* * * * *
After a quarter of an hour, Iltar arrives alone at the gates on the east end of the city which lead to the towering castle atop the rise of land. The path is well guarded, with ten armor clad sentinels that Iltar can see.
“Halt!” the guard nearest to the center of the gateway harshly barks; he is clad in armor similar to those protecting the governor’s manor on Soroth.
“I’ve come to see Baron Cilgan,” the necromancer states coldly. “I am Grandmaster of the Sorothian Magical Order,”
“He was not expecting you, why are you here?” the initial guard asks as he steps forward to examine Iltar. He motions for two other guards to come to him.
“It is a matter of business between myself and the good Baron–Don’t touch me!” Iltar shouts as the two sentinels motioned for frisk their armor clad hands through the necromancer’s robes.
“This is a standard procedure. You know how the Baron is, don’t you?” the first guard asks smugly.
“Yes,” the word grumbles out of Iltar’s mouth as he recounts the paranoia of Baron Cilgan. He was a man of great superstition, constantly searching for spies within the city. The people of Sereth were ever cautious as to not say or do anything that might be interpreted by the baron or his agents as seditious.
“He’s unarmed sir,” one of the guards states as he moves back toward the gate.
“You’re free to go Grandmaster,” the initial guard states as he motions back toward the path beyond the gates, which is lined with tall stone walls on either side.
Annoyed, Iltar shakes his head and slowly strides past the guards, grumbling statements of irritation and frustration concerning their procedure.
Once Iltar is through, the gates close and the sentinels resume positions guarding the threshold to the Serethian palace. The necromancer stops briefly and looks at the area around the gate then moves up the path and towards the castle in a quick manner.
“I feel as if I’ve waited an eternity for this,” Iltar thinks to himself.
After several minutes, Iltar reaches the final curve of the pathway and the palace home to the baron comes into view: The castle is surrounded by an outer wall made of a dull gray stone. Directly in front of the pathway is an iron rod gate with the outline of the baron’s crest in its center; a hawk-like bird.
Beyond the gate, a large moat can be faintly seen, as well as a narrow bridge spanning its boundaries. Another stone wall, slightly taller than the first, lines the inner parts of the moat and encases the castle’s wards.
The castle itself towers over five stories tall, each floor reaching the height of eleven phineals. Three circular towers spire from the highest level of the palace, one near the front gate and two behind on buildings connected to the main edifice by arched bridges. Each points to the sky with their cone shaped tips, atop them waves the flags with the crest of the Baron of Sereth; a dark green hawk-like bird looking upward against a gold background.
There are five buildings comprising the entire castle; the main keep is a diamond shape section that rises three stories with a middle segment that is two floors high and a rear portion which rises three above that. The rear part of the castle’s main hall is a circular structure nearly twice as wide as the forward section. Its upper edge on the rear portion bulges outward and has elongated oval arrow slits placed every four phineals.
Two smaller structures with slanted walls are closest to the main keep and the gate. The other two buildings are positioned along the center of the rear end of the main keep and are the bases of the rear towers.
“It seems his paranoia is driving his guards away,” Iltar mutters as he looks at four guardsmen stationed outside the gate leading to the bridge. “Four shouldn’t be too much to handle.”
Iltar slows his pace briefly before he comes within several phineals of the gates and states, “I’m here to see Baron Cilgan. I am Iltar, Grandmaster of the Sorothian Magical Order.”
“You weren’t expected,” the guard nearest Iltar’s left states.
“I know!” the necromancer scowls in response.
The guard stiffens in a pause before moving toward the gate which he opens with one hand.
Iltar waits for a moment, gazing at the sentinel who is holding the gate open; all the while, the necromancer rubs his chin through his gray hair lining the middle and lower parts of his face.
After several seconds, he averts his gaze and walks through the gate onto the bridge that spans the distance between the two walls.
The body of water lining the outer and inner walls is fairly large, nearly fifty phineals. Iltar cannot make out the depth of the water as it appears darkened and casts an illusion of an ongoing well.
Across the bridge, a view opens up to beautiful garden wards that surround the Serethian palace; a stone path cuts through the wards and leads directly to the front doors of the castle. Two guards open the doors for Iltar without any question, and the necromancer slows his pace slightly as he walks up the stone steps and into the main keep.
Immediately beyond the doors is a large diamond shape foyer, rising two stories in height. A large rug mimicking the shape of the walls covers most of the floor and in its center is a large table and various seating arranged around its sides. Directly in front of the doors is a wide one story corridor leading to the rear part of the keep.
“Welcome,” a male voice calls out in a higher than normal pitch.
In response to the greeting, Iltar turns to his left and watches as a servant rises from a chair, revealing him to be tall and lanky. “I would have greeted you at the door, but I wasn’t aware the Baron was having visitors today, you are?”
“Grandmaster Iltar. I rarely announce myself,” Iltar states coldly, “And when I don’t it means the matter is urgent.”
“Yes-yes,” the tall servant stammers. “I will take you straight to him. Please, follow me.”
