Once freed, a guard who had been trapped below was sent to retrieve a cart. The horse drawn transportation arrives shortly after Midar and Cordel clean out the guard post. With its arrival, Cornar’s men load the cart with the lifeless acolytes.
After which, both warriors take the corpses outside the city walls, to an open field between the forest and the city where they obey Alacor’s instructions.
This finally brings an end to the acolytes’ rebellion. But it left the ranks of the necromancers depleted. A dilemma which would threaten the Necrotic Order’s existence once its eldest members would perish with old age.
* * * * *
The following evening, the council is gathered in their chambers. Signs of the battle scar the room and a faint smell of deathly decay lingers.
Within the center of the space, the seven necromancers are seated around their ornate table; Alacor sits at their head upon an elaborate seat resembling a throne while the other six are seated in less pretentious chairs.
Having his own secret agenda, Iltar sits to Alacor’s right along the middle of the table, intently listening to the discussion voiced by Velkor, Melnor, Kallan and Toroth.
“As we saw with this latest batch of students,” Toroth states on Alacor’s immediate left, “One of the most prominent flaws was their overzealous thirst for knowledge.”
“That’s true,” Velkor replies in a methodical tone from Iltar’s left. “This hunger led them to discover aspects of our magical discipline that should have been reserved for later instruction.”
“I believe it was their age that played a major factor,” Kallan speaks up, who is seated on Iltar’s right. “The majority of them were all young adults or adolescences. And the problem there is they already had an attitude about them that inhibited our control.”
“I agree, we took on too many of these students, and all because we were too eager to fill our ranks. And now we are right where we started,” Melnor completes the argument from the far side of the table.
“Are there any suggestions from the body as to what we should do?” Alacor asks and looks at each of the other necromancers around the table.
Clearing his throat, Iltar leans forward and speaks up, “My brothers, I believe we should exercise some restraint in rebuilding our Order. Soroth is lacking in the breed of children we need. I don’t just mean children of age, but those willing to be called children of necromancy. Remember, this is a very large world and there are other places where we can look to find new apprentices and acolytes. I believe our approach should be slow and methodical, just as the spider catches the fly in her web. Does she leap at her prey? No, she gently glides toward her victim and wraps them up carefully. We must catch our new recruits in a similar fashion.
“Now I put forth a question that might give us a solution. How old were we when we became a part of this Order?”
Several of the council members nod and Melnor speaks up, “We were children, some of us orphans.” Several of them nod at the answer catching Iltar’s false vision.
“Iltar is right,” Alacor interjects. “We need the kind of students that we can manipulate, and young adults do not qualify for such privileges. Are there any other suggestions to be brought before the council?”
In response, the council members glance around the table; they shake their head, satisfied with the recommended action.
“Then a vote must be taken,” the grandmaster replies. “Since Iltar has proposed this, I say we allow him to lead an expedition to find new apprentices. We shall give you full jurisdiction over the proceedings of your doings, and access to the treasury. We give you one week to devise a course of action. Those in favor signify it.”
In a unanimous motion, the members of the council extend their right hands directly out in front of them, acknowledging their approval for the action.
“It is decided,” Alacor rises from his chair. “We shall convene in one week.”
With that said, each of the other six necromancers stand and bow to each other before leaving the room.
* * * * *
Several minutes later, Iltar steps out into the cool evening air. A storm is brewing to the west, and the necromancer grunts at the prospect of rain. “It’s times like this I wished the road through the forest was paved, like the streets of the city.”
Amid his foul mood, Iltar quickly crosses the courtyard of the guild hall and down the path to the stables.
Once upon his steed, Iltar quickly darts through the narrow path and the opened metal gateway.
The necromancer gallops his horse through the empty streets of the city, riding eastward toward the northernmost part of Soroth’s waterfront. With the coming storm many of the citizens of the city have retired to their homes or other places of resort, much like what Iltar is about to do himself.
Over half an hour later, Iltar’s steed gallops quickly through the square; it houses the northern most pier, a shipyard, and is home to one of the most notorious taverns on the island. This section of the city is on a small neck of land that protrudes out from the main part of the island.
Upon reaching the fabled tavern, Iltar abruptly stops his steed, causing him to rear upon his hind legs. Such theatrical entrances were what Iltar enjoyed. In a way, the attention he attracted made up for the lack of it as a child. Although he rarely acknowledged it, it was something he craved deeply.
After tying his horse to the metal posts outside the tavern, Iltar walks around to the left of the building. He passes a sign with the words written in the common language of Kalda, “The Sea Vistonia.” Beyond the sign is the entry way of the restaurant which overlooks the northern shore, splitting the view between the forest to the west and the sea to the east. He opens one of the thick double doors and nonchalantly walks inside the tavern.
The sounds of music and chatter rush into his ears as he steps forward into the waiting area. Often, on busy nights, patrons were obliged to wait outside and enjoy the view while their tables were prepared; however, tonight is not one of those nights. Few people wait in the entry lounge and only half of the tables are full in the large room beyond the entry.
After a moment of waiting, Iltar notices a young hostess approaching from the bar opposite of the entry lounge; she had been away from her duties and her embarrassment was apparent.
