The Dark Necromancer

by D. J. Zangari

  Behind him, Iltar can hear the voices of Governor Riner and Discerner Brandir discussing the incident and the tale; their voices fade as Iltar enters the small waiting room with the governor’s assistant.

  “Perfect,” Iltar thinks to himself as he retraces his steps along the hall outside the governor’s office. “My ruse is set. And all I need to do is wait before I can slip away to Merda. With that story I’m sure anyone would be discouraged from making any attempt to head to either of the places on that map. I know Riner will summon me again. In that second meeting I will continue with this deception so as to thwart anyone else attempting to take on my quest to re-forge the amulet.”

  Dusk has settled in over Soroth as Iltar reaches the circular staircases that descend below the top floor of the capital building. As he reaches the bottom of the stair, Iltar turns to the familiar guard on his right.

  “Menal,” Iltar addresses the armor clad man, “Will you escort me to the gates?”

  “Yes, Master Iltar,” the guard relaxes from his sentinel stance and waits for the necromancer to walk between him and the other guard before joining Iltar’s side.

  As the two men walk back through the capital building, Iltar relates the same false story to the man Cornar had trained. Menal quietly listens to the details of the adventure to the dragon’s isle and the subsequent usurping by Iltar. Once they reach the long road between the fountain and the outer gates the necromancer gives Menal a suggestion.

  “You should talk with Cornar. There is another matter of importance he will want to discuss with you,” Iltar stops speaking as the two men come into earshot of the guards at the gate.

  “I will,” Menal responds and stops, “I must return to my post. I am glad you and Cor are unharmed. Travel home safely.”

  * * * * *

  The triumphant necromancer walks the darkening streets of the city, still in his battle torn robe with his cowl over his shoulders. He travels northward and makes several turns along streets to the east, zigzagging his way to the structure of the now Sorothian Magical Order.

  Outside the Order’s home, a large crowd has gathered. Members of the City Watch stand outside the closed gate. Red cords have been strung across the gates indicating a scene under quarantined investigation. There is a commotion within the crowd, and Iltar can discern that the people gathered are demanding to know what is happening at the magical compound.

  As Iltar steps closer, several of the people turn and recognize him. One man points and shouts to the others, “Look! He’s a member of the council, maybe he knows!”

  Still walking forward, Iltar grins but quickly regains a serious composure. He stops just beyond the questioning mob and addresses them.

  “Citizens of Soroth, today marks the beginning of a rebirth. No longer will the corrupt necromancers shackle the students of this once great magical order. The Necrotic Order of Soroth dies today!” Iltar takes a deep breath before continuing. “And now as the sun sets in the east, a new order will rise from that decayed filth. As the light ceases to shine in that distant horizon, so too will that dead brotherhood. The Sorothian Magical Order will rise again, like the sun in the west.”

  Many of the onlookers stare quietly as the necromancer in front of them lets the words sink into their minds. That name had not been mentioned in over three decades; most of the younger generation listening had no inclination whatsoever as to Iltar’s change in words of the magical society’s name.

  “As the last surviving member of the former organization, I hereby publicly disband it and announce the reformation of our ancient order. Soon,” Iltar points at the wrapped gates with red cords binding them, “These gates will be opened to anyone willing and able to be called a student of the magical arts. No longer will necromancy prevail, but will be equal among all the other six schools of magic.”

  Bursts of cheers erupt from the crowd, and others stand in amazement at Iltar’s declaration. Some speak amongst themselves of the possibilities opening up with this new change.

  Amid the cheers, Iltar looks directly at the gate with the two watchmen and pushes his way forward.

  As the necromancer moves through the mass of bodies, several reach for him in a gesture of gratitude. Cries of “Thank you,” penetrate his ears along with other queries as to the nature of the change and when they will allow new students into the order; Iltar ignores them and continues to move through the crowd.

  “Where are the other men that were detained?” Iltar shouts over the crowd as he reaches the two watchmen.

