by Dan Zangari
The necromancer paces back and forth, examining the ceiling and the walls. After a moment he notices two recessed holes in the ceiling, each on either side of the space.
“Interesting…”
Iltar slowly walks over to the bed and eases himself onto it then leans back against the wall. The necromancer raises his palm up toward his face and examines it briefly then furrows his brow as he recalls the last few moments of his most recent memories.
“My shoulder,” Iltar mumbles and touches it.
The wound which he had sustained in his attempt to escape the inner city of Alath had all but disappeared. However his robe and tunic still show signs of the blade which had pierced him.
With the thoughts of that event on his mind, Iltar rises to his feet and removes his robe, then slings it upon the foot of the make-shift bed.
Iltar again reexamines his hand, and intently focuses on it. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as he hones his concentration in an effort to muster forth his dissolving magic, yet nothing happens.
“Why isn’t thi–”
The dark necromancer abruptly stops as he hears a harsh deep voice within his mind, much like his own, saying “Patience Iltar, your so-called-friends are coming. Soon, the dragons of Lorn will be at your command.”
“Wha– Who said that?!” Iltar demands and turns around. “Show yourself, witch!”
Silence falls upon the room and Iltar slowly looks at each of the dimly lit corners. He slowly edges back toward the bed and sits upon it, thinking aloud to himself, “I hope I am not becoming like Amendal…”
* * * * *
Almost an hour later, Dorith arrives at the inner gate of the prison castle. As he steps into the tunnel, the tall guard who had questioned him about his belongings emerges from a room on his right.
“Grandmaster Dorith,” the tall guard calls out. “What can I do for you?”
“I would like to retrieve my things,” Dorith says and lets out a shallow breath.
“You cannot carry them in the castle,” the guard looks hard at the grandmaster.
“I know,” Dorith grins and chuckles, “I am leaving.”
“I thought you would be staying with the rest of your company?”
“Unfortunately, I have other duties to perform; I must meet with His Majesty at once. Please gather my things.”
In reaction to the reference to the King of Los, the guard hurries back into the room he had emerged from without a word. After a brief moment he reemerges with Dorith’s belongings.
“Thank you,” Dorith smiles and reaches for his thick robe then puts it on over his tunic and pants.
“Pardon my intrusion,” the guard stammers as he hands the staff and satchel to Dorith, “But several of my men were examining your staff earlier, and one mentioned it looked much like the King’s Scepter. Is it?”
“Hum?” Dorith asks as he leans the staff against his shoulder and reaches inside his robe and further into his tunic to remove the small device used to help contain Iltar.
“Is it the King’s Scepter? Is that why you’re going to see His Majesty? To deliver it to him?”
“This is my staff,” Dorith sternly states as he opens the satchel and places the magical device within. He secures it within a pouch inside the bag then pulls the golden necklace from the satchel and puts it around his neck. “It was given to me by my father.”
“But–”
“Open the gate,” Dorith raises his brow at the guard then takes his staff into one hand and holds his satchel with the other.
Nodding his head, the guard calls out to the others, “Open the gates!”
Without any further interaction, Dorith walks through the tunnel and toward the inner gate which is slowly opening.
Several minutes later, Dorith walks across the stone roadway which leads to the prison castle’s outer gates.
“There is nowhere to conceal myself,” Dorith sighs and looks around at the plain. “I suppose another strange story from
Dorith looks to his left and walks to the roadway’s edge and into the grassy plain several phineals then stops and kneels upon the grass. The grandmaster sets the satchel down and with his free hand stretches his hand toward the earthen ground in front of him. He utters the words to a spell and brownish-white magic wisps from his hand and into the grassy floor.
The earthen ground shutters accompanied by a slight rumble and the grassy surface breaks apart into a large circle of loose dirt and grassy debris.
“Eradas,” Dorith states in a calm tone and stretches out his hand toward the fresh dirt. “Come forth.”
Blinding white particles of magic gathers in Dorith’s free hand and quickly compresses together into a single speck of brilliant light. Once it forms, Dorith gently flicks his wrist and tosses it toward the fresh earthen materials then grabs the satchel then rises to his feet.
The speck of magic wisps into the dirt and the loose ground vibrates.
“Eradas, I desire that you hold something for me,” Dorith says and gently tosses the satchel into the loose dirt.
As the dirt continues to shift about, the satchel slowly sinks inside the loose earthen materials.
A brief moment passes as the loose dirt takes form within the pit caused by Dorith’s transmutive magics. The transmogrified body of a long creature with two legs and a long tail moves about and shakes loose dirt from itself. Dorith’s magic refines its shape, unnaturally moving the dirt up along its back and forming a pair of wings. A long snout is magically chiseled followed by scaled patterns forming upon its transmogrified body and lastly a earthen saddle and reigns upon its back.
Once the magical transformation finishes, the eyes of the earthen drake glow with a vibrant white light, and the creature turns its head and stares directly at Dorith.
“You are getting out and about more often my friend,” the grandmaster smiles and slings the hoist securing his staff over his shoulder and upon his back.
In response, Eradas moves toward the edge of the crater and climbs out and moves toward the roadway, but turns to face Dorith.
