Treachery in the Kingdom

by Dan Zangari

  The grand mage tosses himself sideways, but the illusion’s magic sears his shoulder, turning his robe’s sleeve and his arm’s skin to dried husks.

  Almar tumbles to the highway, but staggers back onto his feet.

  While he recovers, Ashulbah gloats, “You’re pathetic… no man has ever stood against me and lived. Especially just one.”

  A sneer smears across Ashulbah’s face while Almar painfully utters an incantation.

  However, amid the grand mages’ incantation, invisible blades sing through the air, and the nearby undead fall to the ground with gnashes of white dispelling magic radiating from their torsos.

  Ashulbah abruptly turns and snarls, “What manner of man are you–?” He leaps backward, but not before a streak of dispelling magic severs his left arm.

  “Almar, decapitate him!” Zanille’s voice resounds near the malevolent illusion.

  A rapid melee breaks out between Ashulbah and the invisible Zanille; while evading the blows, Ashulbah spits necrotic magic from his mouth at the undead, reanimating them once again.

  As the undead rise, Almar finishes his spell. Disintegrating orbs swarm around him, flying at incredible speed.

  With determination, Almar focuses on the undead, then one by one hurls the disintegrating swarm at them.

  Once the undead fall by his hand, Almar turns his attention to Ashulbah, who continues evading Zanille’s invisible blows.

  “I can’t see you, whoever you are!” Almar declares and hurls several orbs at Ashulbah.

  The illusion vanishes with a black mist as the orbs near, but Almar maintains control, masterfully guiding them.

  “You can’t defeat me!” Ashulbah shouts as he appears. “I’ve toppled armies! Two men cannot stop me…”

  Still focused, Almar unleashes the rest of his orbs, and they swarm toward Ashulbah; the illusion gathers another black mist, but not before an orb strikes him.

  The disintegrating magic tears Ashulbah, breaking the bond between his magical particles.

  He vanishes once again, but as he appears white dispelling magic spires through his chest while another slices across his neck.

  “No!” Ashulbah screams as his dismembered illusionary head falls forward.

  A trail of dispelling magic from Zanille’s blades swirls from Ashulbah’s body then strikes his head, immediately shattering the severed illusion.

  Regaining control over his devastating orbs, Almar scans the battle-torn highway and beckons, “Who are you?”

  “A friend,” Zanille answers, still invisible. “But we have to deal with your brother before he escapes. He’s encased himself behind a rocky wall.”

  With that said, Zanille’s rapid footfalls fade to the southeast, toward the Inner City’s gate and the rest of the battle.

  Who is that man? Almar wonders as his orbs return, hovering beside him. And how does he know my name?

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile in the fortress’ wards, Balden and the reinforcements from the city’s southern gate repulse Ulnal toward the border highway.

  Many of the mages fling deadly magic at the illusion, but only a few strike him; Balden hurls a globe of darkness and it dissolves part of his illusionary leg while an arcane bolt pierces his stomach.

  Ulnal retaliates with a growl, hurling crimson bolts at his foes; he fatally pierces a guardsman and the arpranist near Regas.

  While the guard and mage fall, Nemmerin utters a transmutive incantation; sharp-pointed metallic ovoids form from clumps of grass and dirt.

  The ovoids rise from the ground, lifted by magical means from another mage beside Nemmerin; one by one, he hurls the sharp projectiles at Ulnal and pierces his illusionary body.

  Amid the clash, Griffith runs from the fortress’ doors, wielding his flaming fanisar; the grand mage weaves around his fellow mages and into the fray with Ulnal.

  “Sever his head!” Griffith shouts, wildly swinging his fiery weapon.

  Ulnal narrowly evades, but the agent rebounds and slices through the illusion’s nearest wrist.

  Intrigued by Griffith’s valiant declaration, Nemmerin stops his incantation and recites another.

  Transmutive magic contorts the ground, forming several disks; sharp blades curve from their edges, completely surrounding them in a circular pattern.

  Once the deadly disks form, Nemmerin turns to the mage beside him and commands, “Maintain control of each until you decapitate it.”

