by Dan Zangari
Kenard’s heart accelerated. He had to run. Harvil shouted curses. Panic overwhelmed Kenard, and he ran.
He attempted to push past the armored man, but was stopped by the blunt end of the fanisar striking his gut. Gasping, Kenard fell to the floor.
“Not so fast,” the armored man said, his voice muffled behind his visor.
It wasn’t long before the scuffles throughout the shop ceased, and Kenard was lifted off the floor by a gauntleted hand and dragged through the shop. He could see Harvil attempting to break free from another armored fellow. The merchant, however, wasn’t successful.
“Well, well, I am fortunate tonight,” a familiar voice said. “Two ruffians for the price of one.”
The gauntleted hand dropped Kenard, and he fell to the floor. Kenard looked up, seeing Soroth’s port magistrate standing above him, Magistrate Rosten.
A broad smile spread across Rosten’s face. “You know, I didn’t expect to find you here, Joselin.” Kenard staggered to his feet, meeting Rosten eye to eye. Like Kenard, Rosten had long hair, but the magistrate’s was a dark brown. He had an olive complexion, like a typical Sorothian. “I do hope you were conducting legal business,” Rosten said mockingly.
The armored authorities hauled Harvil’s hired men beside Kenard, each in shackles. One of hirelings was unconscious, and another was bleeding from his nose.
“You can’t just barge in here!” Harvil shouted, struggling against the armored man holding him in place. Harvil’s captor also carried the glowing bag with the elven scarves and ropes.
Rosten turned toward the shady merchant. “In fact I can,” he said, removing a piece of parchment from a black case. “This warrant grants me every right to search your shop.”
Harvil gasped.
The magistrate continued recounting the legality of his actions as more armored men brought him various boxes and bags—undoubtedly more smuggled goods. Rosten ordered the men to open the containers.
“Oh my,” Rosten said in feigned surprise. “I don’t recall seeing any of this on your previous import forms.” He then picked his way toward Harvil. “And what’s in here?” he asked, taking the bag from Harvil’s captor.
Green light shone into the room as Rosten removed one of the elven scarves. The fabric was glowing as if filled with magic. “I take it you were discussing payment for this?” The port magistrate glanced to Harvil, then to Kenard. “You have the proper import forms, don’t you?”
Kenard didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak. Of all things that could happen, this was the worst. The fines and bail fees were nothing compared to what Rosten would level against Kenard. One might think the magistrate was a paragon of justice, but Rosten was one of the most corrupt men Kenard had ever met.
“Of course I do,” Harvil lied quickly.
Rosten narrowed his eyes at the merchant, then turned and paced between Kenard and Harvil. “And I’m sure you’ll have this recorded on your mooring papers?” he held up the scarf.
Kenard didn’t answer.
“Search that office,” Rosten ordered, and several armored men hurried off. The port magistrate then walked to Kenard, grinning in a gloating manner. Kenard could almost read Rosten’s mind. The magistrate knew he wouldn’t find the documents.
Before long, one of the armored officials returned. “We found documents for the roloush, magistrate,” the man said. “But nothing on the elven fabrics.”
Rosten’s smile turned to a wide grin. He shook his head at Kenard. “I have you now…” He smirked.
“But I have an invoice for scarves and ropes,” Harvil shouted. “He must—”
“I advise you to hold your tongue,” Rosten said. “Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. I can levy enough fines against you, Harvil Grave, to drive you out of business.” Harvil’s eyes bulged.
“And you, Kenard,” Rosten smiled. “I assume you can pay the fine for smuggling?” Kenard swallowed hard.
“If not,” Rosten continued, “I suppose I will have to impound your ship.”
No! Kenard gasped. Not the Duchess!
Rosten had coveted the White Duchess for years, ever since his first dealings with Kenard. At one time, Rosten had offered to buy the ship, but no man in his right mind would sell a ship as magnificent as the White Duchess.
“You do realize Sorothian impound fees have changed recently, don’t you?” Rosten asked mockingly. “They are based on material value of the ship. And seeing as your vessel is quite rare, I suppose the fee is quite high. Not to mention, interest on impound fees were reorganized to compound daily.”
