A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

  To his surprise, the case contained several rolls of parchment. The case’s interior, however, was rectangular—definitely not suited for a scroll or rolled sheets.

  Odd, Cornar thought, removing the parchments. There was something on the top parchment, but nothing Cornar could decipher. The marks looked like the scribbles Solidin had shown him on the walls of the Keepers’ Temple at Klindil—the Draconic language, the elf had claimed.

  Cornar thumbed through the parchments, finding a sheet with Elvish upon its surface. Perhaps there’s something in Common? he hoped, continuing to thumb through the parchments.

  Then, he saw familiar writing.

  “Men and elves of Kalda, hearken to my words and open your minds to the truths that have lain hidden for generations; the beings ascribed to legend and myth do, in reality, exist. Creatures far more intelligent and powerful than you or I, have claimed this world their own for thousands of generations. These extolled and exalted beings are called in their own tongue, ‘sha’kalda,’ but we know them in our languages as ‘draco’ and ‘dragon.’ Much of their origin is uncertain, for as long as men and elves have lived, the sha’kalda have dominated our world.

  “For tens of millennia, the sha’kalda roamed across our world. Countless numbers of these majestic beings soared through the skies unmolested and nested upon the mountaintops without disturbance…”

  Cornar paused, simply blinking at the parchment in disbelief. He flipped through the remaining pages, skimming their contents. The pages recounted a brief history of draconic breeds, gave a primer on the Channels of Magic, and spoke of a true magical tongue. It recounted the beginnings of a war—the Dragon Wars—and how a faction called the Kaldean Alliance was nearly defeated. It spoke of powerful tevisrals—a stone capable of tethering worlds and an amulet to control dragons.

  That amulet, Cornar thought, recalling the diagram in the tome.

  He returned to skimming the sheets. The last few pages described the events leading to the eventual victory of the Kaldean Alliance, and how their enemies were exiled to a world called Kalish.

  “Five millennia have passed since the end of that dreadful war,” Cornar read. “Peace filled much of that time, but as of late the world has gradually become tainted with ways that once abounded in Cheserith’s empire. In the last two hundred-and-some-odd years I have seen the hearts of men change; slowly turning to base desires of lust, greed, and malice. Men have become degenerate, killing their own brothers for the sake of gain. They treat life as if it is an autumn leaf in the wind. It is this growing evil among humanity that has me concerned.”

  Cornar paused. He’s describing a world not unlike this day and age, he thought.

  The text concluded with a warning. “I fear that not all the Lish’sha were exiled to Kalish. I believe some survived and are furtively influencing the humans of our day.

  “If a remnant of Cheserith’s seed exists upon Kalda, then I implore you, believe my words and seek the Au’misha’k. It is our only hope for peace.

  “I am Ilnari, a Cess’nal and the former supreme commander of the elven armies of Kardorth. I have told you of the Au’misha’k and its power, and now I will tell you how to retrieve it so it may be re-forged.”

  The rest of the sheet was blank.

  Intrigued, Cornar flipped through the parchments again, but found nothing more than he had already read. Cornar secured the sheets and moved on to the next case. Two small objects were inside: an oval-shaped silver rod the length of a finger and a polished ball of glistening white metal. Tevisrals, Cornar supposed, but with the tazerin nearby, they would be inert.

  He secured the objects again and opened another case. This third case contained more rolled parchments. As with the first case, the parchments were divided into three sets: the strange symbols, Elvish, and Common. These parchments, however, were not penned by the elf, Ilnari. The writing had a different tone and was an amendment to the text Cornar had not found.

  I’ll read that later, he thought, putting away the parchment.

  Cornar grabbed the last intact case, but found another object—probably a dormant tevisral—instead of parchment.

  That left only the damaged case. Cornar warily eyed the crack. It wasn’t large, but it exposed the case’s interior. Perhaps I should wait, he thought. If the contents were damaged, opening the case now would not be a wise choice. He gently set the cracked case back within the sack.

  I suppose you’re next. He eyed the two red tomes. Cornar cleared a spot on his bed and opened the first volume of The Thousand Years War.