The servant quickly leads Iltar across the diamond room toward the wide corridor. Tall windows, rising from waist height to the ceiling, allow a view out into the ward gardens enclosed by the buildings connected to the main keep; it is often the last glimpse of beauty most see when traveling through the castle.
At the end of the corridor, Iltar and the servant enter the large circular portion of the main keep. On the opposite end of the room are the bases of two flights of stairs; both curve along the walls and empty out onto the second floor a quarter of the way around the enormous room.
As Iltar walks through the center of the room, he notices the ceiling above rises three stories.
The necromancer silently follows the servant up the left set of stairs, passing through a curving landing that is twice the width of the staircase; the landing bridges the top of the stairs and the base of a stairwell leading to the keep’s third floor.
Along the wide landings are halls which branch off from the circular room; they are dim and do not reveal their depths.
Once Iltar reaches the second story landing, he can see an identical corridor that sits above the one he had just passed through; although, there is a set of stairs at the opposite end, leading to the part of the castle above the entry hall.
A moment later, both men ascend to the third floor from the second circular stairwell. At the top of the second set of stairs, the steps meet at a landing which rounds out over the second floor.
Immediately beyond the third story landing is a dimly lit hallway, illuminated by two light stones housed within golden sconces; this corridor is almost half the size of its two counterparts on the lower levels. After several steps inside the hallway it splits in two, divided by the stairwell leading to the fourth floor and the baron’s throne room.
The necromancer and his escort walk to the end of the corridor before being able to ascend the stairs. Iltar sighs in annoyance at the deliberate elongation of the walk, due to the architecture of the castle.
Atop the stairs leading to the fourth floor is a wide landing, illuminated by two light stones. The fourth story land
ing’s ceiling and the stairwell leading to it are level with each other.
At the end of the landing are two elaborate black doors. Two large golden rings with round weights at the bottom are positioned shoulder high on the doors.
The servant reaches out for one of the weights, grabs it and pulls back. With the weight released, it rushes to the door, causing a high pitched reverberating sound to echo within the landing.
After a moment, both doors slowly swing open; the servant steps through first, with Iltar reluctantly moving in behind him.
As he slowly enters the throne room, Iltar carefully examines the space which rises two stories in height and is windowless. Six shiny black pillars line the room, three on either side, between the wall with the door Iltar entered, and a raised platform containing the throne of the baron. Further behind the throne are two doorways leading to darkened corridors.
Four basins rest along the walls in between the pillars, each burning a hot flame. The air in the chamber is slightly stifling for the necromancer, causing Iltar to cough as he walks down a row designated by a black carpet; the runner spanning the length between the doors and the short stairs up to the throne.
Guards line the throne room; two on either side of each pillar, six along the back wall behind the throne and two at the main doors. Gray tiles, with green flecks and veins make up the floors, walls and ceilings of the chambers.
Iltar’s gaze shifts and focuses upon the throne, where Baron Cilgan narrowly glares at the unexpected guest.
Cilgan is a large and burly man with wavy hair that is a dull blond, accompanied by striking light blue eyes. A short nose marks the center of his face which is accented by high cheek bones. His face is clean shaven and has a light complexion. The baron is dressed in a dark red tunic and pants. Black boots reach midway up his shins along with black gloves of similar material covering his hands.
“Who dares disturb me?” Baron Cilgan shouts from his large ornate throne and leans forward.
“Grandmaster Iltar,” the servant shakes out the name and title.
“Iltar… my you’ve finally become the leader of your Order. No doubt by some fraud,” the burly baron laughs at the thought before continuing. “Why are you here?”
A sinister smile smears across Iltar’s face as he looks up to address the baron, who is sitting almost half his height above him. Iltar notices out of the corner of his eyes, two mages on either side of the throne room; each are sitting upon chairs atop the raised section, dressed in dark robes.
“I’ve come to take something that belongs to me.”
“Oh?” Baron Cilgan laughs aloud and tilts his head back, raising his hands in the air in front of his chest. After a short moment he responds with sarcasm, “And what is that?”
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” Iltar states flatly. “I am here to take back my apprentice, Balden.”
“You can’t have him!” Cilgan snaps in a bellowing voice. “He is the most expert of my mages in torturing my enemies. They are everywhere, and through him I can sniff them out. He is my hound now, not yours!” the words froth with wrath.
“Give him to me, or you and everyone else in this castle will die… slowly,” the necromancer glares at the twisted ruler.
“No,” Cilgan shakes his head and motions with his finger toward the necromancer.
Seeing his master’s reaction to Iltar’s demand, the servant standing by Iltar’s side quickly runs for safety, stumbling toward the doors from whence the pair entered.
At the Baron’s pointing gesture, the basins of fire lining the throne room erupt and the burning flames rise in a high arc.
Hearing the magical eruption, Iltar’s face twists with frustration and black magic seethes from his entire body; the dissolving mist violently erupts and creates his necrotic sphere of protection just as the flames crash down upon him.
Both magics press against each other, then after a moment the streams of fire are consumed by the necrotic sphere. However, the fiery beams are replaced by the ever burning magic from the four basins in the chamber.