  * * * * *

  Almar dashes around the battle concentrated at the intersection in front of the fortress, toward the duel between Dorith and Vurakna.

  While running, Almar notices one of Nemmerin’s transmuted disks zipping back and forth through the air inside the wards; Ulnal dodges one, but another cuts through his neck and shoulder, severing his illusionary head.

  Turning from Ulnal’s demise, Almar passes several mages and loudly commands, “Mages, with me! We must tear down that wall!”

  Five mages follow Almar, and they all run toward Dorith and Vurakna.

  Both grandmaster and malevolent illusion wildly clash; Vurakna’s dissolving whips briefly wrap around Dorith’s mystical fanisar, but fails to erode it. With vigor, Dorith breaks his weapon free, and continues his onslaught of furious blows.

  Not far from the duel, Alnese and the others with her strike down the undead, using disintegrating magic to vanquish their foes permanently.

  Stopping several dozen phineals from the duel, Almar points to the wall and commands, “Focus on an opening a hole wide enough for four. Once it’s open, I’ll lead the way to Iltar.”

  The mages nod, and each muster various magics.

  However, partway through their incantations, a string of sharp sounding words resounds above and behind them.

  Surprised, Almar quizzically glances toward the sound and sees dark brown magic forming in the air; it briefly falls in an arc while it coalesces, but violently bursts in a rapid wave.

  The dark brown magic strikes the crude alabaster wall with a thunderous rumble that shakes the ground.

  Soon after, the transmuted alabaster wall liquefies, revealing Iltar and the undead mages near him; the necromancer frantically glances over his shoulder, but returns his focus to the hole in the barsion.

  Not far in front of Almar, a thud echoes from the roadway, followed by soft but rapid footfalls.

  * * * * *

  “Almost there…” Iltar grunts, seething his black magic from his pores; it spreads the hole in the barsion over two phineals in diameter.

  Iltar’s face tenuously contorts while he glances over his shoulder; his half-brother and his fellow mages continue mustering magic while the undead soldiers fall to the rest of the Alathian forces.

  “Protect me!” Iltar frantically commands the undead mages. “I need more time!”

  The undead obey their master’s command, but dark violet beams streak from the fortress’ towers and strike several of them mid-incantation.

  Genuine fear comes upon Iltar as he watches the undead fall.

  Suddenly, white magic slashes across one of the undead mages to his right, and Zanille emerges from invisibility, lunging toward Iltar with weapons drawn.

  “No!” the necromancer gasps.

  Zanille swiftly stabs Iltar’s right shoulder, but the necromancer swings his left hand from the hole in the barsion, flinging the seething mist toward his assailant.

  Their eyes meet as the black mist spreads across Zanille’s mask and tunic, rapidly dissolving them; however, Zanille’s brown irises swirl around his pupil, captivating Iltar in a mesmerizing gaze.

  Stilled by the enthralling stare, Iltar stands motionless; events play through his mind backward, from his attempted escape to his heist in the Estate’s Inner Depths.

  However, Iltar’s mist continues eroding Zanille’s mask and dissolves part of his face and neck. His tunic frays, revealing part of a formfitting white breastplate adorned with scaled patterns.

  Twinging from pain, Zanille growls, “D
orith, now!”

  * * * * *

  While the crude alabaster wall liquefies, Alnese and the others in white formfitting armor join Dorith’s duel; they attack at magically enhanced speeds, their weapons glistening dark violet hues.

  Disintegrating beams race from the fortress’ towers and strike Vurakna repeatedly, destroying the bond between his body’s illusionary particles.

  Angered, Vurakna gathers a black mist about him, but Alnese swiftly slices him across his shoulders while Dorith flings one of his axe-blades across his waist.

  Vurakna falls backward in pieces, but before his body lands upon the stony pavement an armor-clad man severs his head, then another utters a sharp incantation and dispels it.

  As Vurakna shatters, Dorith hears Zanille’s pained voice within his ear, “Dorith, now!”

  Turning to the Inner City’s east gate, Dorith twirls his fanisar and presses the oval indentations; both separated ends violently return to the center while the axe-blades vanish.