  * * * * *

  Dusel Nadim’s narrative was enthralling. Cornar devoured the tome’s contents like a starving man. The account was far more detailed than any narrative of the Dragon Wars he had ever heard or read. The tome spoke of terms and places unfamiliar to Cornar. Though one place in particular, Aridia, he recognized. It was a continent destroyed by tevisrals at the outset of the war. Raging waters and a terrible storm had replaced its lands.

  The World’s Frown, he thought. That realization gave Cornar pause. The Promised Maiden was sailing through waters that had once been land. Cornar marveled that the ancient Kaldeans had had the power to destroy a continent. They had been far more sophisticated than Krindal supposed.

  But tevisrals were not the only wondrous things prevalent in the text. Dragons made their appearance quite often. Dusel referred to them as if they were commonplace. Each time Cornar read the word “dragon” or saw one of their strange names, he felt his disbelief in their existence wane.

  Cornar was nearly halfway through the tome when a knock rapped on his cabin door. A whistle followed the knock, signaling it was his men. Still, cautious, Cornar tucked the tome under his pillow—the sack with the other texts was concealed elsewhere in the cabin.

  He strode to the door, finding Igan, Kalder, and Nordal standing outside.

  “We have reports,” Nordal said. “May we enter?”

  “Of course,” Cornar stepped aside, gesturing with an open hand. Once they were inside, Cornar locked the door behind them. “How is everyone?” he asked.

  “Most seem to be in good spirits,” Nordal answered. “They’re all talking about our escape. I imagine they will be spreading quite the tale once we return home.”

  “And the wounded?” Cornar asked, his tone carrying a weight of concern.

  “Vaemar isn’t doing any better,” Nordal answered. “Midar is trying everything, but I don’t know if he’ll recover. Vaemar might lose one if not both his legs.” Cornar sighed, making his way back to his bed.

  “Brendar is improving though,” Nordal said. “The others are about the same. Hopefully we’ll see progress in a few days. I just wish we were closer to a port. An arpranist would be nice…” Cornar nodded.

  Nordal continued reporting on each of the wounded warriors, sharing Midar’s thoughts on their recovery.

  Once Nordal was finished, Kalder spoke. “Aron said Jahevial will consult with Grandmaster Alacor about our share in the tevisrals he smuggled aboard. Once the Necrotic Order decides what they’ll do with them, we’ll be paid a fee or a portion of the sale.”

  “That’s fine,” Cornar said. “But make sure Aron negotiates for more than they offer. I don’t want them suspecting—let alone discovering—we have our own cache.”

  “It would be wise to see what Jahevial smuggled aboard,” Igan suggested. “This way we can compare his finds against our own.”

  “Nordal, will you be in charge of that?” Cornar asked.

  “Gladly,” the warrior grinned.

  “Where are the tevisrals we found?” Cornar asked.

  “In Ordreth’s cabin,” Kalder answered. “Do you want them moved?”

  Cornar shook his head. “They should be fine where they are. Just ensure someone is in that cabin at all times.” Kalder nodded and folded his arms. The gesture indicated Kalder had finished his report.

  Cornar then turned to the wizard.

  “We’re rounding t
he World’s Frown at the moment,” Igan said. “Salisar intends to moor on an island called Galium, a small port along the fringes of the Isles Run.”

  “Where is that?” Nordal asked.

  “A few thousand grand phineals southeast of Merdan,” Igan answered. “She thinks we’ll reach it in about two weeks. It’s the closest port.”

  “Soroth will be a month away from there,” Kalder observed.

  Igan nodded. “Or more. She wants to make a stop in Damnir, so we will be taking the southern route of the Isles Run back to Soroth.”

  “Great…” Nordal grunted. Igan raised an eyebrow at the warrior, obviously expecting some snide remark. But Nordal said nothing. The southern route along the Isles Run was a longer return trip to Soroth. It would be faster to sail north of Merdan and follow the Coastal Current back to Soroth, despite the greater distance.

  “How are your studies?” Kalder asked.

  Cornar sucked in his breath. “It’s definitely interesting… There are many references to dragons and tevisrals. But it is a history of the Dragon Wars, after all.”

  “Really?” Nordal said, frowning.

  “I’m through the first few hundred years of the war,” Cornar continued. “The Cheserithean Empire has driven the Kaldean Alliance to the borders of the Elven Realm. The Kaldean Alliance is losing, badly. They’re desperate.”