During the magical outburst, four of the six guards at the rear of the raised section surround the baron to defend him; meanwhile the guards standing by the pillars move to the far walls on either end of the throne room.
Amid the continuous flaming assault, Iltar undauntedly splays his hands and his black magic coalesces just above his palms, forming two globes of darkness.
Just as the two deadly balls of magic form, Iltar flicks his wrists, causing the two globes of darkness to fly from his palms with incredible speed; they scrape along the edges of the pillars nearest the throne, dissolving the stone as they pass.
Within a second, the two globes of darkness strike the mages in the chest, causing them to scream in agony; the black magic dissolves their torsos then spreads across the rest of their bodies, turning them to dust.
In response, the fire in each of the four basins dissipates then specks of magic and ash rise to the air and vanish.
Sinisterly grinning at the baron, the necromancer utters the words to a magical incantation and greenish magic gathers in his hands.
Meanwhile, the guardsman directly to the right of the baron gasps for air and collapses to the ground, struck by an unseen force. Blood spews from his neck onto the floor, and the gray stone turns red.
Immediately thereafter, the two guards in front of the baron are struck and fall to the floor in a similar manner; a second later, the fourth guard to the left is knocked back by an unseen force, thrusting him away from the throne.
All the while, both guards stationed at the rear passageways draw their weapons and defensively turn every which way in search of their invisible assailants.
“You have the worst help,” Tilthan’s sly voice calls out from Baron Cilgan’s right. “Perhaps you could have singed his hairs if your mages shot the magic directly out rather than using that whimsical display of theatrics. Where did you get them anyway, a Sereth city festival?”
“This is impossible!” Baron Cilgan shouts and looks around frantically at the assault launched by Iltar and his invisible companions.
Meanwhile, in the center of the throne room, Iltar’s ensnaring tendrils have entangled eight of the guards behind the four pillars nearest the throne.
At this same time, the fourth guard who had rushed to the baron’s side pushes himself up but is quickly struck by a blade between his armor.
Just after the guardsmen is slain, Cilgan is thrust out of his throne, rolling forward down the three steps.
“Show yourselves, cowards!” Baron Cilgan’s words echo within the stone chamber and he raises his head from the runner; the baron glances toward the doors, which have just been flung open from outside the throne room. As the doors fly open, two of the warriors are charging in, Nordal and Midar.
As the two warriors run into the throne room, the servant sees them and is startled by their presence.
Without hesitation, Midar raises his sword above his head and leaps toward the servant, striking the tall man in the head with the pommel of his weapon.
The lanky servant abruptly falls to the stone floor as both of Cornar’s men turn to either side and engage the two guards stationed as doormen.
Both heavily armed sentinels swing their weapons in long exaggerated strokes, but Midar and Nordal each evade and parry the blows with their straight swords.
The four other guards near the doorway pillars rush to aid their allies fighting the invading warriors, swinging their weapons as they dash forward.
As Nordal and Midar were charging into the throne room, the two remaining guards on the raised area fall to the ground quickly, groaning in anguish; like their companions, their blood stains the stone tile red.
“Where are you cowards?!” Cilgan shouts as he rises to his feet and looks around, but he is quickly swept out from his sturdy stance by magical means.
The baron falls face-forward to the black runner of carpet then he looks over
his shoulder to see Iltar; the necromancer is standing with his arms folded and one hand grasping the source of the force that leveled him with the floor; it is the same green magic that is dragging the guards to their painful demise.
“I’m over here,” Cornar bellows from above Cilgan.
Looking up toward the warrior’s voice, Cilgan can see Cornar appearing from his feet up, slightly to the left of the throne. The warrior is stalwartly holding a shimmering cloak in his hand together with his blood drenched serrated dagger.
As Cornar emerges from invisibility, the first of the baron’s guards is slowly pulled into the necromancer’s dissolving sphere; the guardsmen’s screams echo across the throne room, which causes the others in the necromancer’s grasp to let out similar shrieks of terror.
“That is your fate, Cilgan,” Iltar stares at the baron with a twisted expression of pleasure, “Relish it!”
At that same moment, arrows sing through the air from the right of the baron’s throne, toward the four guards rushing to the two intruding warriors. The arrows appear just as they’re heard and fly from the rear of the room, striking each of the four guardsmen; the arrows pierce the neck of one and exposed portions between the plating of armor on the others.
Meanwhile, Midar, who went to the left, has knocked his foe to the ground and is stabbing the guard in the neck when both of the advancing guardsmen reach him. The warrior turns and with his free hand grabs the fanisar the fallen guard was wielding, using his foot to pry it from his grip.
Midar turns just in time to meet the two guards, who have been wounded by the arrows. He swiftly uses his sword and the staff of metal to parry and strike.
After several exchanges of blows and defensive movements, Midar stabs one of the guards he is engaged with in the neck.
The warrior kicks him away as the guard falls to the ground and Midar launches a twirling assault with both of the weapons against his last opponent.
The Dark Necromancer Page 34
