by Dan Zangari
“No,” Griffith apologetically states, “Forgive me.”
“Obviously, the necromancer was here,” Regas interjects. “Can you tell us where he went?”
“So, you don’t know?” Shem’rinal asks frankly while furrowing his brow.
“Know what?” Regas demands, his tone irritated from his long journey. “That’s why we came here, to track him down!”
Silence briefly falls upon the council room as each of the elves look at Balden with an anticipating gaze.
Balden glances to each of the elves, then focuses on the mages and says, “I was part of an expedition that came from Soroth. We liberated my kindred from the werewolves that infested the city, and the vampires in the fortress. The others left immediately after. I don’t know where they went.”
“How long ago was this?” Griffith asks.
“Over a month,” Balden shrugs. “Five weeks ago perhaps.”
“Alacor could be anywhere,” Regas mutters.
“Who?” Balden quizzically asks and leans forward.
“Alacor,” Regas answers frankly. “The necromancer.”
Balden hysterically laughs while resting his elbows on the table. He buries his face in his palm, and mutters, “He’s always been such a great liar…”
“Who are you talking about?” Griffith demands.
Each of the elves silently look at Balden with raised brows, not amused by his demeanor.
“Alacor is dead,” Balden answers and quells his laughter. “He has been for months. He was killed by this necromancer you’re looking for… he did it to ascended to the seat of Grandmaster of the newly reconstructed Sorothian Magical Order.”
“Oh no,” Regas mutters. “Mathal was right…”
Griffith warily studies the half-elf then asks with anxious urgency, “Balden, who is the necromancer?”
“Iltar,” Balden answers with a smile. “He’s the necromancer you’re looking for.”
“No!” Regas gasps. “How?”
“Don’t feel so bad mages,” Shem’rinal states. “He fooled the elves enslaved here. From what Balden has told us, Iltar is quiet devious and cunning.”
“Is Iltar in Alath?” Balden asks with a raised brow, his tone slightly more serious.
“Yes, and has been for over a month,” Griffith answers. “He’s my mentor’s brother, Almar. Iltar came to us with a sad tale, claiming he was falsely accused of murdering a baron, due to overhearing a plot by Alacor and the governor of Soroth; a conversation which concerned their preparations to come here.”
“The next piece must be in Alath,” Balden ponders aloud while looking at Shem’rinal. “Did you know Iltar would go there?”
“Of course.”
“And you didn’t do anything?” Nehon demands, sternly staring at the magical essence.
“Actually, I did,” Shem’rinal grunts with annoyance. “But the Ril’Sha did not want me to continue. So, I stopped.”
“What is a ril’sha?” Regas asks.
“Not what,” Shem’rinal shakes his head, then rebukes, “Who. If you don’t know, then you’re not privy their identity.”
Stung by the rebuke, Regas leans back, then glances to Griffith.
However, Balden demands, “What about the others? Who else is with Iltar?”
“He came alone,” Griffith answers. “He claimed his friends were dead, killed by Alacor as a means to validate his guilt. When we verified Iltar’s story in Klath we were under the assumption that the necromancer was working with the Sorothian Navy.
“The ship Iltar told us the necromancer used, the White Duchess, had come into port five days after Iltar said he arrived in the Kingdom. According to the charter in Klath, a large group was dropped off in Keth and only eight of the crew remained. Regas and myself believed this was a ploy, manipulated by Alacor. Then he snuck a conjurer into Klath in order to bypass the Frontier Guard.”
“That’s not right,” Balden shakes his head. “The Sorothian Navy is looking for Iltar because he murdered Baron Cilgan to free me. He only has the White Duchess at his disposal. And, there were a lot more than eight crewmen on Kenard’s ship when we left, including nineteen of us that survived our assault on the pyramid. They must have gotten off somewhere, or…”
“What’s wrong?” Nehon asks. “Or what, Balden?”
Balden furrows his brow and says, “Iltar possesses an ancient artifact that can bind rogulin crystals. He showed it to me once when I was very young. In theory, they wouldn’t need to sneak a conjurer into the city; they would just need to–”
“That can’t be!” Regas blurts. “Those are only myth…”
“I’ve seen it work,” Balden reassures frankly.
