“With these men, I intend to first search the surrounding islands. After this one final sweep, we will move on to the mainland; and perhaps some of the other islands in that vicinity.
“I have booked a ship, the Farling, and hired Captain Joselin Kenard, pending your approval, to sail us to our destinations. Cornar and several of his men will also accompany us. However, Cornar and his men will provide for themselves for this journey. Thus the only dependants for this trip will be the crew, myself and the other four mages. I estimate we shall be gone for several months. If needed I will use my own fortune to help finance the voyage, at least for my needs.”
With his proposal concluded, Iltar sits in his chair; from across the table he notices Melnor chuckling; his face smeared with belief in Iltar’s last statement. Iltar knew it rang true to Melnor, something he hoped would add a sense of seriousness to his proposition.
“Is there any amendment to Iltar’s plan?” Alacor asks, leaning back in his chair.
“No,” Melnor responds quickly, “I move for a formality.”
“Is there a second?” Alacor looks to the other four necromancers.
On Alacor’s left, Toroth, who had remained silent but open to Iltar’s discourse, nods his head in affirmation.
“Then it’s decided. Iltar, meet with the keeper of the treasury to finalize the funding of the expedition,” Alacor states flatly and continues with the meeting.
Ignoring what he deems, trivial matters, Iltar’s mind is taken elsewhere, musing, “My ruse has been passed off as truth, but this was the easy part. Keeping the true nature of my expedition, and any subsequent trips concealed from the other six members of the council will be another matter all together.”
* * * * *
The next morning, just an hour after sunrise, the crew of the Farling gathers at the south eastern most pier of Soroth’s docks. Dark clouds had gathered earlier that morning, and the port city was shrouded in a dull gray sky.
The crew had been gathered by Cornar from different parts of the island and the neighboring satellite landmasses; except for Kenard and the handful of seamen loyal to him. Those hired were a hard lot, eager for adventure. The experienced warrior knew this, and although he had given no details, he hinted at the possibility. However, none of them truly comprehended the journey before them, and when the adventure became a reality they could easily be silenced with payment.
At the far end of the wharf, near the bottom of a gangway stands a lone man. He is of average height, with blonde shoulder length hair with a thick streak of gray. High cheek bones, and slender features highlight his face, with a thin beard which appears to been shaved only several days earlier. His loose gray and white clothing rustles in the breeze. The man’s gaze is aimed upward to the sea craft before him.
“Captain Kenard,” a shrouded figure, dressed in a black robe and cowl, calls out from further up the walkway of the pier, “Does it meet with your approval?”
Turning to face the voice, the captain steals a glance under the cowl and recognizes his features, “Of course Master Iltar, it’s a fine vessel. Are the armaments needed? Cornar didn’t tell me we would face anything at sea…”
“One never knows, especially where we are going,” Iltar responds as he reaches the captain’s side. “Uncharted waters. You can never be too careful.”
“Humph! Tor and Klis are not uncharted… Well we had better be going. We don’t want to lose the morning breeze,” Captain Kenard turns and quickly boards the ship across the gangway.
“Tell me Captain, what happened to your ship?” Iltar asks as he follows Kenard up the gangway and onto the deck of the Farling.
Joselin Kenard, was a hard man, both inside and out. Throughout most of his life he had sailed the seas between Soroth and the mainland. At the time of this expedition he had no ship of his own due to his own mistakes. Kenard was a smuggler and a pirate, but those were not the reasons his ship was taken from him. These vocations were permitted within Soroth, along with other nefarious practices.
Laughing and shaking his head the captain responds to Iltar’s query, “The port magistrate decided to up the fee for my last shipment,” he says the last with a tone of disgust. “And since I had already paid most of my expenses with the commissions I had made I was short his additional tax.”
“So he had your ship impounded?”
“Exactly!” Kenard turns to Iltar and waggles his index finger.
“What a pity,” Iltar says with a total lack of sympathy.
“And to make matters worse, the fee continues to rise for every day I leave the ship in their care,” the captain spits on the deck. “I fear I shall never sail with her again.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Iltar says with a diabolical smile, and walks across the deck of the Farling to the stairwell leading to the lower reaches of the ship. Before he descends he gives a single order, “And captain. After everyone is on board, sail around the island till we are out of sight of the city, then head northward.”
“As you wish,” Kenard calls out and continues to examine the ship.
The Farling, by our reckoning, measures eighty feet from stem to stern; it is comparable to one of the mid-sized ships of the Sorothian Navy. It houses four decks, two below and one above the main deck on the aft third of the vessel. Three masts line the center of the ship, rising incrementally from the bow to the stern. The armaments mentioned earlier by the captain were four cannons, two at the bow and two along the aft of the vessel.
Shortly after Iltar boards the ship, the mages of his company arrive at the wharf where the Farling is docked.
The first to come aboard the Farling is Amendal, shrouded in his typical black robes. The old conjurer had always sought to portray a deathly appearance. Fear was his greatest ally, but his appearance was not the only horrific aspect about him. He had been known within Iltar’s order for his impressive ability to summon the most monstrous of creatures. Amendal also kept a battalion at his home in the deep forests of the island.