“We have quite a journey ahead of us.”
Eradas cocks his head in response and leans it forward.
Without hesitation, Dorith climb’s upon Eradas’ neck and scales it to the saddle and sits down.
“You’ll need to fly fast, I want to arrive before sundown.”
Dorith tightly grabs the reigns and Eradas rears up upon his hind legs while flapping his wings. In an instant the mystical drake takes to flight, quickly soaring through the air and circling about toward the east, following the coast toward the capital of the kingdom, Los.
6
Reinforcements
Nearly five hours later, Eradas soars through twilight skies at incredible speeds toward a sprawling city which stretches across the horizon.
The grandmaster of the Estate clutches the earthen reigns and leans forward as the magically composed drake flaps its wings. “Los,” Dorith utters aloud and smiles as he and his transmogrified mount cross the city’s borders.
The capital of the Kingdom spreads across a leveled plain with many pockets of residential districts sparsely arrayed and connected by wide roadways. These areas are clustered around the central part of the city which lies beyond a river in front of Dorith and Eradas. This river cuts through the eastern portion of the enormous city and marks the boundary for its most capital parts.
Beyond the river which cuts through Los’s eastern portion lies a castle of considerable size. It rises far beyond the height of the rest of the city and its towers rival many of the elven structures in Merda.
The castle is made out of a whitish-grey stone with diamond-like flecks that sparkle as the setting sun’s rays reflect off the stony surface. Its outer walls rise over four stories in height and house octagonal towers with steep peaked roofs one hundred phineals apart which rise two stories above the wall.
Beautiful courtyards mark t
he spaces between the walls and the various wings of the castle. Each of the wings soar higher than the towers upon the walls and the various wings are arrayed around the Main Keep.
Dorith guides his magically composed drake toward a single tower just to the northeast of the Main Keep and between two of the various wings. It is connected to the main keep by a single bridge at the base of its rooftop. The tower rises ten stories and is octagonal shaped. Unlike the other towers in the castle, the rooftop is mostly flat with the exception of a golden dome which marks its very center and takes up nearly half of the tower’s rooftop, which is roughly forty phineals in diameter.
The grandmaster of the Estate pulls back upon the magically composed reigns and Eradas reduces speed, circling around the tower several times. Once the mystical drake slows in the air, Eradas gracefully lands upon the rooftop, not far from the bridge.
Eradas lowers his neck, and Dorith tiredly rises from the earthen saddle.
“Fly around the castle,” the grandmaster states in a labored tone and gently climbs down from Eradas near his neck. “Let our friend know I have arrived. I believe he’ll be in the garrison house.”
As Dorith lands upon the tower’s rooftop a deep bellowing voice calls out from across the bridge.
“You there! Identify yourself immediately!”
Dorith glances over his shoulder and sees two armor clad members of the Kingdom Guard dashing across the bridge with their fanisars drawn.
“Go,” Dorith says and waves his hand as he turns away from his earthen drake. As he moves away, he reaches for the staff upon his back, pulling it from its hoist and dropping one end to the stony rooftop.
Eradas takes to flight once again and Dorith slowly walks toward the bridge, using his staff as a walking stick.
“Who are you?!” one of the guards barks as he and his companion reach the tower and lower their fanisars.
Stopping within a phineal’s reach of the drawn blades, Dorith states, “I am Grandmaster of the Estate of Concorious Knowledge. I have come to discuss an urgent matter with His Majesty.”
“Why didn’t you come through the main gate?” the guard on the left demands in a harsh tone.
“Because the throne room can be accessed more quickly from this tower,” Dorith states in a frank tone and centers his staff in front of him, resting both hands upon it. “I have journeyed from Ahzeald and it has been a long flight; please allow me to pass. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Both guards look at each other briefly then lower their weapons and step aside.
“Shall we escort you?” the guard on the left asks in a more pleasant manner.
“No,” Dorith takes his staff into his right hand then strides between the two guards and onto the bridge. “Remember your orders regarding this station; besides I know where the throne room is.”
As the grandmaster passes the two sentinels the guard on his right mutters as he stares at the staff, “It–It can’t be!”
Without any acknowledgement, Dorith moves along the bridge and through a small garden rooftop toward a grand doorway which leads into the Main Keep.
* * * * *
A quarter of an hour later, the grandmaster of the Estate arrives at a pair of towering ornate metallic double doors, and on either side it are stationed two members of the Kingdom Guard.
“I need to speak with His Majesty,” Dorith states and leans on his staff.
“He has an audience with messengers from the Grand Dukes, Parliaments and Councils of the Kingdom,” the guard on the right states. “You will have to return later.”
Dorith raises his brow then quickly thrusts his staff toward the doors. The weapon glows with a dim blue light then the ornate metallic slabs immediately thrust open upon their hinges.
Both guards are startled by the mystical occurrence and without hesitation, Dorith quickly walks toward the doors and into the throne room.
“Wait!” the guard shouts, “Halt at once!”
A determined expression is smeared across Dorith’s face as he enters the throne room, deliberately pounding his staff upon the brown marble-like floor with each step he takes.