  Once his staff becomes whole, Dorith slams one end into the stony pavement and focuses on Iltar; his hazel eyes narrow as he utters a sharp sounding incantation. The words roll off his tongue in a beautiful pattern and Dorith glows a brilliant white hue.

  Amid Dorith’s incantation, Almar turns to the grandmaster and shields his eyes. He watches the blinding magical particles flow along Dorith’s arms and up his staff, gathering just above it.

  While Almar approaches, the mages who ran with him to the crude wall warily remark about the spell and the man casting it.

  After a moment, the white magic ceases flowing from Dorith’s body and pulses at the tip of the staff with incredible speed.

  While it pulses, Dorith solemnly states, “Zanxsthy’ll, move!”

  The sound of a rushing wind emanates from the magic, and then it flies toward Iltar and Zanille.

  * * * * *

  Dorith’s solemn beckon resounds in Zanille’s ear. Regret mingled with anger smears across his wounded face as he growls, “Your streak of terror ends now, Iltar!” He leaps backward, retracting his blade from Iltar’s shoulder while whispering, “Sium.”

  As Zanille vanishes, Iltar regains control, stretches his hand, and screams with rage, “You! I know–”

  Dorith’s brilliant magic immediately engulfs Iltar, interrupting his cry.

  A blinding white magical eruption fills the surrounding area, incapacitating all the combatants along the road, the highway, and in the fortress.

  After a moment, the light fades and the battle-sounds cease; the remaining undead collapse and fall to the ground.

  Dorith’s spell suspends Iltar in the air, encasing him in flowing white-beige magic. It surrounds him in an ovoid shape several phineals from his body, freezing him with a malevolent scowl across his face.

  The mages beside Almar gaze at the stilled necromancer, awestruck at the sudden end to the massacre.

  Amid the silence, Dorith mildly calls to Almar, “Search him for the Key. The magic is safe for you to touch.”

  Almar quizzically glances to Dorith, then approaches Iltar.

  Once near his brother, Almar takes a deep breath and reaches his hand into the magic; it spreads away from him, but he can feel the mystical energies radiating against his skin.

  While Almar frisks Iltar’s robes, Griffith runs past Dorith, with Balden and the others in tow. Soon after, he reaches his mentor and whispers, “Who was that man in black?”

  “I don’t know. He said he was a friend.”

  After several seconds of searching, Almar touches a hard oval object in Iltar’s tunic. He fidgets through the clothing and removes the small rogulin crystal. He hands it to Griffith, then resumes searching Iltar’s other pockets to no avail.

  “There’s the conjurer’s stone,” Griffith remarks, examining the crystal. “But where’s the amulet piece?”

  Sighing, Almar replies, “That’s all. His other pockets are empty.”

  Amid the grand mages’ conversation, the rest of the survivors move toward the encased Iltar, while Thranar and Nemmerin approach Dorith.

  The two council-mages skeptically examine him, then Thranar demands, “Who are you? The Mage-King? You wield his scepter… One of our agents claimed you would show.”

  Chuckling at the quandary, Dorith responds, “No, Thranar. It is I, Dorith.”

  Nemmerin’s face contorts in confusion and he struggles to speak, “Then… You-you are His Majesty…”

  “I don’t understand,” Thranar shakes his head. “How could you have lived for so long?”

  “Calm down, my friends,” Dorith chuckles. “I am the same Dorith you have always known. And, these are simply tools of war.” He touches his breastplate’s emblem and the armor slowly transforms, then he reaffirms, “Nothing more.”

  Once the golden necklace reforms, Dorith loudly addresses the surviving mages, “Brethren, I thank you for your sacrifice. You could have lost your lives, and many of us have, but you still chose to fight. Capturing Iltar has come at great costs.”

  “What about the west gate?” a nearby mage asks, looking at the survivors.

  “We need to check on them,” Fren remarks, “They might need our help.”

  “Go bolster their forces,” Dorith commands and leans against his staff. “Balden and myself can take Iltar back to the Estate. And, if you encounter other illusions of Iltar, destroy their bodies. Encase the remaining specks of blackness within barsion and bring them to the Estate.”

