by Dan Zangari
LEGENDS OF KALDA
TREACHERY IN
THE KINGDOM
TALES OF THE AMULET · IV
DAN ZANGARI
ROBERT ZANGARI
Copyright 2015 LOK Publishing
All rights reserved.
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ISBN 13: 978-0-9979598-5-7
Visit our web site at http://www.legendsofkalda.com/
Tales of the Amulet
THE DRAGON’S LEGACY
THE ELVEN SECRET
THE MAGES’ AGENDA
TREACHERY IN THE KINGDOM
Short stories
THE LAST BARSIONIST
MYSTERIOUS ASSASSIN
RETURN OF THE ELVES
A FORGOTTEN HERO
GUARDIANS OF KALDA
Contents
Contents
Prologue
1: Investigation
2: Surreptitous Entry
3: Trial
4: Quandary
5: Prison
6: Reinforcements
7: Into the Forest
8: Melar
9: Confrontation
10: Arbath
11: The Under-City
12: Preparations
13: Opportunty
14: Complications
15: The Final Shipment
16: Betrayal
17: The Prison Castle
18: Trust
19: Escape
20: Return to Paradise
21: Abandoned
Epilogue
Glossary
Author’s Afterword
Special Offer
About the Authors
Other titles by the Authors
Connect with the Authors
Illustrations
Kalda, the Civilized World Map
For Marina
Prologue
Lightening streaks across the evening sky over the city of Soroth and resounds thunderously amid a crowded street in the southern parts of the island port city.
A shrouded female figure, covered in a cloak and cowl, moves through dense traffic along the roadway, her head turning every which way beneath her cowl. After a moment she stops and gazes up at a sign hanging from a carved wooden arm near the door of the building to her right. Engraved upon its surface it reads, “Elindor’s Gallery,” with a subscript, “Curator of Fine Art.”
The shrouded woman quietly moves through the crowd and toward the building’s entrance, stepping inside.
As she enters the gallery, a bell rigged to the inside of the doorframe sharply rings and a tired voice calls out in response; “I’m about to close for the night. Come back tomorrow.”
“You really should reconsider El’sulth,” the woman loudly retorts and pulls the cowl from her head, revealing her shoulder length curly black hair. An anticipating smile is upon her face, causing her high arching eyebrows to become more pronounced.
With her cowl over her shoulders, the woman steps away from the doorway and further into the gallery. Immediately beyond the door is a large room, nearly twenty phineals deep and twice that in width. Tall display cases line the space, from the front to the rear of the room; within each are elaborate paintings and hand woven tapestries depicting a variety of style and technique. Similar pieces of art adorn the rear and side walls of the space.
“I don’t know who you are,” the same voice calls out from the rear left portion of the shop and can be heard moving around the display cases, “But there is no one here by–”
Suddenly the curator of the gallery appears from behind the nearest display case. He is a tall middle-aged man and is of a thin but muscular build. He has blonde hair tainted with streaks of grey. At the sight of the woman he is abruptly taken aback.
“Well,” the woman smiles with her full lips. “Will you reconsider?”
“What are you doing here?” the curator demands in a tone of utter shock and surprise. “How did you find me? You’re–”
“Elindor,” another male voice calls out, “I’m leaving.”
Both curator and the woman stand in silence as a young man emerges from behind the same display case and almost bumps into the curator.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“You’re fine,” Elindor says without looking at the young man.
“Is there something wrong?” the young man asks as he steps around the curator and the woman. He looks at the latter and asks, “Who are you?”
“My name is Maurin,” the woman responds with a smile, “And I’m a friend.”
The young man looks at Maurin with a puzzled expression then to Elindor who returns the gaze with a simple nod of the head and a motion with his hand for the young man to go.
“Everything is fine,” Elindor sighs, “She just startled me.”
“Alright,” the young man responds and walks for the entrance of the gallery and steps out into the stormy evening.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Elindor growls under his breath.
“No,” Maurin shakes her head, “But I have a good reason.”
“This is not a place to talk,” Elindor says and steps past Maurin. He turns a twist-knob on one of the several locks on the gallery’s entry door then turns around while pointing to the left side of the room, “In the back.”
Maurin silently nods her head and follows Elindor past the display cases and into a corridor which runs toward the rear of the building. They pass several hallways which branch off to the right then come to the foot of a stairwell.
“I live upstairs,” Elindor remarks as he leans Maurin up the steps. They rise to a landing then turn back toward the front of the gallery. “No one will hear us as we converse.”
“Good, because I have something intriguing to discuss with you.”
Elindor looks over his shoulder then guides Maurin down a hall to his left which opens up to a small parlor where two high-back chairs are turned away from a fireplace in the room.
“Tell me,” Elindor sighs as he sits in one of the chairs. “What’s so intriguing that requires you to break your oath?”
