Treachery in the Kingdom

by Dan Zangari

  Zanille heavily sighs and shakes his head.

  “I don’t understand,” Alnese’s face contorts in confusion and she asks, “How did Iltar know where to find it?”

  “Rinden told him. Each scroll with the Ka’nakar is gone, too, and many of the devices in the vault.”

  “Surely, Iltar won’t know how to use any of those trinkets,” Alnese remarks, and crosses the foyer, disappearing down a hallway leading to the home’s rear.

  “Iltar’s clever,” Zanille says and grabs his swords. He hoists one upon his back while securing the other on his waist. “He’s quite familiar with magical objects.”

  Dorith shrugs then walks to a stairwell tucked into the far right corner of the entry. Zanille quietly follows him and both ascend to the second story.

  While they climb the stairs, Alnese re-enters the foyer and says, “Well, it’s a good thing you don’t keep your things in the vault.”

  She follows Dorith and Zanille to the second floor, and the trio moves to an art niche beside the stair.

  Dorith removes the beautiful painting hanging in the niche, props it against the wall to his left, and says, “Rim’shamik’nak.”

  The art niche abruptly shifts in shape and disappears, revealing a short dark windowless corridor; at its far end, a metal spiral staircase leads to the third floor.

  “And where are the rest of Iltar’s companions?” Zanille asks.

  “He came alone,” Dorith answers, and enters the hidden corridor. “But, our agents brought back his apprentice, a half-elf named, Balden. He thinks some thieves are here in Alath with Iltar.”

  With that said, Dorith reaches the spiral staircase and ascends it, while Alnese remarks with a sigh, “A necromancer and several thieves won’t be too much for us to handle.”

  “Don’t underestimate Iltar,” Zanille warns as they enter a dimly lit anteroom on the third floor. “He’s most likely the Unspoken One.”

  Dorith glances to Zanille warily, then approaches a door opposite the spiral stairs; he touches a small rectangular panel beside the doorway, and the door slides open.

  “Zanxsthy’ll,” Alnese sighs, “You can’t truly believe that fallacious prophecy, do you?”

  “Iltar has unnaturally great power,” Zanille replies. “Depths not even he can fathom. Prophecy or not, he wields Cheserith’s power. And it’s possible he could reach heights beyond that of the Ma’lisha.”

  Worry forms over Alnese’s face, and she asks, “Are you certain?”

  Amid Zanille and Alnese’s conversation, Dorith passes through the door he opened. If what Iltar told us is true, then Zanxsthy’ll is right.

  Three beams of faint light shine from the ceiling, illuminating the small room; it’s square in shape, with polished white stone covering the floor, walls and ceiling. Opposite the door, a male mannequin hovers off the ground, clad in golden armor and clutching an intricate staff.

  The staff is off-white, with protruding vines and etched symbols along its shaft. Two groves ring the staff, about a quarter of the way from each end, with nearby oval indentations on its center section.

  Dorith strides to the mannequin and touches the crest on the chest plate, a majestic dragon with its wrings spread and its maw splayed upward; the armor glows a soft white hue, then shifts in shape, folding in upon itself by transmutive magic.

  While the armor transforms, Zanille asks, “How many Guardians and Usa’zin’sha are in the city?”

  “Perhaps a hundred,” Alnese answers. “I’ll gather who I can and bring them here.”

  Dorith continues staring at the shifting armor and replies, “Just your mother, but she went to Soroth in search of Ilnari’s record.”

  With that said, the armor finishes its transformation, turning into a simple round pendant hanging from the mannequin’s neck.

  Dorith meticulously removes the armor-turned-jewelry and places it around his neck, then grabs the staff.

  “I’m heading to the north gate,” Dorith says as he turns, facing Alnese and Zanille. “We’re planning to lure Iltar to one of the four gates. But, if Iltar hasn’t showed himself once the populous evacuates then we will hunt him down.”

  “Well,” Zanille grins slyly, “These should help.” He pulls eight small ring-shaped objects from his tunic; each are a dull gray with tiny blue gems inlayed upon their inner sides.