Amendal’s two apprentices, who were grown men themselves and masters of the conjuration arts are dressed consistently in charcoal colored robes. They walk behind their former master. The eldest, which was only several years younger than Iltar, Lorith, is a tall man. He is of a slightly heavy nature, in stark contrast with the other, who is short and very thin. However both men have similar shades of hair, a light brown with reddish pigmentation. The younger, Dith, had just finished his trials and is in his mid twenties.
Igan, Hex and Hagen cheerfully arrive several minutes after Amendal, with their apprentices, Tinal and Renal respectively. Hagen had met up with the quartet earlier that morning.
The illusionist hated traveling by himself. Since Hagen was without the company of his former apprentice, Hem, who was off on an errand from the council that started several weeks prior, he was in need of company.
Both Tinal and Renal were of the same age, taken in their training of the magical arts in their youth. Their parents, although not related, had known of the two wizards and their exploits, many of which were undertaken with Iltar and Cornar. It was this fame that drove the two families to petition Igan and Hex to take their sons as apprentices.
The last mage to join them is Clodin, a necromancer in his early thirties, and Iltar’s first apprentice. For Iltar he was like a younger brother, something Iltar had never experienced. Clodin was an average man in appearance and in his magical abilities, but he could be trusted, and this trait would easily outbalance his weaknesses in the coming voyage.
After Clodin boards the vessel, a loud and rowdy commotion draws the crew and the mages’ attention. Further down the pier, three men, apparently drunk, are singing out of key as they stumble toward the ship’s gangway.
Hagen and Igan, who are standing on the portside of the vessel, notice the trio walking towards the Farling, and briefly look at each other with disappointment.
“Great,” Hagen sarcastically says in a higher than normal pitch, which
was typical of him at this time of the day. “The thieves… This is going to be a long trip.” The illusionist pushes off the portside rail and walks toward the stairwell leading to the lower decks.
Focusing across the rail, Igan raises his brow as he looks at the three men stumbling onto the gangway.
“It appears you already have your sea legs, Tilthan,” the wizard sarcastically remarks with a tone tainted with annoyance.
“Igan!” Tilthan cries out from the center of the trio in a drunken tone. The thief is dressed in a dark velvet tunic, and matching pants; a simple pack bounces at his side as he walks. He has short brown hair and dark brown eyes with a thin but rounded face. Under each of his arms are the shoulders of his thieving companions.
“It’s about time,” Tilthan continues, “We haven’t had an adventure together, in – well forever! What has it been, four years?”
“I wish,” Igan responds with his arms folded, “Try two and a half.”
“Really?” Tilthan leaves the company of his two compatriots and walks forward, “Either way, it’s good to see you.”
“I don’t know if I can say the same about you, Tilthan,” Igan responds in a matter of fact tone.
“C’mon,” Tilthan slaps the wizard on the arm, “You’ll warm back up to me. We’ll have so much fun… Whatever we’re doing.”
Igan wonders to himself, “Why are they here?” the thoughts race in his mind on the true nature of their expedition. “If we’re to find apprentices why would we need thieves? Iltar only brings Tilthan and his little band along for dire adventures. Something is amiss.”
The thieving troupe Tilthan had established, had expanded from him and his friend from youth, Nath, to a young woman named Sharon and this new individual which he didn’t recognize.
Shaking off the thoughts, Igan queries with narrowed eyes, “You really don’t know?”
“Nah,” Tilthan waves his hand drunkenly. “You know Cornar, he rarely tells you what’s going on until you’re right in the heat of it! Wait… that’s Iltar, but you know what I mean,” Tilthan turns around and exaggeratedly walks toward his two friends trying to keep his balance.
Nath, the other third of the trio Igan recognizes steps backward, letting Tilthan slip and fall on the wooden deck. The thief laughs at his friend, who is struggling to get up from the deck. Nath is of a similar build as Tilthan but with lighter brown hair and hazel eyes. Both thieves are shorter than average but very agile. Each are strong for their size and have often come in quite handy in previous adventures.
The third thief chuckles at the scene and folds his arms. He is slightly taller than the other two and is of a thicker build. Thick black hair waves atop his head. Upon his face are brown freckles, light skin and a thin nose. Blue eyes flash amid his amusement.
After a short while, Nath helps his friend up from the deck. The three thieves stumble below deck to find their quarters, singing along the way.
Once the thieves leave, Igan leans back against the rail and becomes lost in his thoughts. The wizard mutters, “I suppose I will have to wait until Cor arrives to find out what is really going on.”
After the space of half an hour Cornar arrives with his men, twenty experienced warriors, all trained by Cornar himself.
Each of these men had been fiercely loyal to Cornar; after all he had often shared his wealth with them on excursions which they participated.
Cornar was not a man of greed and understood that to make progress he had to elevate those around him. Over the last thirty years Cornar had developed one of the most rigorous combat training regimens on Soroth. His skills in martial combat were legendary, and even as a man in his mid fifties, Cornar was still a deadly opponent.
It was often the stories of his exploits that led men and sometimes women, to join his ranks. Some of the men and women he had trained had become body guards for some of the nobles of the island nation. Others became members of the Sorothian Navy, the Guardians of Soroth and the Soroth City Watch.