  “We released them not long before you arrived. I believe they went that way,” the watchman on the left points in an easterly direction.

  Iltar’s eyes narrow as he contemplates his companion’s movements, “Perhaps Cornar took them back to his home.”

  Without any words of gratitude for the two watchmen, Iltar moves along the magical order’s gates and the wall of its northern border. However, the crowd shifts and follows him. Their questions still ringing in his ears.

  Reluctantly, Iltar stops. Irritation shrouds his face, but slowly fades as he takes a step to turn and face the crowd; exercising restraint was not something the necromancer was used to doing.

  “Soon, all your questions will be answered. I’m sure the governor will make an address. As to when we will open our doors, it will be some time. We need to gather those that are able to teach their arts. Perhaps a week or months, but the faster knowledge of this change gets around, the sooner we will attract those needed to revitalize the Order.”

  With that said Iltar turns and quickly leaves. The same frustration shrouds his face again, and he dons his cowl to hide his fury of emotions building within his facial features.

  After several minutes of walking, Iltar reaches Cornar’s city estate; the gates are closed, but from the archway Iltar can see movement from within the home.

  Opening the metal gate, the necromancer steps in and closes it behind him. His pace is quick as he treads across the stone walkway to the estate’s covered porch.

  As Iltar approaches the porch, the doors open from within and the necromancer steps through. Throughout the two rooms and the connecting foyer, chatter about the entire ordeal fill the room from drunken voices.

  With his emotions swelling, Iltar grabs the door’s edge and quickly slams it with the man on the other side still grasping the handle.

  At the crashing sound, the chatter ceases and Iltar’s rotten mood fills the air.

  “I was wondering when you would show up,” Cornar calls out from the hall in front and to the right of the main doorway, carrying a platter of tall glasses filled with a light-bluish alcoholic beverage.

  “Care for one?” the warrior asks as he approaches his life-long friend.

  Iltar reaches forward and grabs a glass, swallowing most of its contents.

  “It was that bad?”

  “The fool had the audacity to bind me and deliver me to the governor like some trophy,” Iltar snarls. “I swear, one day I will make him pay for that indenture!

  “Now, is everyone here?”

  “Yes, we all came back together… I figured you would want to talk to us.”

  Still standing by the door, Iltar swallows hard before speaking, “All of you,” the necromancer snaps, “Listen! The City Watch will watch all of you closely. Be careful what you say and how you say it, especially those that went ashore to the island. If people ask details don’t give them any, but rather reinforce that it was a nightmarish place that you want to forget. From here on, make yourselves available. You can all go, except for Hagen, Hex and Amendal.”

  Cornar’s eyes narrow, anticipating that Iltar wants to talk to them in private. Knowing that some of the men won’t leave the company of their host’s collection of liquor just yet, the warrior motions for Iltar to follow him. Cornar hands the liquor filled platter to Shen who is standing in the doorway next of the parlor by the stairs.

  Each of the individual mages Iltar called for walk into the foyer, holding
their drinks in hand.

  “Let’s talk elsewhere,” Cornar says and leads the quartet of magic wielders to the upper levels of his home.

  Atop the second floor a hallway runs the width of the home, and several doors line the wall opposite of the stair. The warrior moves to the one immediately to the right of the landing and opens it; beyond the door is an average bedroom suite, with a large window on the right that has seating along the sill.

  One by one, Iltar and his coconspirators enter the bedroom.

  Hagen is the last to enter, shutting the door behind himself. The illusionist smiles drunkenly as he moves into the room and sits on the edge of the bed next to Amendal.

  Standing at the window, Iltar folds his arms and holds the tall glass with his higher hand while addressing the others, “It seems the governor bought the story. He had me released on good intentions, but they will be watching my every step. We need to continue to whisper disaster about the island and Merda.”

  “What do we do now?” Hex asks, standing next to Cornar along the exterior wall of the room.