  “And where did you get those?” Alnese demands with a tenuous tone and raised brow. “You know very well that they violate the Edicts.”

  “Not anymore,” Dorith interjects firmly, reaching for one of the tiny rings. He grabs it by his thumb and forefinger then tilts his head to his shoulder, gently dropping it into his ear. The ring-like it shifts shape, firmly fitting in his ear canal.

  “As you say,” Alnese heavily sighs and grabs one of the tiny objects.

  “Here,” Zanille motions for Alnese to take the other six magical devices. “I already have one. Give these to whoever leads the search parties.”

  Alnese nods, moving back toward the spiral staircase but stops at Dorith’s beckon.

  “Alnese, we know Iltar went to a tavern in the eastern part of the Inner City, I suggest you start your search there.”

  “Very well,” Alnese nods, and descends the tight staircase.

  Dorith looks to Zanille, and both stare at each other with concerned expressions; however, the grandmaster breaks the silence and urges, “Let’s go.”

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, Almar, Fren and Balden travel along the border highway at the head of a procession of thirty mages. Each mage in the company rides magically composed steeds, some of which carry channeling staffs; the staffs vary in length, from a phineal and a half, to three phineals long.

  Large blue spheres hover behind ten of the mages, measuring four phineals in diameter; the barsion magic encasing the city glistens off their smooth surfaces.

  The border highway curves to the right at a forty-five degree angle, running due east and west. It lines a fortress, fenced by white alabaster walls.

  Two hundred phineals ahead of the mages, along the walls, rests the fortress’ gate; it’s made of solid dark green metal, with the symbol of the Kingdom Guard blazoned upon its surface.

  While approaching the fortress’ gate, Balden finishes relating his and Iltar’s story to Almar.

  “I was a fool,” Almar angrily shakes his head. “Blinded by my emotions.”

  “Iltar’s a manipulator,” Balden says frankly. “If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been someone else.”

  “We could have avoided this dilemma if you elves would’ve warned us,” Fren grunts.

  “None of us knew where he would go next,” Balden answers somberly. “And Shem’rinal bade us to forget about the matter; so we did.”

  Almar sighs, turning his attention to three members of the Kingdom Guard approaching him and the others.

  “Masters,” the foremost guard calls to Almar and Fren. “We’re still rallying our forces, but do you wish to station some mages in the fortress?”

  “Yes,” Almar answers and turns in the saddle to addresses the mages behind him. “Four of you with long channeling staffs go into the fortress. Hide the materials of your steeds with an invisibility spell; we don’t want anyone to see them.”

  Four of the mages obey and maneuver their steeds toward the fortress’ gates while the same guard asks, “How many of my men will you require, Master Almar?”

  “At least fifty at the gate,” Almar answers. “Let’s place several along the border highway, and some along the fortress’ walls.” He motions to the highway in front of him. “We need to keep this area clear. Stop the traffic a hundred phineals both east and west of the fortress gate, in case a battle occurs.”

  “As you wish, Master Almar,” the guard bows and strides toward the fortress.

  Once the guard leaves, Almar commands the other mages, “Let’s continue to the north gate.”

  Almar turns his mystical horse to his left, moving down the roadway lea
ding to the Inner City’s north gate, nearly three hundred phineals away from the fortress.

  The road leading to the northern gate is wide, spanning thirty phineals. Tight complexes of four story buildings line either side of the road, each identical in appearance.

  Halfway down the road, Almar stops his steed and points to both complexes while saying, “Two of you with long channeling staffs find the highest vantage point among the immigration offices. Two others do the same in the trade offices.

  “Transmuters, erect barricades with your transmuter spheres from here to the gate, but provide an aisle at least ten phineals wide.

  “The rest of you, evenly space yourselves behind the barricades.”

  Once Almar finishes his orders, he dismounts his steed and seriously studies the mages in his company.

  Each of the mages simultaneously dismount and obey Almar’s instructions. All the while Fren, Balden, Griffith and Regas silently survey the roadway.

  While Griffith studies the area, he notices a brown speck against the barsion covered sky to the south.

  Intrigued, Griffith points to the speck and asks the others, “Do you see that?”

