“I’ll do it,” Baekal swallows, still looking at the wood floor.
“Good… I have other business to attend to in the city. Within the next several days we will convene as a council,” Iltar rises from the seat and says the next with a strained tone of feigned sympathy. “I know you are mourning, but try to make it.”
With that said, Iltar swiftly walks toward the door, opening it and stepping through, leaving Baekal to weep over the loss of her husband.
* * * * *
In the south-westernmost port of Soroth, Captain Kenard, as well as some of his crew, are rowdily enjoying a late afternoon meal and the intoxicating beverages of a tavern. Through many of the southern windows a peaceful view can be seen of the southern sea and a small island in the distance.
Along the tavern’s south wall, Kenard is sitting at a table with his first mate, Cadru, and an additional guest who did not embark on the voyage; the trio is feasting on a large fish, baked in spices native to the islands around Soroth.
“Come now, Kenard,” the third man who is short and quite over weight says with a doubting tone, “You know just as well as anyone. There are no islands up there! People have sailed those seas for hundreds and even thousands of years. You would think that someone would have stumbled on this little island of yours.”
In response, Kenard drunkenly looks at the fat man who is stuffing his face with the filet of the fish; the seasoned flakes rub off the fat man’s lips onto the surrounding hairs. His brown reddish beard is long and has become messy during the meal.
“It was there,” Kenard slurs his words and looks at his friend. He rolls his eyes and reaches for a piece of the fish in front of him. “Do you believe we’re all delusional? There was my crew and twenty two others that returned.”
“Nah…” the fat man responds and waves his hands. “It just sounds so farfetched. If it was that far northward why would there be tropical warmth or sea lions. You know those beasts don’t live in anything but tropical waters.”
“Like I said before, I –”
Kenard is interrupted as the door to the small tavern opens and the room abruptly falls silent. The captain notices the men drinking at the bar have stopped their cheery conversations and are looking toward the entrance with steins in hand. Several of the others who were loudly enjoying a game of cards silently hold their game hands close.
“He’s here,” Cadru whispers to Kenard.
The sound of leather boots squeak against the wooden floor and Kenard hesitantly turns to face the tavern’s entrance. The captain drunkenly swallows hard as he watches his nefarious employer, Iltar, step across the tavern and toward him and his two friends.
Once Iltar reaches Kenard’s side he leans forward and says in a hushed tone, “Come with me, I have some unfinished business with you.”
Kenard wobbles to his feet as he rises from his chair and Iltar straightens in a firm posture; the necromancer’s vibrant blue eyes scan the room at each of the men who have been shocked into silence from his presence.
Smiling at the scene, Iltar turns, leading Kenard out of the tavern, who stumbles as he follows the necromancer toward the door.
Once the captain and necromancer are outside, Iltar asks without looking back, “Do you have a horse?”
“Nope,” Kenard answers; he can be heard stumbling across a small strip of pier that connects the tavern to the shore.
“Fine, we’ll wal–”
Interrupted, Iltar is pushed forward as Kenard bumps into him from behind and the necromancer grunts, turning toward the captain.
“I guess I still have my sea legs,” Kenard drunkenly quips and hiccups; the strong smell of liquor leaves his lips and tingle’s Iltar’s nostrils.
“Yea… And you’re in no shape to ride as it is,” Iltar disgustedly retorts and strides toward to the nearby road and Kenard follows close behind the necromancer.
After several minutes of walking north-eastward, the two men arrive at the Port Affairs building, the main offices for the shipping industry of Soroth. It covers an entire city block and is made from a light brown brick and cement like material, rising three stories high. Due to the sloping elevation, the southern part is raised to be level with the northern surface. Stairs mark the middle of the southern boundary, leading up to a small garden with trees on either side. The garden then flows toward the building and its entrance.
Both men walk through the manicured area and to the doors, which are raised one step above the garden.
The necromancer and the captain are silent as they enter the foyer for the Port Affairs; it’s a wide hall spanning the length of the edifice, with rooms on either side. At the end of the hall is an opened area with a straight stairwell against the far wall leading upward. On the second floor there is a similar hall to the first, and an open area just like the one below which houses the stairwell. However, there is not a second flight of stairs.
On the opposite end of the second story hallway, against the southern wall is a circular staircase that branches off into two directions.
Seeing the deliberate elongated lay out, Iltar shakes his head as the two men walk to the aforementioned stairs.
Atop the third level of the building is a large foyer which elongates away from the stairwell towards the north, with hallways branching off on either side of the space. Dark red walls with golden trim line the room, with similar colored furniture. At the northern end of the foyer are two large doors, carved from dark wood; above the wooden slabs is a metal plate with the words engraved upon its surface, “Office of the Port Magistrate.”
Near the doors is a desk with a short man deeply engrossed in perusing a ledger and other clerical paperwork; he doesn’t notice as Iltar and Kenard ascend the stairs and walk toward him and the doors.
As Iltar walks past the desk, the clerk finally realizes he has two guests and fumbles with the sheets in his hands while attempting to climb out of his seat.
“Wait! You can’t go in there!”