  “We rebuild the order. I want to gather more information about Merda and get Balden released. After things are in place here we can slip away. How I’m not sure, but we will use Kenard’s ship. Perhaps something will come up we can use to our advantage.”

  “So,” Hagen squeaks out in his high pitched voice with a tone tainted by alcohol. “Do I get to be on the council?”

  “Of course not,” Iltar chuckles, “I need my most capable mages with me when we go to Merda. And making a council member of anyone that went with me to the island would look suspicious. We need to find six mages, each a master of the separate magical arts to fill the council seats. A wizard, illusionist, conjurer, transmuter, barsionist and arpranist. For now, we’ll have them instruct the new students that will flood our doors, but eventually we will need to find others adept enough to teach our masses.”

  “Where are you going to find masters of the last two schools?” Hagen asks with a hiccup. “I don’t know of any that have stayed here on Soroth.”

  “Do you want us to go find them, Iltar?” Hex asks.

  “Actually. Yes,” the necromancer turns to the wizard, “That will help greatly. Once we receive demands for those schools of magic we can compile a list. We can use that to help motivate those men and women to return to Soroth.”

  “Amendal,” Iltar turns to the old conjurer, “I want to speak with your brother, Arintil. He will be the first member of the council.”

  The old conjurer nods his head and responds, “Good, I’m glad you didn’t ask me…”

  Iltar gives the old man a grim smile and continues laying out his plans to the others in the room. “I intend to ask Igan’s wife to join the council as well. I hope she accepts,” Iltar sighs as he thinks about facing her. “With Igan’s death it could distant her, but I would rather have someone I know that hates me rather than someone unknown.”

  “Good luck with that,” Hagen squeaks out, tucking his chin into the base of his neck.

  “Do you want me to do anything Iltar?” Cornar asks, “Anything in particular I mean.”

  “Besides gathering more men, no. Menal will be coming to speak with you. Perhaps you can conscript him for the journey.”

  Addressing the rest generally, Iltar continues, “I want the five of us to meet in private like this as we progress towards our next expedition. If anything surfaces among the tasks you’re undertaking, you will summon all of us together and we can meet here. You will say that Cornar is planning on hosting drinks at his estate.

  “Hagen, I want you to help Hex in finding teachers and the last four council members. Deliver me a list of known persons that have left the islands within three days. Amendal, take a new apprentice, I –”

  “No!” the old conjurer barks from the bed, “I will not take another apprentice!”

  “You senile fool, quiet down!” Iltar barks through clenched teeth, “Remember, there are others down below. As the leader of our guild I order you to take a new apprentice. That young girl down there wants to be a conjurer. And you will teach her.”

  “I don’t instruct women…” the old conjurer trails off as he looks to the ceiling and attempts to ignore Iltar in a childish way.

  “She will be a good student, Amendal,” Cornar vouches. “Nilia is a dedicated woman.”

  “I want you to teach her so she can help in rebuilding the Order,” Iltar states. “She would be the first of many new acolytes and training her in the magical arts will help further our recruitment. She will eagerly publish her ‘wonderful experiences’ throughout the city. In addition, I already told her she could become a conjurer, and I don’t want this new reputation I’ve created for myself to become tarnished.”

  Grumbling, the old conjurer reluctantly responds, “Fine! But I’m only teaching her within the walls of the Order.”

  “You’re not going to take her home?” Hagen asks as he looks at his empty glass with disappointment, then to the old conjurer seated next to him.

  “I don’t want to give her the wrong impression; after all, I am a handsome man,” Amendal states proudly, quickly changing his mood from annoyance to boasting.

  Hex holds back laughter at the brim of his lips, but it’s not dammed for long. Soon, all the men are laughing at Amendal. The serious comment from the oldest among them helps break Iltar’s foul mood, and the necromancer places his glass on the sill.

  Still chuckling, Cornar walks across the room and to the door, “I take it we’re done?”

  Iltar nods and Cornar leaves the room.

