The Dragons' Legacy by Dan Zangari & Robert Zangari
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After a quarter of an hour, Iltar arrives alone at the gates on the east end of the city that leads to the towering castle atop the rise of land. The path is well guarded, with ten armor-clad sentinels that Iltar can see; each wearing armor similar to those protecting the governor’s manor on Soroth.
“Halt!” the guard nearest to the center of the gateway harshly barks.
“I’ve come to see Baron Cilgan,” the necromancer states coldly. “I am the Grandmaster of the Sorothian Magical Order,”
“He was not expecting anyone today, why are you here?” the initial guard asks as he steps forward to examine Iltar. He motions for two other guards to come to him.
“It is a matter of business between myself and the good Baron–Don’t touch me!” Iltar shouts as the two sentinels motioned for begin frisking their armor clad hands through the necromancer’s robes.
“This is a standard procedure. You know how the Baron is, don’t you?” the first guard asks smugly.
“Yes,” Iltar sullenly grumbles, recounting Baron Cilgan’s paranoia. He was a man of great superstition, constantly searching for spies within the city. The people of Sereth were ever cautious to not say or do anything that might be interpreted by the baron or his agents as seditious.
“He’s unarmed sir,” one of the guards states as he moves back toward the gate.
“You’re free to go, Grandmaster,” the initial guard states as he motions back toward the path beyond the gates, which is lined with tall stone walls on either side.
Annoyed, Iltar shakes his head and slowly strides past the guards, grumbling statements of irritation and frustration concerning their procedure.
Once Iltar is through, the gates close and the sentinels resume positions guarding the threshold to the Serethian palace. The necromancer stops briefly and looks at the area around the gate then moves up the path and towards the castle in a quick manner.
I feel as if I’ve waited an eternity for this, Iltar thinks.
After several minutes of steady walking, Iltar reaches the final curve of the pathway and the palace home to the baron comes into view. The castle is surrounded by an outer wall made of a dull gray stone. Directly in front of the pathway is an iron rod gate with the outline of the baron’s crest in its center; a hawk looking upward with its wings spread.
Beyond the gate, a large moat can be faintly seen, as well as a narrow bridge spanning its boundaries. Another stone wall, slightly taller than the first, lines the inner parts of the moat and encases the castle’s wards.
The castle itself towers over five stories tall, each floor reaching the height of eleven phineals. Three circular towers spire from the highest level of the palace, one near the front gate and two behind on buildings connected to the main edifice by arched bridges. Each points to the sky with their cone shaped tips, atop them waves the flags with the crest of the Baron of Sereth: a dark-green feathered hawk looking upward against a gold background.
Five buildings comprise the entire castle: the main keep is divided into two parts. The forward section is diamond-shaped and rises three stories. A two story hall connects to the keep’s rear. The keep’s rear is circular, twice as wide as the diamond section, rises five stories. Elongated oval arrow slits line the keep’s upper floors, spaced five phineals apart.
Two smaller structures with slanted walls stand closest to the main keep, aligned with its front. The other two buildings are positioned along the center of the rear end of the main keep, and are the bases of the rear towers.
“It seems his paranoia is driving his guards away,” Iltar mutters as he looks at four guardsmen stationed outside the gate leading to the bridge. “Four shouldn’t be too much to handle.”
Iltar slows his pace briefly before he comes within several phineals of the gates and says, “I’m here to see Baron Cilgan. I am Iltar, Grandmaster of the Sorothian Magical Order.”
“You weren’t expected,” the guard nearest Iltar’s left states.
“I know!” the necromancer scowls in response.
The guard stiffens and pauses before moving toward the gate, opening it with one hand.
Iltar waits for a moment, gazing at the sentinel holding the gate open. He rubs his chin thoughtfully through his gray goatee.
After several seconds, the guard averts his gaze and Iltar walks through the gate and onto the bridge spanning the distance between the two walls.
The moat lining the outer and inner walls is fairly large, nearly fifty phineals across. Iltar cannot make out the depth of the water, as it appears darkened and casts an illusion of an ongoing well.
Across the bridge, a view opens up to beautiful garden wards that surround the Serethian palace. A stone path cuts through the wards, leading directly to the keep’s front doors. Two guards open the doors for Iltar without any question, and the necromancer slows his pace slightly as he walks up the stone steps and into the main keep.
Immediately beyond the doors is a large diamond-shaped foyer, rising two stories in height. A large rug mimicking the shape of the walls covers most of the floor and in its center rests a large table with various seating arranged around its sides. Directly in front of the doors is a wide single-story corridor leading to the keep’s rear.
“Welcome,” a male tenor voice calls out.