“How could you sneak an object like that into a city before you reach the port?” Griffith asks then adds. “The official we spoke with said the ship was empty, they searched it. And they did that as it moored.”
“It’s not that big,” Balden answers, holding his thumb and forefinger a quarter of a phineal apart. “It’s only about that big. But, how they did it, I don’t know. Everyone with Iltar is very experienced, they obviously found a way.”
Griffith sighs while Regas leans against the table, then contemptuously asks, “Now, there is something I don’t quite understand. You knowingly and willingly helped Iltar retrieve the amulet. How–”
“It was a means to reclaim Merda,” Balden retorts sternly, angered by Regas’ assumptions. “He got what he wanted, and I got what I wanted. Besides, if it wasn’t for Iltar I would still be toiling within Cilgan’s dungeon on Sereth!”
Regas nods, glances to Griffith and smirks, “Now he acts like a necromancer.”
“Calm down, Regas,” Griffith whispers, then looks at Shem’rinal. “On behalf of our Order, we appreciate the information you’ve provided. But now we must return to Alath to deal with Iltar promptly.”
“Wait,” Shem’rinal beckons and extends his hand. “Take Balden with you.”
“What?!” the half-elf demands, glaring at the magical essence with anger and confusion. “Why?”
“You are the Arch Magi,” Nehon answers. “It is your duty to protect the interests of our city and its people. You must be prepared to sacrifice yourself as the elf before you did.”
“His blood is impure,” Aserin retorts sardonically. “And he’s too emotional. Shem’rinal, this only illustrates why a pure blooded elf must be Arch Magi.”
“No,” the magical essence answers calmly. “Balden will go to Alath and assist the mages in capturing Iltar. He can prove himself and correct his omission in Iltar’s theft.”
Balden sighs, then rises from his seat and walks around the table.
Shem’rinal turns to Griffith and asks, “I presume you have a rogulin ring or crystal?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Good, at least he didn’t outlaw those. What a scoundrel I tell you,” Shem’rinal says to the elves around the table.
“Oh, and before I forget, because sometimes I do that,” Shem’rinal chuckles. “There is someone in Alath that can help you apprehend Iltar. I’m not sure what he goes by these days, but he always stays close to the Ka’nakar.”
“Who? What?” Regas asks. “How are we supposed to locate someone based on a vague line from a cluster of magic?”
“Regas,” Griffith puts his hand on his companion’s shoulder, attempting to calm him, but the conjurer rolls his eyes with a sigh.
“He is the chief keeper of the Ka’nakar. I imagine he would be in the Estate. He has occupied various stations in Alath, at least since before I was sealed away.”
“What on Kalda is the Ka’na-what’s-it?!” Regas sighs, throwing his hands into the air.
“I think it’s the piece of the amulet the Order’s protecting,” Griffith looks to Regas then asks, “I thought the Estate’s council were its keepers?”
“Oh they are,” Shem’rinal nods his head, “But this one has watched over it since the Ka’nakar was delivered to him, some thousand yea
rs ago.”
“That’s impossible,” Regas retorts. “No one can live that long, not even through arpran magic.”
“Are the Alathian Mages also so ill educated these days?” Shem’rinal sighs while hanging his head low. “What’s this world coming to. Those silly Edicts…”
Puzzled, Griffith asks, “Are you referring to the Edicts of the Mage-King?”
Saluting the mages with a wave of his hand, Shem’rinal exclaims, “Give the mage a prize!”
The magical essence chuckles while glancing to the elves beside him, but his jovial expression turns grim as each quizzically study him. While shaking his head he mutters, “Way before your time, I suppose… But, yes. I’m referring to Dorin’s silly edicts. In fact, that’s who you’ll be looking for.”
“That’s impossible,” Regas retorts. “He would have to be over a thousand years old. Besides, he went missing during his reign, presumed dead.”
Finally, one of the elves speaks up and Hedron asks, “Are you sure he’s still around? You were sealed away for over four hundred years.”