  Regas frantically looks toward Griffith’s gesture while muttering, “What is it?”

  Both Almar and Fren furrow their brows while gazing at the growing speck traveling through the sky toward them.

  After a moment, Fren speculates, “It looks like a bird of sorts, but its coloring is like our transmuted steeds.”

  “Or a dragon,” Balden interjects.

  Griffith glances to Regas and nods, whispering, “That must be him.”

  The five mages continue studying the mystical creature, then clearly see its serpentine features and their grandmaster. The transmogrified drake swoops to the roadway, spreading its wings while landing upon the stony thoroughfare.

  “It’s Dorith!” Regas gasps, looking at Griffith with wide eyed amazement.

  The grandmaster of the Estate dismounts swiftly, removing his staff from its hoist upon his back.

  “Almar,” Griffith gasps, nudging his mentor’s arm. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “A drake…” Almar mutters admirably and squints his eyes. “But no one has seen a drake in over a hundred years; at least, not in these parts of the world.”

  “So, how would Dorith learn to transmogrify such a beast?” Fren asks, equally perplexed over the grandmaster’s mystical mount.

  “I’ve heard of nests within the Black Mountains,” Almar responds. “But no one has dared make a trek there since Mindolarn’s reign.”

  Amid the exchange, Dorith points to the complex of buildings east of the road and utters an incantation, veiling Eradas from sight.

  “And in his hand!” Griffith gasps, “It can’t be!”

  Almar’s jaw droops as he stares at Dorith’s staff then wonders in a calm tone, “How is Dorith in possession of that?”

  “Could it have been in the Inner Depths?” Fren asks urgently.

  Oblivious to the mages’ awestruck reactions, Balden skeptically observes, “It’s just a staff, an intricate one at that…”

  “Not just any staff…” Griffith mutters while shaking his head, his tone changed from bewilderment to joyous anticipation. “That’s the King’s Scepter! It was wielded by Dorin himself during the war with Karthar.”

  “It does look like the Scepter,” Fren remarks. “But I thought it was lost ages ago.”

  “It was,” Almar answers, watching Dorith approach. “But I remember my father telling me of it appearing at the battle of Angolith: a lone warrior wielded it against Mindolarn’s forces on the eastern front. But the warrior disappeared in the battle’s aftermath.

  “I always thought perhaps the weapon passed through various hands throughout the ages, and that particular warrior was just one of the many who had wielded it.”

  Amid Almar’s reasoning, Griffith steps forward in awestruck adoration as Dorith draws closer to the five mages.

  “Griffith,” Regas asks as his fellow agent steps forward, “You don’t think he’s…?”

  As Dorith comes within earshot of his fellow mages, Griffith lowers himself to one knee and bows his head, graciously praising, “Your Majesty.”

  In response to Griffith’s piety, Dorith shakes his head with a smile and beckons, “Griffith, stand up. And what are you five whispering about?”

  “You’re Dorin!” Regas blurts. “And that’s your scepter!”

  Dorith’s smile turns to laughter, and he answers, “Well, of course, this is mine! That’s what I was getting.”

  Intrigued by Dorith’s reaction, Balden inquisitively remarks, “It looks more unique than any other weapon I’ve seen, even those in Merda. I have to agree with Regas and Griffith; that explains how you knew Shem’rinal’s name.”

  Dorith shrugs and rebuts, “Like I said before, I must have read his name in one of the many tomes in the Estate. As for my weapon, it’s a family heirloom. My father used it before me and wished for me to wield it. It’s intricate, but just a tool.”

  Confused, Griffith rises to his feet and asks, “Then, you are not Dorin?”

  “Everything I’ve said points to that conclusion,” Dorith chuckles and pads the agent on the shoulder.

  “So,” Regas ponders aloud, “Your father was the man mentioned by Almar, who fought in Angolith?”

  “No, Regas,” Dorith shakes his head and walks toward Almar and Fren. “My father wasn’t at Angolith. Now, let’s prepare ourselves; we have a necromancer to catch.”