Iltar turns to his left and watches as a servant rises from a chair, revealing him to be tall and lanky. “I would have greeted you at the door, but I wasn’t aware the Baron was having visitors today. You are?”
“Grandmaster Iltar. I rarely announce myself,” Iltar states coldly. “And when I don’t it means the matter is urgent.”
“Yes-yes,” the tall servant stammers. “I will take you straight to him. Please, follow me.”
The servant quickly leads Iltar across the diamond room toward the wide corridor. Tall windows, rising from waist height to the ceiling, allow a view out into the ward gardens enclosed by the buildings connected to the main keep. It is often the last glimpse of beauty most see when traveling through the castle.
At the end of the corridor, Iltar and the servant enter the large circular portion of the main keep. On the opposite end of the room are the bases of two flights of stairs; both curve along the walls and empty out onto the second floor a quarter of the way around the enormous room.
As Iltar walks through the center of the room, he notices the ceiling above rises three stories and makes a mental note of it while silently following the servant up the left set of stairs. They pass through a curved landing twice the width of the staircase; the landing bridges the top of the stairs and the base of a stairwell leading to the keep’s third floor.
Along the wide landings, dim halls branch off, and do not reveal their depths.
Once Iltar reaches the second story landing, he can see an identical corridor that sits above the one he has just passed through; however, there is a set of stairs at the opposite end, leading to the part of the castle above the entry hall.
A moment later, both men ascend to the third floor from the second circular stairwell. At the top of the second set of stairs, the steps meet at a landing that rounds out over the second floor.
Immediately beyond the third story landing is a dimly lit hallway, illuminated by two light stones housed within golden sconces. This corridor is almost half the size of its two counterparts on the lower levels. After several steps inside the hallway it splits in two, divided by the stairwell leading to the fourth floor and the baron’s throne room.
The necromancer and his escort walk to the end of the corridor before ascending the stairs. Iltar sighs in annoyance at the deliberate elongation of the walk, due to the architecture of the castle.
Atop the stairs leading to the fourth floor is a wide landing, illuminated by two light stones. The fourth story landing’s ceiling and the stairwell leading to it are level with each other.
At the end of the landing are two elaborate black doors. Two large g
The servant reaches out for one of the weights, grabs it, and pulls back. With the weight released, it rushes to the door, causing a high pitched reverberating sound to echo within the landing.
After a moment, both doors slowly swing open; the servant steps through first, with Iltar reluctantly moving in behind him.
Slowly entering the throne room, Iltar carefully examines the space which rises two stories in height and is windowless. Six shiny black pillars line the room, three on either side, between the doors Iltar entered and a raised platform containing the throne of the baron. Further behind the throne are two doorways leading to darkened corridors.
Four basins rest along the walls in between the pillars, each burning a hot flame. The air in the chamber is slightly stifling for the necromancer, causing Iltar to cough as he walks down a row designated by a black carpet; the runner spanning the length between the doors and the short stairs up to the throne.
Guards line the throne room as well; two on either side of each pillar, six along the back wall behind the throne, and two at the main doors. Gray tiles, with green flecks and veins make up the floors, walls and ceilings of the chambers.
Iltar’s gaze shifts from his surroundings and focuses on the throne, where Baron Cilgan narrowly glares at the unexpected guest.
Cilgan is a large and burly man with dull blonde wavy hair that is a, accompanied by striking light blue eyes. A short nose marks the center of his face, which is accented by high cheek bones, a clean shaven face, and a light complexion. The baron is dressed in a dark red tunic and pants. Black boots reach midway up his shins along with black gloves of similar material covering his hands.
“Who dares disturb me?” Baron Cilgan shouts from his large ornate throne and leans forward.
“Grandmaster Iltar,” the servant shakes out the name and title.
“Iltar… my you’ve finally become the leader of your Order. No doubt by some fraud,” the burly baron laughs at the thought before continuing. “Why are you here?”
A sinister smile smears across Iltar’s face as he looks up to address the baron, who is sitting almost half his height above him. Iltar notices two mages on either side of the throne room; each are sitting upon chairs atop the raised section, dressed in dark robes.
“I’ve come to take something from you.”
“Oh?” Baron Cilgan laughs aloud, tilting his head back while raising his hands in front of his chest. After he catches his breath he responds with sarcasm, “And what is that?”
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” Iltar states flatly. “I am here to free my apprentice, Balden.”
“You can’t have him!” Cilgan snaps in a bellowing voice. “He is the most expert of my mages in torturing my enemies. They are everywhere, and through him I can sniff them out. He is my hound now, not yours!” the baron practically froths with wrath.