Kenard froze in horror. This was his worst nightmare realized. In all his hardships, Kenard never thought he would actually lose the White Duchess.
Rosten continued gloating, but his words only stoked a hidden anger welling within Kenard. “… you would need the wealth of nations to—” Kenard leapt to Rosten, punching the magistrate’s jaw. The blow knocked Rosten to the ground. Armored officials were all over Kenard, then something hard struck his head, and everything went black.
* * * * *
“Joselin,” Cadru said, though he sounded so far away. “Joselin, wake up.”
Kenard felt himself spinning. What happened? He struggled to open his eyes. Everything was gray. Gray floor, gray walls, and gray ceiling. And it was cold.
“Joselin!”
Creaking metal sounded above Kenard, but that wasn’t the direction of the ceiling. Kenard looked up, seeing black metal bars and City Watchmen. Was he in a cell? Cadru was by the bars too, as were Alban and Vedwin. They looked terrified.
Do I look that bad? Kenard wondered. It’s not like they haven’t seen me in a cell before…
“Oh, Joselin,” Cadru said, hurrying into the cold jail cell. “Are you all right?”
Kenard groaned. “I feel like I drank several barrels of brandy,” he said, and rubbed his head.
“Come on. We paid your bail,” he said, helping Kenard to his feet.
“Bail?” Kenard asked as he stood, confused. He hadn’t been to a tavern. In fact, he hadn’t even left Harvil’s—
Kenard’s eyes widened with horrified realization. “The Duchess!” he shouted, breaking free from Cadru.
“Joselin!” Cadru’s tone was firm. “They took her, Joselin. She’s gone.”
The Duchess? Gone?
“We’ll get her back, Captain,” Vedwin said. “I don’t know how, but we’ll get her back.” Kenard staggered, bewildered at his crewmen’s words.
“We will find a way,” Alban affirmed.
Heartache—unlike any Kenard had ever felt—tore through him. He slumped, then collapsed to the ground. Tears fell from his eyes, and the tears turned to sobbing, then the sobbing turned to an anguished wail. The only home Kenard had ever known was gone.
There was no blood surrounding Lady Ralisu Davig’s body. That ruled out quite a few modes and methods as a cause for her demise. There was also no sign of a struggle. The lady lay on her side as if she had simply collapsed.
Chief Discerner Coridas Brandir sighed as he eyed Lady Ralisu’s corpse. Many of Sarn’s Royals suspected foul play and insisted that Brandir come from Soroth to investigate the matter. He was, after all, the premier discerner in the entire Principality.
Luckily for the Royals, Brandir was in Serinta—on the northwest coast of the Isle of Soroth—so his trip to Sarn was rather speedy. Lady Ralisu’s body had not fallen completely into the death stiffness, but reddening marks had appeared on her face and exposed arms.
The usual clues that pointed to murder were also missing. Besides the lack of struggle, there was no sign of forced entry at her door. The discerners from Sarn’s City Watch thought the cause of her death resulted from drugging or poisoning, perhaps perpetrated by a member of her household. But the lady lacked any signs of either. If her death was an act of murder, her killer had simply appeared and disappeared without a trace.
That narrowed potential suspects to the worst kind of murderers—mages. Bra
ndir grumbled to himself, shaking his head in annoyance. He narrowed his eyes scornfully, carefully examining Lady Ralisu for signs of destructive magic. Her clothing, however, was unmarred.
Elemental magics always left a trace; fiery magic would scorch clothing and flesh, acidic spells would leave burns, as would electrical attacks. If a mage tried using water, there would be signs of dampness and asphyxiation akin to drowning. Any wind or telekinetic spell would leave bruises so severe that they would make physical assault look like a playful touch. And then there were the myriad of arcane attacks… those wounds were so unique any fool could tell what killed the victim.