“How many are with you?” the young woman stammers and looks at Iltar with slight trepidation.
“My friends are most likely seated as we speak, I’ll look for them myself,” the necromancer states coldly as he walks by the young girl.
“Yes… Yes sir,” the hostess stammers and swallows hard.
With that said, Iltar ambles through the center of the tavern, scanning the large room. Through the partial crowd he doesn’t recognize his friends’ faces. He continues to the east of the building through a wide hall; passing a corridor leading to the kitchen and a set of stairs that ascend to the second floor of the establishment.
Over the years it had grown in its popularity and warranted an expansion. Another room, much like the first but without a bar, is partially full. This room had become a favorite for many of the taverns patrons; due to the views from the windows and the sounds of the sea that could be heard from time to time.
A familiar face catches Iltar’s eye to his left, and he continues his casual gait to the booth. The enclosure is large enough to seat several people on each side of the glossy wood table. Deep red fabric, with colorful designs of gold, dark green and brown threads adorn the crimson cushions.
Three man are sitting at the booth Iltar is approaching. Each of them are well into their middle years and show signs of wrinkles around their eyes and highlights of gray in their hair. They are wearing casual attire, much like what Iltar is wearing. Their light chatter barely reaches his ears as he approaches.
Once at the table, Iltar nonchalantly sits down, next to the man on the left bench. Across the table are two more men, one much shorter than the other.
“…I tell you. If it was
n’t for that crazy old man we wouldn’t be here today!” the short man squeaks out in a high pitched tone, sitting in the corner opposite of Iltar. This short man has a slender jaw line with light brown hair with a sharp nose that dots his face. His hazel eyes try to focus on the men around him but shift from side to side.
“Sure Hagen,” the man next to him responds, “We all know it was Igan here who got us out of that mess,” pointing to the third man across from them.
“Okay Hex…” Hagen drunkenly admits, “Igan had the strategy but the old man was the one who executed the plan… and greetings Iltar,” the short man nods his head with a platonic smile for their new guest.
Iltar nods and smiles at the men around him. Although he doesn’t admit it, he relishes these times with his friends, the only true friends he has. The members of the council are mere acquaintances when compared to these three men.
“So we’re just missing Amendal…” Hagen states while looking around then says the last with a smile, “I love that old codger!”
“How much has he been drinking?” Iltar asks generally as he points to Hagen.
“The usual,” Igan responds and looks at Iltar who is sitting next to him. “Just one drink.”
Igan is of average height, a thick build and light brown hair with eyes of the same color, his face is slightly rounded and shows no sign of a beard.
“Yes, the man can’t hold his liquor!” Hex exclaims from across the table, looking at his friend next to him. He is almost as tall as Iltar and has light blonde hair with dull bluish gray eyes and is the most slender of the four men.
“That’s not true…” Hagen turns to Hex and gives him a sullied look. “Waiter!” he waves his hand in the air attempting to grab the young man’s attention from across the room, who is serving warm meals to a young couple.
However, Hagen’s attempt to attract attention to the table doesn’t reach over the chatter in the room.
“Good luck,” Hex chuckles then he and Igan jovially berate their friend.
Amid the banter, Iltar notices Hagen’s demeanor changing; the short man swallows hard and crosses his eyes in an attempt to focus on the corridor Iltar had previously traversed.
Furrowing his brow, Iltar turns around and notices a shrouded figure who slowly enters the large space.
The hooded man, dressed in a black robe and a cowl made of the same material, saunters through the dining chamber. His face is hidden from view, and the light of the lanterns do not penetrate the shadows cast upon his face.
A smile smears over Iltar’s face as he turns back to face the others and he chuckles softly. Out of the corner of his eyes, Iltar watches as the figure approaches him and his friends; the stranger’s facial features still blackened by the clothing.
A hand raises from the figures side and points at the table. “Is there room?” a deep voice bellows from beneath the cowl.
“Of course. Sit down Amendal,” Iltar says as he moves slightly closer to Igan.
The old man, nearly half Iltar’s years older than the necromancer, removes his cowl and sits down on the cushioned bench. Amendal has a neatly trimmed beard and short hair. His long face is wrinkled and shows his age. Yet his green eyes are alert and vibrant, still full of youth.
“We were just talking about you, old man,” Hex says from across the table.
“Oh, I hope it wasn’t anything…” the newcomer pauses while looking around the table, “Insulting.”
“I was just reminiscing of the time you saved us while we were exploring the ruins of Karthar,” Hagen remarks, slightly slurring his words.
The oldest of the friendly quintet looks at the drunken man in the corner with a raised brow, “When was that…?”
“See,” Hex looks at Hagen, “He doesn’t remember, just give the credit to Igan.”
With a blank stare Hagen looks around at the four others and says, “Maybe he’s going senile.”
In response, Iltar attempts to hold back the laughter, but it bursts through his stern composure. Hex then Igan follow suit and the table erupts with the sounds of humor. Even Amendal chuckles.
“You better stop spreading that story Hagen,” Amendal says through the others’ laughter. “It would be bad if people discovered I was soft in my younger years.”