“Release him,” Iltar commands, glaring at the twisted ruler, “Or you and everyone else in this castle will die… slowly.”
“No,” Cilgan shakes his head and motions with his finger toward Iltar.
At the Baron’s pointing gesture, the servant standing by Iltar quickly runs for safety, stumbling toward the doors from whence they entered. The basins of fire lining the throne room erupt and the burning flames rise in a high arc.
Seeing the magical eruption, Iltar’s face twists with frustration and black magic seethes from his entire body. The dissolving mist violently erupts and creates his necrotic sphere of protection just as the flames crash down upon him.
Both magics press against each other, but then after a moment the streams of fire are consumed by the necrotic sphere. However, the fiery beams are replaced by the ever burning magic from the four basins in the chamber.
During the magical outburst, four of the six guards at the rear of the raised section surround the baron to defend him; meanwhile the guards standing by the pillars move to the far walls on either end of the throne room.
Amid the continuous flaming assault, Iltar undauntedly splays his hands and his black magic coalesces just above his palms, forming two globes of darkness.
Just as the two deadly balls of magic form, Iltar flicks his wrists, causing the two globes of darkness to fly from his palms with incredible speed. They scrape along the edges of the pillars nearest the throne, dissolving the stone as they pass.
Within a second, the two globes of darkness strike the mages in the chest, and they scream in agony; the black magic dissolves their torsos and then spreads across the rest of their bodies, turning them to dust.
As they die, the fire in each of the four basins dissipates and specks of magic and ash rise to the air and vanish.
Sinisterly grinning at the baron, the necromancer utters the words to a magical incantation and greenish magic gathers in his hands.
Meanwhile, the guardsman directly to the right of the baron gasps for air and collapses to the ground, struck by an unseen force. Blood spews from his neck onto the floor, and the gray stone turns red.
Immediately thereafter, the two guards in front of the baron are struck and fall to the floor in a similar manner. A second later, the fourth guard to the left is knocked back by an unseen force, thrusting him away from the throne.
All the while, the guards stationed at the rear passageways draw their weapons and defensively turn every which way in search of their invisible assailants.
“You have the worst help,” Tilthan’s sly voice calls out from Baron Cilgan’s right. “Perhaps you could have singed his hairs if your mages shot the magic directly out rather than using that whimsical display of theatrics. Where did you get them anyway, a Sereth city festival?”
“This is impossible!” Baron Cilgan shouts and looks around frantically at the assault launched by Iltar and his invisible companions.
In the center of the throne room, Iltar’s ensnaring tendrils have entangled eight of the guards behind the four pillars nearest the throne.
At this same time, the fourth guard who had rushed to the baron’s side pushes himself up but is quickly struck by a blade between his armor.
Just after the guardsman is slain, Cilgan is thrust out of his throne, rolling forward down the three steps.
“Show yourselves, cowards!” Baron Cilgan’s words echo within the stone chamber as he raises his head from the runner. He glances toward the doors, which fly open from outside the throne room.
Nordal and Midar both charge into the throne room, startling the fleeing servant.
Without hesitation, Midar raises his sword above his head and leaps toward the servant, striking the tall man in the head with the pommel of his weapon.
The lanky servant abruptly falls to the stone floor, leaving both of Cornar’s men free to turn to either side and engage the two guards stationed as doormen.
Both heavily armed sentinels swing their weapons in long exaggerated strokes, but Midar and Nordal evade and parry the blows with their own straight swords with ease.
The four other guards near the doorway pillars rush to aid their comrades fighting the invading warriors, swinging their weapons as they dash forward.
Amidst the distraction of the warrior’s charge, the two remaining guards on the raised area fall to the ground quickly, groaning in anguish. Like their companions, their blood stains the stone tile red.
“Where are you cowards?!” Cilgan shouts as he rises to his feet and looks around, but he is quickly swept out from his sturdy stance by magical means.
The baron falls face-forward to the black runner of carpet. He quickly glances over his shoulder to see Iltar standing with his arms folded. In one hand Iltar grasps the source of the force that leveled him with the floor, the same green magic dragging his guards to their painful demise.
“I’m over here,” Cornar bellows from above Cilgan.
Looking up toward the warrior’s voice, Cilgan can see
As Cornar emerges from invisibility, the first of the baron’s guards hits the necromancer’s dissolving sphere; his screams echo across the throne room, frightening the others in the necromancer’s grasp, and all let out similar shrieks of terror.
“That is your fate, Cilgan,” Iltar stares at the baron with a twisted expression of pleasure, “Relish it!”
At that same moment, arrows sing through the air from the right of the baron’s throne, toward the four guards rushing to the two intruding warriors. The arrows appear just as they’re heard and fly from the rear of the room, striking each of the four guardsmen. The arrows pierce the neck of one and the exposed portions between the plating of armor on the others.