  * * * * *

  Several hours later, as the sun breaks the western horizon, a mist of blackness wisps into the alley lining Hethway’s Tavern. Six hooded figures dressed in black robes appear within the mists, each perfectly resembling Iltar. Unique expressions smear across their magically composed faces, each reveling with malevolent excitement.

  The foremost figured quickly walks to the side door and grasps the handle. He hesitates for a moment, taking a deep breath, then whispers to the others, “My, does it feel exhilarating to touch this crude matter.”

  “It does, Vurakna,” Sebul responds arrogantly. “But, yet, it’s not flesh and bone.”

  “Open it!” another illusion snarls from the rear. His lips crassly twist in a form of exaggerated wrath.

  “Calm yourself, Ulnal,” Ashulbah remarks from the crowd’s center.

  Shaking his head, Vurakna turns the knob and opens the door. The mystical being enters the tavern, and the others follow one by one into the small anteroom and proceed single file up the stairs.

  Once at the top of the landing, Vurakna opens the door to the small third story apartment, quickly stepping inside.

  In the center of the room, Iltar paces back and forth between the arm chairs.

  “It took you long enough!” Iltar snarls while glancing at his illusionary-composed-minions, who array themselves in front of the door.

  “The patrols were scarce,” Ashulbah reports. “We have our puppets concealed amongst the buildings. And those who seek your life are at the four points of this pitiful excuse for a city.”

  “Then I was right,” Iltar nods and continues pacing methodically. “I must escape from one of the gates.”

  “Your plan?” Ulnal crassly asks while his head twitches and holds back a growling snarl.

  Iltar stops, examines the six illusionary-encased-beings, and chuckles, “Undoubtedly, my enemies intend to catch me as I escape. Divert them, and while they are distracted, I will simply walk out.”

  “Perhaps they will draw their forces away to deal with a known threat,” Sebul speculates out loud then adds, “Most of your kind thinks primitively, as such. We can continue to lead them on until we eradicate every last inhabitant of this pitiful city.”

  Iltar raises his brow at Sebul then growls, “I want to escape, not go on a killing spree!”

  Sebul defiantly stares at Iltar and declares, “We take pleasure in destroying the bodies and souls of men. If you choose to utili
ze us, then we will do as we see fit!”

  Angered by Sebul’s insolence, Iltar thrusts his hand toward the ground, forcing Sebul into submission upon the floor.

  “You will do as I say,” Iltar angrily demands.

  Vurakna diabolically chuckles and sinisterly smiles. “He is much like our master, Sebul. Have you so soon forgotten the Scion of the Dawn?”

  The other illusions uniquely study Iltar, waiting to see the result of their fellow illusionary-being’s insolent-but-futile outburst.

  One illusion smacks his lips, then licks them. He stares at Sebul and mutters, “Crush him, make him pay! He deserves it!”

  “Silence, Vestrua,” Ashulbah urges, motioning a finger toward the illusionary-being.

  A moment of silence passes when Iltar finally speaks.

  “I command you,” Iltar growls, then addresses them generally. “Sinauc will attack first, followed by Julina, then Sebul. Now, leave!” Iltar waves his hand, relinquishing his debilitating grasp.

  Sinauc obeys, sauntering to the door and he disappears beyond the landing, while Sebul slowly rises to his feet; he glares at Iltar before arrogantly following Sinauc.

  Once Sebul leaves, Iltar continues, “The rest of you will be with me. But we’ll wait for Julina and Nath to return.”

  19

  Terror in Alath

  After high noon later that day, Almar, Griffith and five Kingdom Guardsmen stand along the northern fortress’ wall. The guards usher individuals and families toward the two mages, who in turn cast dispelling magic upon them.

  As a small family approaches the mages, Almar glances past them to the crowd gathered along the border highway; his eyes focus on an old woman who intently stares at him.

  Almar’s face twists with recollection, but is interrupted by the mother of the young family.

  “Master Almar, what’s going on?” she asks shakily. “Why are we being forced from our homes?”

  He looks into her tear soaked eyes and reassures, “It’s only temporary.” Glancing at the children clutching her dress, he adds, “Once outside the Inner City you’ll be directed to shelter.”