clustered in his hands.
He parried a blow from Laedar, and spun, launching a side-kick into the prince’s chest that repulsed Laedar. While spinning, Lirathay’lu probed three other Praetorians. They were all qui’sha. What luck, he thought, landing gracefully and releasing his clustered magic in three disintegrating beams. The magic broke through the barsions of each, burning holes in the Praetorians’ chests.
Five more, he thought, spinning back toward Laedar. The prince hadn’t advanced. Laedar stood, glowing a black hue, whispering an incantation.
Lirathay’lu took a moment to take in his surroundings. Each of the other five Praetorians were edging around him. However, there was movement on the dais. Emperor Marden—son of the accursed qui’sha Madars—stepped onto the battlefield, wielding a gigantic black blade that misted pure evil.
Finally, Lirathay’lu grinned, turning toward the emperor. All seven of Lirathay’lu’s surviving foes gathered in a circle around him.
“A fitting test,” Marden declared sardonically. “This blade was designed to kill your kind.” The emperor settled into a wide stance, taking that gigantic sword in both hands. He raised the sword, tip toward the ceiling.
Still grinning, Lirathay’lu lunged at the emperor.
“With their kindred drowned in the depths of this new ocean, the Channelers of Aridia took further steps to ensure their own safety. They knew Cheserith would retaliate against them. So, they created a storm that would endlessly sweep across Aridia—a reflection of the storm that would forever rage in their hearts because of their atrocious but necessary act of slaying their kindred.”
- From The Thousand Years War, Part I, page 55
Iltar broke through the last line of defense between him and the throne. He fixed his eyes on Alanya, who was held captive by the treacherous princess.
“Let her go!” he bellowed. Raedina just stared at Iltar. She looked horrified.
Another wave of fury pulsed through Iltar. He angrily scooped his hand through a stream of Ko’delish while commanding it to form in his hand. If the princess wouldn’t let Alanya go, then Iltar would take Alanya by force. He would break Raedina’s barsion using a steady beam of Ko’delish.
Iltar extended his hand to hurl the beam, but a brilliant explosion of off-white light raced toward him from his right. Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of dispelling orbs struck Iltar’s streaming Ko’delish. The orbs did nothing at first, but they lessened the streaming power and then snuffed it out entirely.
No! Iltar growled, turning toward the source of the massive dispel.
Prince Negaris stood at the southern end of the throne room, enveloped in a protective sphere of blackness—obviously composed of the Ko’delish. A plethora of spells hovered about the prince.
Though Negaris’s dispels had extinguished Iltar’s streams, they had not quelled their source. Iltar began glowing again just as Negaris launched a beam of crimson annihilation magic.
The streaming Ko’delish consumed part of the crimson beam, narrowing it to a finger-size point. Iltar’s magic, however, couldn’t prevent the beam from reaching him. Negaris’s blast pierced Iltar’s abdomen, shooting out the small of his back.
Iltar gasped in pain, dropping to his knees. He felt his stomach shriveling, and the sinews around it turning to dried husks. Parts of his torso went numb—the beam having severed part of his spine. There was no blood, as annihilation particles dried everything they touched.
Another wave of dispelling orbs struck Iltar’s streaming Ko’delish. It quelled the dark power, briefly creating an opening.
No… Iltar struggled against the pain. He commanded his surging power to surround him.
The Ko’delish took the shape of a spherical barrier as orbs of various destructive magics flew from the balconies. Most of the deadly projectiles were consumed by Iltar’s forming barrier, but a few were reduced to raindrop-sized bolts that struck his face, arms, and chest.
Acid burned holes through his tunic while the flaming magic ignited his clothes—the fire, however, didn’t last long, as the streaming Ko’delish consumed the flames. A few disintegrating bolts pierced his shoulder—they blasted through his flesh with the sensation of a thousand piercing needles.
Pained, Iltar fell forward, collapsing on the floor as his protection took shape. Though it was composed entirely of Ko’delish magic, the sphere of protection resembled a barsion bubble. Years ago—when Iltar lacked an understanding of the Ko’delish—he had dubbed this barrier as his “necrotic sphere of protection.”