“What can you tell me about a necromancer named Alacor?” Maurin asks and gracefully sits upon the vacant chair.
“He’s dead,” Elindor responds.
“I see,” Maurin mutters, “Dorith was right.”
“What does he have to do with this?”
Maurin chuckles and shakes her head and responds, “The Mages of Alath received word that a necromancer from Soroth was attempting to re-forge the Au’misha’k. One of the council member’s brothers informed them, he claimed to be an illusionist from here. He spoke about this necromancer discovering ancient text–”
“That’s impossible!” Elindor almost shouts, “No human knows about the Au’misha’k. And even the elves have almost all but forgotten about it.
“Besides,” Elindor waves his hand. “No such texts exists, if it did it would only be fictitious.”
“You don’t know then,” Maurin sighs and places her elbow on the armrest of the chair followed by raising her palm to rest her chin. “I suppose you have never been to Keth.”
“No I haven’t,” Elindor retorts in a tone tainted with frustration.
“W
ell then, let me tell you. During the war with Karthar a record was written by Ilnari. He chronicled the origins of the Au’misha’k and even laid out clues to find its hidden pieces and re-forge it.”
“That’s preposterous!”
“Still your tongue,” Maurin sharply rebukes the curator. “I haven’t seen the record but my father told me of its existence and where he, his father and the elf hid it. The record was made for the Mages of Alath, incase none of us were left on Kalda and they were in need of dealing with the remnant of Cheserith’s seed.”
“The Ril’Sha would never have allowed that!” Elindor loudly snaps. “Besides we know the last of the Lish’sha were killed a little over a hundred years ago; Your father and your son saw to that.”
“El’sulth,” Maurin raises her brow at the curator, “This is getting us nowhere. The record exists and was found by this necromancer, and it is Dorith’s believe that the governor of this island nation is working in collusion with him.”
“Riner is not working with a necromancer,” Elindor chuckles, “He’s hunting one. The grandmaster of the newly reformed Soroth Magical Order, Iltar the son of Adrin.”
Maurin visibly flinches at the curator’s statement and mutters, “Iltar…”
“Dorith is misinformed,” Elindor shakes his head. “Iltar killed Baron Cilgan over two months ago, or there-about. Although I haven’t been able to discern the truth; I am almost certain it was done to further his spree of vengeance. After all he killed everyone else that had ties to his parent’s death, and now he seems to be killing anyone that was immediately related to those who orchestrated Adrin’s demise; Which includes several of his fellow council members at the Necrotic Order.
“Now, according to the City Watch, Iltar was conspiring to overthrow the government of Soroth; of course that was announced after the entire Sorothian Navy left port without any of their mages. The Watchmen have been keeping everything quiet about the ordeal.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Maurin sighs. “Why is Riner chasing Iltar, unless he somehow knows about the Au’misha’k.”
“I don’t know,” Elindor shrugs, “And I don’t really care.”
“How could you be so callous after everything I’ve said?” Maurin demands.
“We are to observe,” Elindor narrows his eyes at Maurin. “Not interfere. We are usa’zin’sha, trained to walk among humans not meddle in their affairs.”
“How old are you El’sulth?”
“That is not relevant,” the curator responds and rises to his feet and proceeds to walk across the room and back into the hallway he and Maurin had previously traversed. “I’m done with this heinous discussion.”
“Have you not learned anything in all your years?” Maurin sharply rebukes Elindor and rises to her feet to chase after the curator.
“Oh,” Elindor nods his head and says as he walks back toward the stairs, “I have. You obviously haven’t. You’re just like your father.”
“Iltar is obviously after the Au’misha’k!” Maurin raises her voice and chases after Elindor. “Do you know what will happen if he is able to complete it?”
“He can’t, there is no way for him to retrieve a Shiz’nak nor use it.”
“If he is able to steal the Ka’nakar he’ll have everything he needs to traverse to Kalish and retrieve the Lish’nicht’nal.”
“I have nothing to do with this,” Elindor remarks as he descends the stairs. “I need to finish putting my gallery in order. I suggest you leave.”
“El’sulth,” Maurin shakes her head, “I can’t believe your audacity.”
“Mine?” Elindor swiftly turns around at the base of the stairs, “I cannot believe your father’s! It is reckless what he did.”
Maurin takes a deep breath then voices her true purpose in Soroth, “I need to find the record. From what Dorith told me, the mages’ council believed it to be here in Soroth, possibly in the hands of the governor. Dorith believes that there is a possibility that the qui’sha of the Order of the Red are behind all of this.”
“Riner has no ties to them,” Elindor waves his hand then turns around and walks down the hall back toward the front gallery. “But Cilgan did, and he’s dead.