Hearing the words, the others laugh even harder at Amendal’s remarks.
After the laughter settles, Hex speaks up, “This is great… if we had Cornar here it’d be just like old times.”
“Where is Cornar?” Igan asks, “I would have thought he would’ve come. Didn’t you ask him Iltar?”
“He’s busy tonight,” Iltar states in a monotone.
“That’s a pity,” Hagen says, looking down at his empty mug.
“What? That mug or the lack of Cornar’s presence?” Hex jests and continues laughing.
“Both…”
Amid the exchange, Iltar looks around Amendal, searching for someone to wait on them.
Amendal notices the necromancer’s probing, and the older shakes his head. “Just because it is a stormy night, it doesn’t mean you have to cut your staff.” He turns away from the table and waves his hands in the open space just beyond the fabric bench, softly uttering a magical incantation.
“Oh no…” Hagen trails off, noticing Amendal’s spell-casting.
Yellowish magic wisps together to form a waist-high oval shape just in front of the old man. Amendal continues to wave his hands and finishes reciting the incantation.
“I hope you’re not conjuring something we can eat,” Igan leans forward and turns his head to the opening golden portal.
Amendal was one of the oldest conjurers on Soroth and was well versed in that magical art. Much like Iltar, he spent most of his time in seclusion within his woodland estate, conjuring creatures and testing the limits of his concentration.
The others intently watch as the old man finishes his spell. They wait in anticipation for what is about to come forth. Amendal was also known for his unstable mental state, and when he conjured creatures without prior planning it often resulted in unusual and disturbing twists.
Iltar sits back and folds his arms, patiently waiting for Amendal to finish.
After several moments, a creature emerges from the mystical vortex, about the height of an average man’s torso, covered in dark skin. It flutters in the air, flapping its spotted transparent wings. The creature turns around to face Amendal and the rest of the men at the booth.
Its bottom half is snake-like, a tail that curls as the being dances in the air. Above the waist the creature is similar to a human, with a chest, arms and hands. The head of the twisted being is round, with a snout much like a sea horse and eyes that are small and black. At the end of the snout, the lips curl and the creature articulates with its long tongue.
“What is your bidding master?” the creature asks in a high pitch tone.
“I’m hungry, get the chef to prepare our meals. I want my usual. And grab another drink for Hagen, whatever he was having, I’m sure you can smell it.”
“Yes master,” the creature buzzes off through the corridor adjoining the two rooms of the tavern.
“Have I ever conjured something to eat?” Amendal turns to the others in reply, annoyed by the previous question.
“No… but you’re crazy enough to try it,” Hex shoots back in a questioning tone.
“That is one ugly fairy…” Hagen says and looking at his empty mug.
“It’s not like you haven’t seen him before,” Hex laughs and elbows Hagen in the chest.
After several moments, the deranged conjured creature returns, with another large mug, filled to the rim. The liquid contents spills over as the creature sets it on the glossy table in front of Hagen, and the conjuration smiles with his strange lips as he does so.
“I also brought these master, for your friends,” in its other hand the creature holds several stretched parchments on thin wooden planks, menus of the tavern’s services.
“Master Ilta
r,” the creature hands the document to the necromancer, and Iltar returns a gesture of feigned gratitude by nodding his head.
“Thank you Fench,” Amendal states.
Several moments later a hurried young man stumbles to the table, “I’m sorry, there are a few of us today. I will take your orders to the kitchen if you are ready.”
The men order their respective meals and wait patiently for the waiter to return. All the while, Amendal’s creature hovers near them as the party waits.
Outside, the storm continues to brew. Iltar and his friends’ booth allows for a perfect view of the tempest. Within Iltar’s mind he thinks to himself, “This is the ideal pretense to the request I am about to make to my former companions of adventure.”
A quarter of an hour later, the waiter returns with their meals. As the men eat their masterfully prepared cuisine, the evening’s conversation shifts to the events which transpired in the city the last several days.
“It really is a tragedy,” Hagen says between swallows, “The revolt within the Order really could cripple all of our livelihoods.”
“Speak for yourself Hagen. Most of mine and Hex’s apprentices have come from people we know or who have personally sought us out,” Igan responds to Hagen’s woes.
“Still, it casts a bad shadow on magic and its wielders,” Hex interjects. “It has the potential to ruin the Order.”
Amid the conversation, Iltar sits quietly and listens, waiting for just the right moment to lure them into his plot. The moment falls right into his lap.
“That’s what happens when a group of necromancers run the Order,” Amendal mumbles through his teeth, his mouth partially full of food. “Fifty years ago this incident wouldn’t have even occurred, let alone taken root.”
“Fifty years ago we were still dependant on our mothers’ milk,” Hagen spurts out and laughs at the thought.
Raising his brow to the drunken mage, Amendal continues, “In those days each seat of the council occupied a head of each school of magic. No offense Iltar,” Amendal glances at his friend beside him, “But those in charge do not know how to maintain the Order.” The old man takes a deep swallow before continuing his logically rare speech.
The Dark Necromancer Page 7