The throne room is filled with various shades of brown stone and towers three stories in height with a barreled ceiling that has arcing trusses of elaborate design. Ornate chandeliers hang from the ceiling and illuminate the space with beautifully carved light stones. Large circular windows line both walls and the last light of dusk can be seen through the windows on the right of the room.
Faint monologue reaches Dorith’s ears as he treads across the grand audience chamber and toward a cluster of men and women standing before a squared dais raised almost half a story above the rest of the room.
Atop the dais are two golden chairs with deep red velvet cushioning, one of which is occupied by His Majesty, the King of Los.
The king is dressed in a metallic white, almost silvery, formal garb. Long sleeves cover his arms up to his wrists. A thick light brown beard covers his face, and his bluish-lavender eyes immediately look to Dorith who is halfway across the throne room, with the two guards who were stationed at the doors right behind him.
“… those in the city of Rildan would be quite pleased if–”
“Wait,” the king rises to his feat and motions for the heavyset man in front of him to cease the request, his eyes widening at the grandmaster’s presence.
Dorith stops several phineals behind the group of messengers and strikes the ground between his feet with the bottom of his staff, making an impressionable sound. At that moment both of the guards reach the grandmaster and grab him by his shoulders.
“Excuse us, Your Majesty,” one of the guards apologizes with a bow of his head. “We will remove him at once.”
“No!” the king shouts. “You shall do no such thing!”
Dorith glances to each of the armor-clad hands on his shoulders then loudly speaks up, “I must speak with you privately concerning a calamity in Alath.”
A woman from within the crowd looks at Dorith then steps through to the back of the group of messengers and asks, “Grandmaster Dorith, what happened?”
“Grandmaster?” the guard on the right gasps and abruptly relinquishes his grip. “You’re a mage?”
“That must be how he opened the door…” the other guard mutters.
Looking directly to the king while ignoring those around him, Dorith continues. “The threat I and my brethren had sent you word of has fallen upon our people. But there is a much graver matter to be discussed.”
“Leave us!” the king shouts and waves his hand. “We will reconvene in the morning. Ulidan, you will address us from the beginning at that time.”
Both guards step away from Dorith and head for the doors as well as the rest of the company of messengers addressing the King of Los.
“What happened?” the same woman walks up to Dorith with a concerned expression upon her face. “Did Alacor lay siege to the city? How many are dead?”
Looking squarely at the woman, Dorith solemnly responds, “No. We were attacked from within. Nearly a thousand are dead.
“Please leave us.”
Nodding her head the woman quickly walks toward the other messengers leaving the room.
A moment of silence passes as the messengers move across the throne room and Dorith calmly looks up to His Majesty. As the messengers file through the enormous doorway, the king speaks up, still poised in a stance atop the dais.
“You were saying, Dorith?”
“We will wait for him to arrive,” the grandmaster of the Estate says and walks up the steps to the top of the dais, all the while lightly dropping his staff on each of the steps.
Just as the last of the messengers is stepping out of the throne room, a masked man hastily arrives at the large doors which the guards are closing. He is dressed in a white formal garb and stands slightly taller than average height with a slim but muscular build.
“Premier General,” one of the guards addresses the masked man.
“His Majesty is in a private audience.”
“I can see that sentinel,” the Premier General boldly responds and places his right hand on the door to stop the movement. A green-gray ring on his index finger tangs against the metal door; near each of the ring’s edges are shallow lines carved all along its surface. Between the two lines and all along its center are small pyramid-shaped emeralds. “But I can guarantee you that I will be welcomed.”
The Premier General steps through the doorway and the enormous metal slabs close behind him. He strides across the sprawling throne room toward Dorith and the king.
“How did you know he would be coming?” the king asks Dorith, who is standing at his side just in front of the thrones.
“Because he signaled me with Eradas,” the Premier General shouts from across the throne room. “I saw the drake flying over the castle and knew Dorith would be headed here.”
Dorith leans on his staff and smiles at the masked man as he approaches. Silence falls upon the enormous throne room until the Premier General ascends the dais.
“Why are you wearing that mask?” Dorith asks and stretches out his left arm to embrace the masked man. “You’re in the company of friends.”
Muffled chuckling resonates from within the mask and the Premier General answers while tightly embracing Dorith, “I’ve grown accustomed to it, I suppose. It feels like my own skin; after all, I have worn it nearly two thirds of my life.
“I am glad you are safe, Dorith.”
“Thank you, old friend,” the grandmaster responds then sits upon the throne nearest him and looks at the king. “The Ka’nakar is missing. Iltar was able to breech the inner depths of the Estate and steal it. However, it was not on Iltar’s person when we apprehended him.”
“Iltar?” His Majesty asks then adds. “I thought he came to warn the Brethren about the necromancer.”
“Iltar is the necromancer. Several of our agents returned from Merda with that information, then I sealed the city.
“However, we learned from one of Iltar’s accomplices that they were about to escape when I erected the Ri’nak’ma. Apparently, at that same moment, Iltar lost his pack over the inner city’s walls which contained the Ka’nakar as well as the scrolls with information about the Shiz’nak, its location and the whereabouts of the Lish’nicht’nal.”