  Cornar paused, his thoughts turning to Ilnari’s warning. The elf’s words conjured the image of that amulet within Cornar’s mind. He closed his eyes and shook his head, but he couldn’t shake the image of the amulet.

  “You all right, Cor?” Kalder asked.

  Was he? Cornar looked to Kalder. “I’m just consumed with this, that’s all.”

  “Well, don’t become too obsessed,” Nordal quipped. “I’d hate for you to turn into Krindal.”

  Laughter filled the cabin. Cornar grinned, settling back on his bed. Small talk filled the cabin as the men discussed their plans for the next few days. It would be a long trip back to Soroth.

  One by one, the men left and Cornar was once again alone. He retrieved the book from under his pillow and continued reading. But he couldn’t shake the image of that amulet. Page after page, Ilnari’s warning and the amulet lingered at the back of his mind.

  If you would but examine the sacred texts of our Enemy’s followers, you would understand my urgency.

  Laeyit was wrong. They had not crashed into the Aegalian Peninsula as she had supposed. Their broken vessel chased the setting sun, and Kaescis knew they were headed east.

  “We’re doomed!” Krindal moaned, crouched against a bench at the back of the cabin.

  “Quit your sniffling!” Laeyit shouted, still sitting in her chair. The old scholar continued muttering, but Laeyit chided him. She was a remarkable woman—firm and indomitable.

  Why didn’t I notice her sooner? Kaescis thought, feeling regretful. He huddled behind his chair, exhausted from the ordeals of the day. His rebirth had been rejuvenating, but after hours on the waters, exhaustion had overtaken him.

  Kaescis closed his eyes, remembering odd images after his defeat at the hands of Mister Dol’shir and that traitorous scholar, Jahevial. The Messenger of the Promise. Was he really there? Kaescis recalled images of a man in red within an endless white void. His memory was a blur, jumbled with flashes of unyielding pain. But one sentence seemed to stand out against the confusion, “… I always thought your death was necessary, but I now see that I was wrong…”

  My death, a necessity? Memories from his first experience in Vabenack came to him, as well as that behest from the Messenger: “One wrong step, and you could doom your God.”

  Kaescis played through the events in his mind, simultaneously comparing his vision to reality.

  And then, a dreadful notion hit him. I was meant to die in that vault. In the vision, Kaescis had gone to the vault without his armor, and without his Crimson Praetorians. He vaguely remembered Mister Dol’shir mentioning a summons. The man wanted Kaescis there. And then there was Dol’shir’s order for his men to attack.

  So, they were laying a trap for me. Kaescis shuddered. Without his armor, Kaescis would have fallen. The tazerin would have kept him weaponless.

  Dol’shir would have killed me, Kaescis thought. If he had adhered with exact obedience, Kaescis should have died. Was he intended as a sacrifice? But why hadn’t the Messenger told him? That question gave him pause.

  Had Kaescis not enough faith in the Will to accept such a task? Perhaps I am not as devout as I thought… Kaescis sighed.

  “Land!” Laeyit shouted. “I see mountaintops on the horizon.”

  Krindal groaned uneasily, staggering to his feet. The old scholar moved past Kaescis, standing behind Laeyit. “Is that… the Desolate Lands?”

  Laeyit ignored the question. “Hurry, cast your barsions,” she said to Krindal and Kaescis. The old scholar complied, muttering an incantation.

  Kaescis, however, didn’t move. Why was his death necessary to usher the return of Lord Cheserith? Was he not chosen as His champion? Sorrow flooded his mind.

  “… Kaescis!”

  Laeyit moved in front of Kaescis, grabbing him by his pauldrons. “Cast your barsion!”

  “Oh… Laeyit,” Kaescis muttered, removing his helmet. “I’ve failed.” He then unlatched both gauntlets. They broke into pieces and fell to the decking.

  “He won the first round,” she said, “But you can beat him. You’ll come back stronger, Kaescis!” Laeyit flicked her gaze to the broken window, and her mouth dropped open in horror.

  “There’s no time, Kaescis!” Laeyit shouted, and uttered an incantation. As her magic formed she grabbed Kaescis, pulling him tight.