Cornar himself had been involved in martial combat as long as he could remember, having been trained as a small boy by his father before his death. It wasn’t until his late adolescent years that he used his skills for economic gain. This was also around the same time he had met Iltar, and when their long line of adventures began.
It was this experience that further enlightened Cornar. Eventually he had developed skills and strategies for working with wielders of magic. He was even instrumental in helping Iltar develop some of the magics he had previously showcased in stopping the acolytes’ rebellion several days ago. Since his earliest adventures with Iltar, nearly thirty five years ago, he has trained all those under him to respect the magical arts; to work together to triumph over their opponents.
Behind the small army are several carts, carrying food and other supplies for the long voyage. Cornar stands to the side of the gangway as his men unload the newly purchased goods. He verbally directs them where they should be stored.
Meanwhile, on the main deck, Igan looks over the rail and examines Cornar and his men; he watches as the carts are emptied and their contents brought aboard.
Once the supplies are emptied from the cart, the aged warrior ascends the gangway onto the Farling’s main deck.
“Everything is in order Cor,” a middle-aged man greets the older warrior as he steps onto the main deck. He is slightly taller than Cornar, and of a sturdy muscular build. He has short light brown hair, and hazel eyes. His face is sharp, with a thin jaw line and narrow chin.
“Thank you, Kalder,” Cornar responds as he pats the younger warrior on the shoulder and walks toward the aft of the vessel.
Watching this, Igan stares at the elder warrior and whistles in a pattern used as a signal by Cornar and the others.
Hearing the sound, Cornar turns and with a smile walks toward the wizard, shouting, “Igan my friend!”
“Cor,” the wizard grins and steps forward; once in arm’s reach, both men greet each other with a masculine embrace.
“It looks as if we’re prepared for war,” Igan remarks, “What with your warriors and the thieves down below. I was under the impression that this expedition was a simple recruitment process.”
“Well, you can never be too cautious,” Cornar responds, “We don’t know who we might encounter while Iltar and the rest of you work your magic.”
“But the thieves… Iltar has never brought them along for a mission like this.”
“Maybe Iltar wants to steal some babies,” Cornar laughs then smiles at the wizard. “I have other things to take care of, but let’s talk later.”
Nodding his head, Igan returns to the rail, deep in thought. He had known Iltar for many years and knew he was up to something. “It must be much bigger than rebuilding the Order,” the wizard thinks to himself. “I think none of the others have had a chance to discuss the details of our trip. I wo–”
“Prepare to depart!” Kenard yells from the helm, located to the aft and above Igan, jarring the wizard from his thoughts.
With the captain’s orders, the crew raises the ship’s anchors, and unfurls the sails.
Amid their actions, Igan holds the rail, watching as the vessel slowly backs out of the shipyard. The empty pier is silent, with no other activity in the area besides the creaking ship.
After a few minutes the Farling glides into the sea.
* * * * *
Later that day, a light wrapping at the door to the captain’s quarters calls Captain Kenard’s attention. He looks up from his desk, having been studying the sea charts of the region.
“Com–”
The door opens and Iltar slips in before the captain can finish his word. The old necromancer, still dressed in his dark robes, walks toward Kenard, and pulls a chair up to the captain’s side. Captain Kenard was used to Iltar’s behavior, and the necromancer’s forwardness was often expected.
“How much has Cornar told you of our voyage?”
“Not much,” the captain leans back in h
is chair.
“Good, I will give you more details later; but we are to sail to this island,” Iltar pulls a scroll of parchment from his robes, the same which had been copied the night before the rebellion.
“I cannot tell you much, but prior to our little incident within my Order a discovery came to our attention.”
The words pique the captain’s interest, and he sits up straight.
“Cornar is the only other man that knows the details. So keep your mouth shut, and you’ll be greatly rewarded,” Iltar’s eyes narrow at the captain and Kenard can tell this is a very serious matter.
“This is a duplicate of a map which was delivered to the leader of my Order. From what I can tell it was drawn to scale. The last several days I had been comparing it with charts much like those,” pointing to the ones sprawled across the polished wooden table. “If I am right it will take us five days to reach it.”
Kenard takes the parchment from Iltar’s hands and examines it, “If we row all day and night,” he retorts in jest.
“Then row if you must,” the words pierce the air.
The captain’s blue eyes meet Iltar’s. There is a deathly determination about the aged necromancer. His wrinkles around his eyes are more pronounced as he stares at the captain. Kenard turns to the table, clearing the magnified charts to reveal a larger map of Kalda. He sets Iltar’s redrawn map next to the artistic portrait of the world then takes a deep breath as he compares the two.
“It looks to be the same latitude as Merath, oh my…”
“Yes, and I believe slightly west of our chain of islands,” Iltar adds. After several seconds of silence the necromancer asks, “Can you calculate the coordinates?”
“It might take me a moment, but sure.”
Amid the captain’s calculations, Iltar clasps his hands together; he watches as the captain hastily measures the map and Kenard’s large hands tower over its surface, creating shadows like massive storms.
The Dark Necromancer Page 9