More soldiers surrounded him, but they kept their distance. The soldiers were probably waiting for the mages to weaken Iltar’s barrier. But Iltar wouldn’t allow that again. He focused his streaming power to reinforce the barrier.
“You are outnumbered and surrounded,” Negaris shouted. “Give up!”
Iltar cursed at the prince inwardly. He would not give in to this fool. The pain escalated his rage. Perhaps Iltar would kill everyone in the throne room. Still lying on the ground, Iltar brought a hand under his chest and uttered an incantation, mustering orange life-draining magic. Both the position of his hand and the streaming Ko’delish concealed the orange light from his foes.
“How pitiful,” Negaris said, mustering more dispelling orbs. “You cannot survive this.”
Watch me… Iltar gritted his teeth. He finished the life-draining incantation, slamming his hand into the floor. He pushed against the stone, awkwardly bracing himself.
Negaris cocked his head at Iltar, as did the rest of the soldiers.
Iltar, however, focused on Negaris. He didn’t want to give away his intended targets.
A sudden surge of orange erupted amongst the soldiers. The enemy ranks attempted to disperse, but it was too late. Tree-trunk sized tentacles rose from the stone floor, gripping five of the soldiers and sapping the life from them. Each of the tentacles pulsed, transferring arpran-type energy back to Iltar.
The cuts on his face—caused by the acid—began to close. The husks that were once flesh became renewed. His stomach regenerated. The holes in his shoulder also closed. Feeling throughout his torso returned. The rejuvenating effect didn’t last long, however.
Negaris hurled several of his dispelling orbs at the life-draining tentacles. The dispelling orbs vanquished the tentacles, freeing the soldiers.
Iltar cursed at the prince again. Yet, Iltar’s spell had healed him enough to resume the fight.
Soldiers tensed uneasily. Incantations resounded from the upper railings of the throne room. Negaris mustered more dispelling orbs.
At that moment, Iltar realized he had to remain on the
defensive. He could deal with Negaris alone, but combined aid from the Mindolarnian mages was enough to weaken his protection. That left him with only one tactic.
While still focused on fortifying the Ko’delish barrier, Iltar uttered an incantation, mustering his ensnaring tentacles. Green magic clustered in his right hand. As the spell grew to fruition, Iltar thrust his hand toward the upper railing.
A dozen ensnaring tentacles shot from Iltar’s palm with incredible speed. They raced over the heads of the soldiers and slithered across the railings. Iltar could see the mages through his magic. The mages were gripped within seconds, and Iltar pulled them through the stone railing.
A tumultuous crash resounded as twelve mages—still uttering their incantations—were whipped across the throne room toward Iltar. Horror smeared across their faces as they struck the Ko’delish barrier. They had no time to scream, as their bodies were instantly turned to dust.
“Clever…” Negaris said, the word oozing from his lips. “But that tactic will not work a second time.”
Iltar ignored the prince. He flung the tentacles again, but as they reached the broken rail dispelling magic struck each of them.
Damn it, Iltar cursed. He cast the ensnaring spell again. As the magic formed, Iltar willed a few-dozen globes of darkness to form from his streaming magic. The tentacles flew from his palm again, along with the black balls.
Dispelling magic raced from Negaris and a few of the remaining mages, but Iltar intercepted most of the dispels with his globes of darkness. Only half of the tentacles survived and six mages were pulled into his Ko’delish barrier.
He tried the tactic again, but slew fewer mages. But even if he could only ensnare one at a time, Iltar would whittle their ranks.
* * * * *
Raedina was angry. Angry at herself. Angry at her family. And angry at her God.
This man—this so-called Iltar of Soroth—was not the vile Alathian. But he was just like him—murdering any Mindolarnian who stood in his way. Raedina watched in confusion as Iltar decimated more of their forces. Men were pulled from their hiding places and slammed into his barrier of Ko’delish. That power was so grand, so majestic. None of her family had ever manifested the Ko’delish with such grandeur. The magnificence of his manifestation rivaled even God, her Divine Father, Aunok’sha. Raedina shuddered at that implication.