“Uh,” Shem’rinal rubs his chin. “You do have a point… but, he’s a tough scoundrel. When you find him, tell him what’s happening and he’ll help you defend the Ka’nakar against Iltar. Or, track him down if Iltar’s already succeeded. Wouldn’t that be a twist!”
“Great,” Regas rolls his eyes, “I wonder how the council will react when we tell them we have to find a long dead king.”
Ignoring Regas, Griffith steps away from the table and says, “Balden, place your hand on my shoulder.”
As the half-elf grabs the agent, Griffith adds, “One more thing. When we arrived in Keth we noticed the docks were destroyed. The inhabitants of Keth are suffering, perhaps you can lend them–”
“We are aware of Candersil’s destructive rampage,” Aserin coldly interrupts. “But that is not–”
“But perhaps we can send aid,” Ilvantis interrupts, placing his hand on Aserin’s arm. “It would help bring about harmony between our peoples.”
Amid the debate, Griffith tiredly utters an incantation, and the rogulin inlayed ring on his left hand glows a golden light, then erupts, swallowing the mages and the half-elf. They vanish, leaving the seven elves and the magical essence alone.
15
The Fabulist
The evening before Griffith and Regas arrive in Keth, Nath and Nemral sneak down a wide hallway within the Masters’ Wing, both concealed by their cloaks.
Recessed doors along the hallway lead to various suites for the senior mages of the Order, spaced thirty phineals apart. Intricate stonework lines every edge and corner of the hall and flow to the ceiling. Between the stonework on the walls, large paintings depict of a variety of scenes and notorious mages from ages past. Above the paintings, sconces with small light stones dimly light the hallway. A dark blue runner of carpet spans the entire length of the hall, stretching for several hundred phineals.
While sneaking through the hall, Nemral whispers, “Which one was it?”
“Eighty seven,” Nath replies.
After a moment, the thieves arrive at a door, with the Kaldean numerals on its face, “Eighty seven.”
Silently, Nath opens the door, and the light from the hallway spills into the foyer of Iltar’s suite. It’s four phineals deep and opens to a living room to the right.
Once inside the apartment, Nemral closes the door and quietly observes, “It’s dark.”
Through their magical lenses, both thieves study the large living room; it’s ceilings reach over ten phineals in height. Lavish furniture is squarely arrayed in the space. Further to the right is a small kitchen and dining area, opened to the living room.
“This sure is nice,” Nath mutters. “These mages live quite comfortably.”
From the middle of the living room, Nath notices a short hall to their left, behind the entry. His eyes are drawn to a pair of double doors.
“Over here,” Nath beckons and opens the doors.
The thieves see a large bedroom with a ceiling rising the same height as the living room. To their left sits Iltar’s oversized bed, with two nightstands on either side of it. A sitting area is beyond the bed, with two chairs in front of floor-to- ceiling draperies.
After scanning the room, both thieves focus on the bed where Iltar sleeps soundly on his side, facing the drapes.
“Whose going to wake him?” Nemral asks warily.
Without a reply, Nath strides the bed’s edge and reaches for his nefarious employer.
“Iltar,” Nath beckons in a whisper, but the necromancer doesn’t waken. The thief then urges louder, “Iltar, wake up.”
Iltar sights and groggily stirs, turning to face Nath while reaching to the wall behind the nightstand. He fumbles his hand against the wall until he touches a half-sphere, causing dim light to illuminate the room from sconces above the nightstands.
“Well?” Iltar demands and straightens up in his bed. “Where is it?”
“We haven’t found it, yet,” Nath answers and unlatches his cloak, appearing at the right of Iltar’s bed.
“It’s been almost three weeks since we started looking,” Nemral interjects as he appears. “And we’ve searched most of the buildings twice.”
Nath sighs, and adds with disappointment, “There are some places we can’t sneak into without drawing attention. The armories on the east and west, and part of the records room in the basement of the Main Hall.”
“Some buildings we had to scale their walls and sneak in from windows, or roof accesses,” Nemral adds.
Iltar lets out a sigh and rubs his eyes.