  From within the crowd, Regas asks, “What are they? They’re not like any illusion I’ve ever seen.”

  Dorith silently raises his brow and glances at the others; several of the older mages speculate on their nature and origin while others await an answer from their grandmaster.

  Amid the speculations, Almar silently walks away from his imprisoned brother; he sternly strides through the mages, and once past them he transmogrifies his magical steed from a nearby barricade.

  Sorrow veils his features, and he bemoans, Why, Iltar? You’ve become so vile.

  The grand mage continues pondering his brother’s tragedy as his mystical horse completely forms; he swiftly mounts it, then gallops down the border highway.

  Fren notices his departure and shouts, “We better hurry! Almar isn’t waiting for us.”

  Many of the mages transmogrify horses for themselves and the guards, but Thranar and Nemmerin remain, intently focused on Dorith.

  Noticing them, Dorith reassures, “We’ll secure Iltar. Return to the council chambers when you’re finished.”

  Both council-mages nod while Griffith approaches, and beckons with piety, “Your Majesty, this was on Iltar.” He bows his head, while presenting the rogulin crystal to Dorith.

  Chuckling, Dorith grabs it and replies, “Thank you, Griffith. But stop calling me that.”

  Griffith slowly smiles at Dorith, still believing he is the fabled monarch. He nods then says, “As you wish, Grandmaster.”

  * * * * *

  Soon after, only Dorith, Balden, Alnese, and those who accompanied her remain at the eastern gate. They tightly gather around Iltar, each studying the flowing magic.

  “How will we carry him?” Alnese asks, grazing her hand across the magic’s surface, and it ripples from her presence.

  “It’s such an honor to witness this spell,” one of the men mutters admirably. “I didn’t know you knew how to cast such power, grandfather.”

  Smiling, Dorith answers, “My father, and his father before him knew the incantation. And, as for moving Iltar, I’m sure Zanxsthy’ll has a means.”

  Balden quizzically studies Dorith, but his attention is drawn by Zanille’s voice from behind him.

  “You are correct,” Zanille says frankly, emerging from his concealing veil of magic, his face still mangled by Iltar’s deadly mist. He strides toward the half-elf while reaching into his tunic and says, “Excuse me, Balden.”

  Confused, Balden steps aside while studying him and asks, “How do you know my na
me?”

  Zanille struggles to grin but twinges, “We’ve met before.” He removes a thin, coin-sized, ornate, charcoal and hexagonal object, kneels, then places it against the flowing magic beneath Iltar and whispers, “Si’pa ta’k uka.”

  Intrigued, Balden mutters, “Draconic… You! You’re the Mage-King!”

  Amid the half-elf’s declaration, the flowing magic surrounding Iltar abruptly turns into a solid crystalline mass.

  Zanille looks over his shoulder to Balden and asks with pained amusement, “Whatever would give you that idea?”

  Dorith clears his throat, then says, “We can carry him now, but it’ll be heavy.”

  “What about the Ka’nakar?” Alnese asks concerned; she glances to the others then adds, “Where is it?”

  “Perhaps he hid it?” Balden speculates, “But–”

  “It was lost over the wall,” Zanille interrupts. “When he and the thieves were trying to escape. I assume the others recovered it. That’s what Nath speculated.”

  “Did you see where they went?” Alnese asks Zanille, her tone intensely focused.

  “No,” Zanille shakes his head. “Nor did Iltar want Nath to tell him. He was afraid a magical essence could hear them. But, Nath said they would’ve headed eastward.”

  Alnese groans, her demeanor building with tenacious fury.

  One of the younger men sighs, and remarks to Alnese, “I wish we had eyes like him…”

  Dorith furrows his brow, and says, “Nath is the key to finding the Ka’nakar–”

  “Grandfather, open the gate!” Alnese interrupts zealously, motioning toward the barsion encased gateway. “We’ll search for Iltar’s accomplices. You,” she points to Balden. “Stay here, since they know you, you’ll scare them off.”

  Taken aback, the half-elf sighs while Dorith moves around the crystalline imprisonment.

  Still confused, Balden looks at Zanille and asks, “I don’t understand; how do you know all that?”