Murderers who used magic thought themselves clever, as they believed their modes of murder were untraceable. But there were means for sniffing out a murderous mage. Over the years, Brandir had learned that most criminal mages were stupid. Of course, the same could be said of all criminals, but mages were exceptionally sloppy. There were, however, a few exceptions…
A wise murderous mage would often mask the mode of death in an environment that might produce those effects naturally. Brandir once found a burned body in the remains of a home destroyed by arson. The scene was a smart choice until further investigation revealed burn marks on the victim that lacked the typical residue left behind by such intense heat.
And now, a similar incident had occurred with Lady Ralisu. On the surface, her death appeared natural. But if it was murder, there was only one type of magic that would steal her life without a trace. Brandir’s lips curled into a snarl. “Necromancy…” The word left his lips with a weight of vehemence. The very thought of a necromancer committing murder made his blood boil.
Calm yourself, Brandir thought. There was no concrete evidence that this was a murder. In all likelihood, the lady—
A sudden commotion started near the entrance of Lady Ralisu’s private quarters. Behind red cords indicating a quarantined scene under investigation, gray-clad watchmen prevented several regal-looking men from entering the scene. They were obviously members of Sarn’s aristocracy.
“Chief Discerner!” one of the regal men shouted, his face barely visible. Brandir recognized the man, though—High Duke Finlar Aliteran. “Have you found anything?!” the high duke almost barked.
“Move aside,” Brandir commanded the watchmen, gesturing with his hand. He pulled aside the red cords, then slipped through the doorway.
“Well?” another Royal demanded.
There were now seven of Sarn’s aristocracy outside the lady’s chambers, each dressed in regal attire. When Brandir had first arrived at the Davig estate, only three Sarn Royals were present—including the high duke. News of Lady Ralisu’s death had spread quickly, as Brandir was only an hour and a half into the investigation.
“A possibility,” Brandir said, “if she did not die of natural causes.”
One of Royals growled in frustration.
“We’ve already said she was murdered!” A newcomer shook his fist at Brandir. “And we know who to blame. There is only one man who—”
“Conjecture isn’t proof,” Brandir interrupted. Prior to investigating the lady’s chambers, Brandir had been barraged by hasty accusations against the Baron of Sereth. He was also aware of the feud for the barony between Cilgan and the late lady.
Brandir didn’t dismiss the accusations, but keeping them at the forefront of his mind would only cloud his judgment. A skilled discerner could set aside such accusations until the proper time when considering the motives behind a death.
High Duke Aliteran abruptly held out his hand to his fellow Royals. “Let the discerner speak,” he commanded. The other Royals obeyed and their eyes fell upon Brandir.
“The only possibility I can discern would be death by necromancy,” Brandir said. “Particularly, a life-draining spell. There are no signs of forced entry or struggle. She appears to have collapsed upon spontaneous death. That in and of itself would be enough to sway my opinion to natural causes. But there are the accusations,” he said as he studied the Royals. “If she was murdered, then whoever committed the act must have hid in her chambers for a considerable length of time, and then waited until they could escape undetected.”
Such assassins were not unheard of, especially on the Mainland. Brandir, however, doubted Cilgan had access to such an assassin.
“What about poisoning?” a Royal asked.
Brandir shook his head. “She shows no signs of any fast-acting poisons. Besides, someone would have needed to administer it to her, and we have questioned and thoroughly searched everyone in this household. I can say with all confidence that she was not poisoned.”
“Then he sent a necromancer,” a Royal murmured. “We know he has many of those in his employ.”
Brandir raised an eyebrow at the man. “More investigation will need to occur before I can determine the cause of death. If she did indeed die from natural causes, a necropsy will reveal that. It would also verify the alternative.”
“How?” a Royal asked incredulously.
Determined zeal often accompanied Almar when he visited his father’s memorial. But today was different. A sense of anger and sorrow weighed him down. He was melancholy, even lonely.
The alabaster statue of his father—Adrin, the Hero of the West—stood in the western park of Alath’s Inner City. After Adrin’s untimely death some forty years ago, the citizens of Alath erected this memorial. It was akin to the statues found in the Estate of Concorious Knowledge: standing twice as high as an average man, constructed from fine alabaster, and infused with magic.