Ignoring the clumsy clerk, Iltar pushes the two double doors open; all the while, the clerk is shouting to Iltar and the captain, “Wait! Wait!”
Inside the port magistrate’s office, bookshelves full of books and rolled parchments line the walls and corners nearest the doors. Luxurious furniture is positioned around the bookcases that square off those sections of the room.
At the far end of the office is a desk with two short armchairs in front of it, both occupied by men dressed in the garbs of affluent traders.
Behind the desk sits the port magistrate, a man of average height who has a lightly fuzzed face of brown follicles. He has brown hair that hangs down to his shoulders in a neat and straight trim.
“You don’t have an appointment, do you?” the shorter man asks in a hushed tone as he hurriedly walks up to Iltar’s side. He tugs the necromancer by the sleeve of his tunic and demands, “You need to wait!”
“I won’t wait for an appointment!” Iltar snarls as he menacingly glances to the clerk who rises only midway up his chest; the necromancer grabs the hand tugging at his left sleeve and throws it aside.
“You better watch it, Shorty,” Captain Kenard says in a slightly drunken tone. “He’ll kill you in an instant.”
With a surprised look on his face, the short clerk steps back and quickly snaps a response, “You can’t threaten me, I’m a public official!”
Meanwhile, across the room the port magistrate turns his attention from his business associates and looks at Iltar and Kenard; as he sees the captain he shakes his head.
Noticing their host’s shift in focus, the two traders turn to face the intruders.
“I’m busy, come back later,” the port magistrate says in an irritated tone and returns his gaze to the affluent traders in front of him. “Now where were we?”
With that said the two traders turn themselves around in their chairs to face the port magistrate; all the while, Iltar and Kenard continue to walk forward with the short assistant close behind them.
“I thought I told you I’m busy,” the port magistrate retorts while flicking his wrist at the intruders, “Now leave!”
With that said, the port magistrate returns his attention to the traders in front of him.
“Don’t ignore me…” Iltar snarls and pulls his right hand back, uttering a magical incantation; in that same instant, orange magical light gathers in his palm. The necromancer quickly thrusts his hand forward and flicks his wrist. As he does so, the orange light coalesces into an uncoiling cord of life draining magic; it pulses once and races toward the port magistrate.
Shocked by the assault, the port magistrate hastily rises and stumbles backward, knocking over his chair; however, his escape is in vain. The life draining cord swiftly wraps around his neck.
The port magistrate attempts to pull it off but the necromancer quickly steps back with his right foot, pulling his extended arm backward.
In that same instant, the port magistrate flies over his desk and lands at Iltar’s feet. He continues to struggle to loosen the cord and gasps for air.
“It’s no use,” Iltar snarls.
In response to their associate’s dramatic flight over the desk, the trader on Iltar’s right quickly stands and twirls around his chair. He speedily draws a dagger at his side and lunges toward the necromancer.
With narrowed eyes, Iltar quickly utters another incantation as the trader leaps toward him. The trader quickly closes the gap before Iltar can finish the incantation and he thrusts his dagger toward Iltar’s stomach. However, as it pierces his tunic, Iltar steps backward, but it is not enough and the dagger shallowly punctures his skin.
Amid the stabbing, whitish-blue magic quickly clouds together in Iltar’s left hand as blood drips from his tunic; all the while, the trader recoils to strike again.
Enraged, Iltar thrusts his left hand out to the advancing trader’s shoulder and a streak of lightening races from the magical cloud in his palm.
The lightning strikes the trader as he comes within weapon’s reach of Iltar and he is thrust backward; he twirls in the air as he flies over his chair, landing on the ground near the port magistrate’s desk.
Seeing the scene play out and partially turned in his seat, the second trader leans away from Iltar and stammers, “P-please powerful mage… don’t harm me.”
“You ignore me, then you grovel? How pathetic!” Iltar shouts and flicks his left hand toward the trader. A second bolt of electrical energy streaks from the magic in his palm to the trader’s shoulder, dissipating the cloud in the necromancer’s grasp.
The magic jolt quickly knocks the trader out of his chair and he bounces against the front of the desk where he slides to the floor.
“How unfortunate,” Iltar growls and touches his wound with his left hand, then glances to the port magistrate beneath him. “I suppose you owe me something now.”
In response to Iltar’s vague remark, the orange cord pulses twice and the port magistrate cries out in agony.
“You can hold your associate responsible for that,” Iltar chuckles and looks at the man on the floor in front of him. “Now, get up magistrate!”
The port magistrate doesn’t stir from the command, but continues to gasp on the floor, reaching to pull the magical cord from his neck.
“Humph,” Iltar growls then pulls the life draining rope by flinging his hand high into the air. In response, the glowing orange cord pulls the port magistrate to his feet. The magic leaves Iltar’s hand, floating in suspension in the air.
“Now remember this feeling,” the necromancer’s face glows with pleasure as he stares at the port magistrate, whose features contort in an overwhelming sense of dread and pain. “You will do exactly what I say, or else you and everyone you love will suffer a fate far worse than this. My good friend here, Captain Joselin Kenard, needs something you took from him. Do you know what that is?”
Struggling to stand and avoid the magical cord from suffocating him, the port magistrate nods his head.