“Tilthan thinks we’re cutting this too close,” Nath says frankly. “Those agents the mages sent out are supposed to be back anytime, right?”
“It has to be in the Main Hall,” Nemral speculates. “When we were searching the council chambers, we saw a hidden niche behind the dais, but we couldn’t open it.”
“It looked like the secret doors leading to the towers in Merda,” Nath interjects. “But we couldn’t open it. I think I spent an hour trying to pry it open.
“There’s also a secret door on the fourth floor, but we couldn’t open it either.”
Ignoring the superfluous information, Iltar asks, “Where’s Tilthan?”
“He’s outside,” Nemral replies. “We had to scale this building’s walls and jump down into the courtyard to bypass the guards. He didn’t want to climb; said he had enough and is ready to leave.”
“Has anyone hinted at the whereabouts of the vault?” Nath asks. “Your brother or the other mage?”
“No,” Iltar says, rubbing his goatee. “Almar has been very closed lip about the amulet. But, I have an idea. I didn’t want to do this, but it seems our only option.”
“What’s that?” Nemral asks.
Iltar sternly stares at the thieves and says, “If all goes well, I’ll meet the three of you at your tavern.”
* * * * *
Later that morning, Iltar drudgingly walks through the third story corridor of the Illusionary School, feigning worrisome distraction. After a moment, he enters his classroom.
“Iltar, there you are!” Rinden beckons cheerily from the classroom’s forefront. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show. You’re not nervous about your first evaluation, are you?” He asks the last with a smile.
Iltar silently shakes his head, his demeanor tainted with harrowed anxiety.
“I apologize for being late,” Iltar says. He takes a deep breath and turns to his class, continuing with a distracted tone, “Today we’ll practice using a personal illusion to see what’s not in your physical field of vision…”
While Iltar relays more instructions to his students, Rinden folds his arms and studies the necromancer, concerned about his demeanor.
“… I have placed an object outside on the window sill in the western stairwell. Vedrin, you’ll be first. Write what you see.”
Once Iltar finishes his instructions, he sit
s on the table, facing the classroom. He diverts his attention to the floor, taking shallow breaths.
“Iltar, what’s wrong?” Rinden whispers. “You don’t look like you’ve slept at all.”
“I shouldn’t say it in front of them,” Iltar mutters, referring to the students. “They shouldn’t know about such things.”
“Is it Alacor?”
“Yes,” Iltar replies worriedly. “I’m anxious. They should have returned by now…” Iltar pauses looks to Rinden. With feigned fear he adds, “What if they captured them?”
Rinden narrows his eyes at Iltar, but glances to Vedrin; the young boy finishes his incantation and his illusion clumsily walks to the door.
“Your gait is off,” Rinden says then suggests. “Think as if you are walking naturally. Don’t force it.”
With that said, Rinden returns his attention to Iltar. He lowers his voice and asks, “Do we need to reschedule this evaluation? It wouldn’t be fair to you. Perhaps after the agents return.”
Iltar turns to watch Vedrin’s illusion exit the classroom, then stares at the grain in the table before answering, “It doesn’t matter. What does it say about my ability as an instructor if I can’t handle this kind of stress?”
“You’re being too hard on yourself, Iltar,” Rinden sighs and stands. “This isn’t ordinary stress.”
After a moment, Rinden studies the students and says, “You will have to excuse Iltar and myself. I’ll send one of the assistant instructors to supervise today’s exercises.”
Each of the students look at Rinden and Iltar with confusion, and the later exits the classroom.
With reluctance, Iltar rises from the table and says, “Castil, you are next. Now, I want to say, you’re all doing well. Each of you are fine mages. Your next lesson will be quiet illuminating. I hope you take it to heart.” He says the last with a smile then follows Rinden.
Once the feigned illusionist reaches his side, Rinden says in a hushed tone, “Your students like you, Iltar. Before you arrived, they were telling me about you. Your methods are very succinct, something some of the other instructors lack. And the way you push them to stretch their abilities… it’s impressive. I can even see you replacing me as the headmaster of this school, one day.”