Adrin’s likeness was carved so that Almar’s father stood stoically. The hawk-like features were chiseled with such fine precision that the statue looked a near-perfect copy. Adrin’s statue held a long channeling staff and wore a robe that looked as if it were rippling in the wind. People often remarked that Adrin had the makings of a king, and this statue captured that trait perfectly.
It was that trait that Almar had hoped to draw upon. But his hopes were in vain.
Though Almar often came to this memorial to ponder or seek inspiration, today he felt empty. His soul yearned for fulfillment, but no matter what he did Almar couldn’t fill the despairing void in his heart.
Oh, father… Almar thought, gazing at the stony face with his sapphire eyes. Almar stepped toward the foot of his father’s memorial, his gaze falling to the chiseled words engraved on the pedestal upon which the statue stood.
Tears welled in Almar’s eyes as he read the words he had read so many times throughout his life. “In memory of Adrin, a beloved father, a trusted general, and a powerful grand mage of the Order. May the Hero of the West always be remembered for his sacrifices. Without him, the tyranny of the Mindolarn Empire would not have been suppressed. The free citizens of Kalda owe him their gratitude. May all who come to this memorial pay homage to this esteemed hero.”
Almar’s heart wrenched as he read the next line. “Adrin was slain in 6,455 C.D. on the Isle of Soroth, along with his second wife, Gwenyth, and their son, Iltar.”
Almar lingered on his brother’s name. That undertone of anger suddenly turned to fiery indignation, and Almar was incensed at what Iltar had been deprived of. His brother would never grow to maturity. He would never know love. But most importantly, Iltar would never realize his dreams and ambitions.
Why… why did they have to kill you too? Almar lamented, thinking of young Iltar—then only fourteen years old. You were just a boy… tears fell from Almar’s eyes. The memory of his brother’s corpse haunted him even to this day.
Almar could never forget that sight.
After word of Adrin’s death had reached Alath, Almar rushed to Soroth. He was permitted to see what remained of his family. Others had already identified Adrin, Gwenyth, and Iltar. Their exhuming was only for Almar’s benefit. They were near unrecognizable, and Almar could only tell his father and stepmother apart from their rings.
Almar could never forget those rings.
The Sorothian officials never c
oncluded who committed the atrocious acts. Arrests were never made. Justice’s hand was shackled. But the Order of the Mages of Alath knew the culprits.
Emperor Medis and his brothers had sought to slay Adrin after the death of Emperor Mindolarn. Their desires for vengeance grew after Adrin—with the help of a group of rebels—killed Mentas, the empire’s second emperor. It took them nearly a decade to strike a devastating blow against Adrin.
Almar lingered on the chiseled name of his brother. Perhaps I am not as different from them as I’d like to believe… No. That was despair talking. Though Almar did embrace killing each of the subsequent emperors, he did not seek them out.
Once Almar became a well-regarded Agent of the Order, he followed in his father’s footsteps. But this time, a rebellion was forged in the nation of Gastrim, and eventually Almar confronted Emperor Medis. An undying fury of retribution empowered Almar that day.
Those same feelings accompanied Almar as he assailed the Mindolarn Palace some ten months ago, when he clashed with Emperor Monddar.
“There’s only one of them left,” Almar whispered, still staring at the name of his brother. In that moment, Almar felt a temptation that he had grappled with for years.
Hunt them, a faint voice whispered in his mind. Averting his gaze, Almar took a deep breath, attempting to quell his stoked emotions. It was futile. His anger raged like an unquenchable inferno.
I would be no different from them! Almar argued with himself. His fury began to abate. If he were allowed to follow that temptation he would become a monster. The last of my family’s murderers will most likely fall at another’s hands, he thought. That notion quelled the indignation further.
It had taken years to find the perfect opportunity to slay Monddar. Marden was even more paranoid than his brother. In all likelihood, it might take several decades to slay the last founder of the empire. By that time, Almar would be nothing but a memory.
“Master Almar,” an urgent voice called,
A young page from the Estate of Concorious Knowledge—the headquarters of the Mages of Alath—was running toward the memorial. The youth looked flushed. “Master Almar,” the page panted, “Grandmaster Dorith wishes to speak with you immediately. It’s a matter of great importance.”