“Most anyone that did were killed over the past thirty years or so,” Elindor’s voice fades out as he enters the forward gallery and adds, “Butchered by Iltar and several of his companions he has shared adventures with. After all, it was that cult that was responsible for Adrin’s demise.”
Maurin sighs and shakes her head as she continues to descend the rest of the steps and walks back into the front portion of the gallery.
“I need your help El’sulth,” Maurin says as she walks back into the gallery.
Elindor draws the drapes along the windows facing the street but does not answer. He continues to veil the rest of the windows as Maurin speaks up again.
“I need to find Riner. He is my only other lead concerning the record.”
As he draws the last of the drapes, Elindor turns around and sternly says, “You’re on your own. Find him yourself. I will not have any part in this heresy.”
Maurin furrows her brow in disgust and she walks toward the door. As she unlocks it she looks to Elindor and says, “I don’t know what is worse; Iltar re-forging the Au’misha’k or us idly standing by and watching him do so.”
* * * * *
The following afternoon atop the six story of the Governor’s Manor, Maurin ascends from the right circular stairwell in the northern foyer of the aforementioned floor. She is dressed in a grey formal garb, with a form fitting tunic and tight pants. An empty dark brown satchel hangs around her shoulder and lightly bounces at her side.
Walking along either side of her are six soldiers, each of them wearing silver plated armor and carrying crude fanisars. Upon their breastplates is a blazoned symbol of a crimson scaled serpent with seven distinct heads.
Once Maurin reaches the top of the stairs she turns to her right and treads across the foyer to the hallway opening at the far end of the sixth story foyer. She calmly walks down the corridor and into the small waiting area at its far end where Governor Riner’s aid is writing in a ledger.
As Maurin steps inside the waiting room she clears her throat, jarring the aid from his writing.
“Oh,” the aid looks up and squints his eyes as he looks at Maurin, then the guards on either side of her. “I didn’t hear you, nor your guards.”
“I need to speak with Governor Riner,” Maurin states in a stern toned tainted with harsh impatience.
“And who are you?” the aid asks as he examines Maurin and the guards. “I wasn’t aware that Ambassador Segil was replaced,” then chuckles, “But your fragmented empire is always shifting who wields its power.”
“Do not speak ill of Mindolarn commoner,” Maurin’s tone is full of condescending contempt. “The Governor, now!”
The aid shakes his head and rises to his feet. He turns down the hallway leading back toward the center of the sixth floor then opens the double doors leading to Riner’s private office.
Maurin can faintly hear him speaking to Governor Riner from the doorway and after a moment the aid aloofly waves for Maurin to come near.
“Your guards may not enter,” the aid says then points to the wall across from the doors, “They may wait there.”
“No,” Maurin growls and reaches out, grabbing the aid by his tunic and pulls him close to her face. “They will come with me, or I will have your head.”
The aid swallows hard and begins to tremble when Governor Riner interrupts the brief scene of hostility.
“They may come in. After all our nations are allies.”
Maurin abruptly lets go of the aid then turns toward the open doorway.
From within his sunlit office, Governor Riner walks around his ornate desk with a mild sense of curiosity forming across his features. He motions toward the right side of the office where two high-back chairs are positioned perpendicularly in front of a firepl
ace.
“Who are you? And what can I do for you?”
Without a word, Maurin and her six guards step into the governor’s office. The guards take up sentinel positions on either side of the doors and firmly hold their fanisars in place. Once all seven of them are within the lavish room, Maurin closes the doors.
“What we must discuss is not meant for prying ears,” Maurin says then strides up to the nearest chair but doesn’t take a seat. She sternly looks Governor Riner in the eyes.
“I am simply an emissary. Word has reached our empire that you have discovered a great power, something from ages past.”
Riner chuckles and shakes his head, “I don’t understand why you citizens of Mindolar continually refer to your crumbling nation as an empire.”
“Well?” Maurin demands, “Are the rumors true?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Riner smiles and turns toward the chair next to him and as he’s about to sit down Maurin clearly asks a probing question.
“Does the Amulet of Draconic Control sound familiar to you?”
“What?” Governor Riner mutters and bumps into the leg of the chair. He is genuinely taken aback at the question, and steadies himself by bracing his hand against the chair’s armrest.
Maurin nods her head and smiles then asks, “Where are the scrolls?”
“Who are you?” Riner mutters then slowly backs away from the chair.
“You can cooperate with me, or I can pry what I want to know from you.”
Riner’s eyes widen in fear and he stumbles backward.
As Riner falls, Maurin leaps forward with incredible speed, catching Riner before he hits the ground. Her sea grey eyes meet the governor’s in a determined gaze.
“Gua–”
The governor’s cry is abruptly silenced as Maurin’s sea grey eyes shift in shape, and the lines in her irises swirl about her pupils.