  Outside the bedroom the warrior leans over the rail, “Nilia! Come up here.”

  From the larger parlor, the young maid emerges with a similar serving platter to what Cornar had been carrying, “Yes?”

  “You can leave that down there,” Cornar says and leans back; the warrior stretches his arms and lets out a long exhale of breath.

  A moment later, Nilia rushes up the stairs in a light jog. Her pale green eyes widen, not knowing what her employer will ask of her.

  As she reaches the landing, she rounds the post and steps into the opened hall. Cornar motions for her to enter the doorway to her right. With some trepidation, she moves forward with the warrior behind her.

  Once both are inside, Cornar closes the door. The senior mages stare at the young woman, still with Amendal’s comments lingering in their minds and the physical result on their faces.

  “Young woman,” Amendal says in a very stern and strict tone while he stands from the bed. He walks towards the door where Nilia and Cornar are standing, the warrior gently resting his hand on her shoulder. “By order of the Grandmaster of the Sorothian Magical Order, I take you as my apprentice in the conjuration arts.”

  Shocked by the announcement, Nilia’s eyes widen even more and her jaw droops. She turns to Cornar behind her who has a smile about his lips, and nods slightly confirming the crazy old man’s words.

  “You’re the first student of this new Order Nilia,” Iltar states firmly with a weighted tone, “Take it seriously and be proud of this selection.”

  As she recovers from the surprise, the young woman turns to Cornar and gives him a warm embrace. Tears brim the lids of her eyes as she looks up to Cornar with an elated smile.

  “Now you can do what you’ve always wanted,” Cornar says as he looks down at the girl.

  “Thank you!” she leaves her employer’s embrace and moves close to Amendal and reaches out to hug him.

  “Wait!” the old conjurer backs up, almost stumbling on the bed, “You must never touch your new master in such a way… it would not be appropriate.”

  Slightly confused, Nilia looks to the others in the room, one by one.

  “Don’t worry,” Iltar rises from his seat on the window sill, “He’s crazy. There is no rule for such things.”

  “Oh,” the young woman looks down at the ground with a smile. “Thank you Master Iltar… I mean Grandmaster Iltar,” Nili
a steps forward and gives Iltar a hug, resting her head against the necromancer’s chest.

  With one arm, he frankly repeats the embrace; Iltar’s lack of sociability with the opposite sex had left him perplexedly at arm’s length for almost all interactions with them. This, coupled with gratitude, was very foreign to the necromancer.

  Amid the embrace, Iltar looks across the room to Cornar, who is bursts into comical laughter; his emerald eyes flash, amused by Iltar’s awkwardness.

  14

  Reformation

  Later that evening, Iltar rides across the moonlit dirt road within Soroth’s vast forest with one of Cornar’s brown horses. His trunk containing the copies of the scrolls and his most valuable possessions is strapped to the back of the horse’s saddle; it bounces as the necromancer speeds through the woodland at magically enhanced speeds.

  “Finally,” Iltar sighs as his borrowed horse gallops through the edge of the woodland which surrounds his estate.

  A smile forms grimly upon Iltar’s face as his family’s old home and his tower come into view; without decreasing speed, Iltar bolts toward the section of stone roadway between the home and the stables.

  The necromancer abruptly stops the horse, and it lets out a loud nicker and neigh which pierces the air.

  As Iltar dismounts from Cornar’s brown beauty, the necromancer’s servants hurriedly come out from the side entrance of the home; his groomsman and his maid.

  “Master Iltar, you’re home?!” the groomsman cries out in surprise as he grabs the reigns of the horse, “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “Do I ever tell you when I will return?” Iltar irritably and slowly snarls the words from exhaustion.

  “No, of course not sir,” the groomsman mutters as he grabs the horse by the reigns. “I will deliver the chest to your study promptly.”

  Iltar sighs heavily and watches as the groomsman guides the horse to the stables, gently talking to the horse and calling him by name.