The Dragons' Legacy by Dan Zangari & Robert Zangari

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  A little over two hours later, the sound of rushing horses reaches the necromancer’s ears again. Iltar’s attention is drawn away from a thick leather bound tome in his hands, in which he carefully marks the current page with a velvet strand. Closing the book with the two ends of the material hanging out from both top and bottom, the necromancer sets it on the table and moves to the window.

  Two men dressed in tan clothing walk across the stone path towards the tower.

  “They took long enough,” Iltar snarls as he returns to the chair and sits down, slowly tapping his fingers on the leather tome.

  After a moment, several rapid knocks at the door alert him of their presence and he replies impatiently, “Come in!”

  The door opens and Kilan and Midal enter the study. They are of average height, shorter than Iltar, with short dark hair and gray strands. Kilan’s face is clean shaven while Midal has a long mustache that curves around his lips down to his chin; it ends in a point with two small leather clasps binding each strand of hair together. Both of their olive complexions are wrinkled with age. Kilan’s eyes are a dull blue and Midal’s are a vibrant green.

  “I’d ask you to sit but there is only one chair,” Iltar muses. “I have a certain task for each of you.

  “Kilan, I want to know everything you can find about the isle of Merdan and the city of Merda. I want to know when it was settled, and everything about that place to the present time.”

  “That will take awhile, but I will do my best,” Kilan responds confidently. “When do you need it?”

  “I have no time constraints, but don’t work at it leisurely,” Iltar waggles his forefinger as he leans forward, staring at the historian with his sapphire eyes. “But I don’t want this to be a priority that will consume your work either. In fact, I want the both of you to undertake this work with some degree of secrecy.”

  Both historians glance at each other and raise their brows in response as Iltar reaches beneath the desk.

  In the necromancer’s hands are two palm-sized bags; the fabric is tight with outlines of small coins. Iltar sets them down on the wooden table upon the stone inset and looks at both of the historians in silence; after a moment Iltar continues.

  “This is a payment for your discretion. When you return I will pay you for the information. Take it,” the necromancer nods his head toward the two bags midway between him and the two historians.

  Intrigued, Kilan grabs one of the bags, lightly bouncing it in his hand.

  “This is quite generous Iltar,” Kilan says then smiles to Midal. “About enough to subsist upon for nearly half a year. I assume you’re done talking with me?”

  “Yes. Now go, and you know what will happen if I discover either of you have talked about this to others,” Iltar looks to Kilan at the door and then to Midal in front of him. “Both of you will regret it for the rest of your lives.”

  “There is no need to threaten us Iltar, that’s already implied by your summons,” Kilan remarks as he walks toward the still open doorway.

  The necromancer waits as he listens to Kilan’s footsteps fading from the anteroom and down the stairwell. Once satisfied that he cannot hear Iltar’s instructions to Midal, the necromancer continues.

  “As for, you my friend,” Iltar motions for Midal to sit, and the scholar with the mustache pulls out the chair and sits down, intently listening to his host. “I have a very important requisition for you. I want specific details, and I don’t care if you have to leave the island to do so.

  “Now, here is a list,” Iltar removes a roll of parchment from a bag on the ground next to his chair, handing it to Midal.

  Without a word, the historian takes it and slips it into the top of his tunic.

  “I have specific questions written on that parchment. I expect detailed answers for each of them. The same charge applies to you. No one is to know what you are researching, and if you have to leave the island do it under a guise of personal venture. Do you understand?”

  Midal silently nods his head as Iltar stares deep into his emerald eyes. Without a word, the historian reaches for the sack of coins and holds them tightly as he stands from the table, bowing to the necromancer.

  Watching Midal leave the study, Iltar nestles himself into the chair, leaning his head against the high-back cushion.

  “Now to face Igan’s wife,” Iltar mutters as he turns his head and looks out the window. “And that foolish P.M.”