  “No!” Kaescis kicked Laeyit, sending her across the cabin as her barsion formed, encasing her. Kaescis unlatched his breastplate. His pauldrons were next.

  Laeyit’s face twisted with abhorrence. Krindal’s protection formed at that moment—an acidic barsion bubble.

  Kaescis’s leggings fell to the decking, followed by his sabatons.

  Laeyit recovered, her lips moving—undoubtedly casting another incantation.

  Don’t do it, Laeyit, Kaescis thought, gritting his teeth. Now without his armor, Kaescis braced for the inevitable.

  Her second spell coalesced, but it was too late.

  A resounding crash echoed all around Kaescis. The world spun. Pieces of the hull broke apart, flying wildly. Krindal followed the wreckage, tumbling away. Laeyit vanished also, and then Kaescis felt himself hurled through the air. Land and sky flashed before him. The wind whipped around him violently.

  He glimpsed rock approaching.

  In that moment, Kaescis hoped he could right his mistakes. He prayed a final prayer to his God. “Aunok’sha, receive me!”

  And then, blackness.

  Death, however, did not persist.

  Kaescis opened his eyes.

  He gasped, sucking in a deep breath. Pain shot through his entire body—no part was unscathed. But how had he survived? Kaescis had shed his armor—the tevisral which would preserve him was gone, lost in the crash.

  “A noble move, but I have work for you yet, Kaescis Midivar.”

  Struggling against the pain, Kaescis saw the skirts of a crimson robe. The emblems of Cherisium caught his eye, and then the white beard and sapphire eyes of the Messenger of the Promise.

  “He who has lost his life seven times over shall be greatly esteemed,” the Messenger said, kneeling close to Kaescis’s face. He eyed Kaescis, grinning. “Here, why don’t I fix that,” the Messenger said, touching Kaescis’s bleeding forehead.

  Those accursed scriptures point to a terrible event occurring in this day and age. What we thought impossible will come to pass.

  Since the abominable half-breed prince and the cowardly scholar had fled, there wasn’t any danger left in Dalgilur. The four gholistras were actively searching the island. If there were any stragglers, the gholistras would deal with them.

  With the Mindolarni
ans defeated, Solidin and the survivors returned to the ruined war camp to retrieve their fallen comrades.

  The foul stench of death met Solidin’s nostrils as he picked his way through the rubble. All around him, the members of the Sapphire Guard carried the dead to a place beyond the war camp.

  Soon, Solidin came to Kaldarin’s corpse.

  “You will not be forgotten, my friend,” Solidin said in Elvish, tears welling in his eyes. “I will ensure that your name is remembered in the annals of the Aristocracy.”

  Still empowered by enhancing magic, Solidin sorrowfully picked up Kaldarin and carried his fallen lieutenant to lie among the dead.

  It wasn’t long before they cleared the lifeless elves from the rubble.

  At Solidin’s command, the survivors picked through the war camp, retrieving tevisrals and relics. At the heart of the war camp, the so-called Royal ring, they found most of the tevisrals.

  They also found strange and ancient weapons—tools of war from Kalda’s past—amid the rubble. Few Mindolarnians had come against the Sapphire Guard with these weapons—only Bratan and a handful of Crimson Praetorians. The weapons burst alight when touched—blades of fanisar and sword alike formed as if transmuted, despite the lack of matter. Destructive auras ignited around the weapons, immune to dispelling effects.

  As the elves collected the weapons, Solidin held one of the long-swords. The blade glowed a vibrant orange, with shifting hues of red and yellow—fiery magic. Was this a Keepers’ weapon? Solidin wondered. The blade and its hilt looked elven. Solidin had heard stories of weapons that burst into existence. They were often described in the erroneous tales about the Thousand Years War, said to have been wielded by footmen and common soldiers.

  But the Keepers’ weapons were said to be greater than those wielded by the Kaldean Alliance—or so it was claimed in the texts found by High Lord Medrayn.

  A sudden commotion drew his attention. With the flaming sword still in hand, Solidin turned toward the rear of the war camp. Two members of the Sapphire Guard held a brown-haired man captive. The man wore red-and-gold regal clothing—the kind a Mindolarnian Royal might wear.