“I couldn’t hear that… you don’t know?” Iltar’s twisted sadistic question is followed by a tightening grip with his right hand that squeezes the port magistrate’s neck; but not enough to cause him to suffocate to death.
“Yes…” the word softly squeaks out from the port magistrate’s mouth.
“Good…” Iltar flicks his hand in dismissal; the magical cord slips away from the port magistrate’s neck like a snake and back into Iltar’s palm.
The port magistrate collapses to his knees and gasps for air, exhausted from the magic; he warily looks up to Iltar and Captain Kenard who are standing over him.
“That was amazing!” Kenard shouts and puts his hand over his head as if containing his excitement.
“You will give the good captain his ship back immediately,” Iltar demands. “Do whatever you need to, but I want his ship back in his hands before the sun sets, or else you will regret it. And don’t even think of going to the authorities over this matter, or I will expose you for the fraud you pulled with the good captain. Do you understand?”
“Ye-yes…”
“Well… why are you still on the floor?” Iltar puts his hands on his hips, “I hardly drained any of your precious life. Move!”
Frightened, the port magistrate struggles to stand; when he does, he turns to the two traders who were conducting business with him.
“B-but… you killed them.”
“Ha! Why would I do such a foolish thing? They’re merely unconscious from the jolt,” Iltar shakes his head at the businessman’s naivety concerning magic.
Amid the explanation, the port magistrate stumbles back toward his desk, and his legs give way, causing him to kneel in front of the furniture. He pulls a piece of parchment from the top of the desk and scribbles some writing. After a while the port magistrate calls out to the captain as he removes a seal and presses its inked surface on the parchment.
“Kenard… here. Take this to the impound,” the port magistrate hands the hand written document to the drunken captain who is wobbling forward.
“Thank… you!” Kenard reaches out and rolls it together as he walks back to Iltar’s side.
“If you dare try anything like that again, you will regret it,” Iltar threatens menacingly as he turns around toward the doors.
The short assistant clerk catches Iltar’s eye, cowering behind one of the sofas in the room.
“As for you, keep your mouth shut!” the necromancer points at the clerk, who lets out a squeal as he wildly nods his head in the affirmative. “Or you will suffer the same fate as the port magistrate!”
With that said, Iltar briskly walks toward the office’s doors.
“Pleasure doing business with you… as always!” Kenard sarcastically laughs then quickly rushes to catch up to Iltar who is already through the doors and midway to the stairs.
Within minutes the two men are outside the building walking back along the open street to the tavern.
Captain Kenard walks alongside Iltar and examines the parchment, carefully reading and rereading the words. He rubs it, feeling the seal stamped on the parchment.
“I don’t believe it… Iltar, you are amazing!” Kenard calls out and gives the necromancer a tight hug. “I’ll take you anywhere you need to go!”
“Enough!” Iltar attempts to shake the drunken captain from his side, but Kenard tightens his hold.
“You’re the best employer a sailor could ask for! Thank you, thank you!” the captain finally lets the necromancer go and the two continue to resume their walk back to the tavern in silence.
Once they arrive, Iltar quickly walks to his horse and unties the reigns. He watches Kenard walk toward the door of the tavern and once the drunken captain enters, Iltar can hear the muffled sound of Kenard’s announcement followed by subsequent cheers.<
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Chuckling, Iltar shakes his head and climbs on top of his black steed.
* * * * *
Almost a third of an hour later, Iltar arrives at the north eastern most city square. It is evening and the Kaldean sun shines through the buildings around the plaza in a warm light from the east.
Iltar’s steed quickly gallops through the square, rounding the edges of the west and north portions until he reaches the opened area just in front of the notorious Sea Vistonia; several other horses and carriage drawn vehicles crowd the eastern part of the square, most assuredly their riders enjoying the hospitality of the establishment.
“There better not be a long wait,” Iltar snarls as he dismounts from his horse.
As Iltar reaches to tie the reigns to a post directly in front of the steed, he feels a tight grip on his upper arm.
With rage burning within him, the necromancer turns in disgust, still with the reigns in hand; however, he’s taken aback as he sees a very old man, dressed only in a simple wrap of dirty cloth around his waist.
“Oh kind sir…” the old man trails off in a bereft tone as he holds Iltar’s arm. “I have heard mention of your name in the city the last day and of your generosity to others. Please, will you spare something that I might eat?”
A look of surprise and disgusted abhorrence forms over Iltar’s face as he leans back, attempting to break free from the frail man in front of him. However, the grip around Iltar’s arm tightens, squeezing the necromancer in an immovable grasp.
Further surprised, Iltar averts his gaze to the old beggar’s hand, and then to his face.
“Would you show charity to me?” the old beggar’s wrinkles thicken as his features express his disparity, and his eyes look into Iltar’s.
As the two men’s gazes meet, Iltar’s eyes lock on to the old man’s dull gray irises. In that same instant, an overwhelming sensation comes over Iltar which shows on his face, rendering him motionless; his mind races back to the nightmare of the morning and the hatred filled gaze of the dragon a week ago.
The Dark Necromancer Page 30