Meanwhile, Midar, who went to the left, has knocked his foe to the ground and is stabbing the guard in the neck when both of the advancing guardsmen reach him. The warrior turns and with his free hand grabs the fanisar the fallen guard was wielding, using his foot to pry it from his grip.
Midar turns just in time to meet the two guards wounded by the arrows. He swiftly uses his sword and the staff of metal to parry and strike.
After several exchanges of blows and defensive movements, Midar stabs one of the guards he is engaged with in the neck.
The warrior kicks him away as the guard falls to the ground and Midar lunges toward his next opponent, launching a twirling assault with both weapons.
As Midar deals with the advancing guards, the other two guards reach Nordal, but as they do one falls to the ground; the arrow in his neck, taking the life out of him within seconds.
Seeing the other guard approaching, Nordal lowers his shoulder and rams the guard he is dueling, pushing him into the wall.
Nordal then quickly turns and runs to the advancing guard, evading his swings as he moves within arm’s reach of the throne room sentinel.
In an instant, the skilled warrior strikes the guard on either side of the head with his lightly armored forearms. He swiftly spins to his left, lowering his sword in his right hand. He breaks his turn and closes the distance between him and his foe, who is now slightly behind him, by lunging sideways.
While moving, Nordal throws his left arm down and brings it back up to brace his right wrist. With incredible strength, he uses both arms to quickly thrust his blade upward, reaching under the helmet and piercing the guard through his lower jaw.
As the guard knocked to the wall recovers, he runs to Nordal, who has already relinquished the life of the other guardsman.
The lifeless sentinel slumps on the warrior’s blade and Nordal uses his left hand to push him away, unsheathing his sword from the guard’s bloodied neck.
With finesse, Nordal dashes forward and parries the last guard’s weapon as he shuffles to the right; the two weapons cross in front of the guard with Nordal’s on top.
In a swift motion, the intruding warrior swings his armored forearm to the guard’s protected head and knocks him backward, causing his head to reel back. As he does this, Nordal quickly spins to the right, releasing his parrying blade, and following through by swinging his sword in a circular motion parallel to his body. At this moment, the guard’s head bounces forward, exposing the back of his neck; Nordal’s bloodied weapon swiftly circles upward, cutting into the guard’s skin and severing his head just before he lands on the gray tile; all this happening within a second.
As Midar and Nordal deal with the last of the throne room guards, Iltar gloats over the victimized baron. Each of the guards he had entangled has since been dissolved by the destructive magic, and their bodies lay as ash at Iltar’s feet.
“Now Cilgan, you will tell me where Balden is. If you don’t, I’ll dissolve your body from your feet up!”
“You-you planned all this! How did you know the details of this throne room?!” the Baron cries out in astonishment.
“Paranoid and stupid,” Tilthan’s voice sarcastically states from the shadows. The thief removes his cloak and appears at the right of the throne, revealing he was the one who had launched the volley of arrows at the guards.
“We didn’t know,” Cornar chimes in from in front of the throne. “We’re just that skilled. And your men, frankly, are not that good.”
“Suit yourself then…” Iltar states as the binding magic slowly pulls Cilgan toward the necromancer.
“No, you’re not going to do this! If you kill me you won’t make it off this island alive!” Cilgan shouts partially out of fear and arrogance.
“Tilthan is right, you are stupid,” Iltar states, enjoying the situation.
The eyes of the Baron of Sereth widen as he approaches Iltar’s powerful magic. His boots slowly enter the eroding barrier and a burning sensation gnaws at his feet. He lets out a scream as the magic reaches his bare skin, and the pink flesh is slowly turned gray.
“Tell me!” Iltar’s eyes widen as the screaming lord continues moving closer and closer to him.
“Make it stop!” Cilgan wails in an agonizing sob, his voice reaching a higher pitch than before.
“I can make it stop if you just tell me where Balden is. Well?!” Iltar impatiently taps his foot within the magical sphere.
“The lower dungeon! In the southern wing! You get there from the second floor tower! Please, stop it!” the baron’s voice twists with pain.
“Good…” Iltar says, ignoring Baron Cilgan’s screams, who is still being pulled into the sphere. The necromancer dissolves the magic around him and relinquishes his magical grasp on Cilgan, saying, “Secure the room, and let’s move down to the dungeon.”
Iltar walks away and back toward the double doors where Midar and Nordal have just leveled the last guard to the ground.
“Oh,” the necromancer calls out as he strides to the door, “And someone kill him.”
Cornar menacingly glares at Cilgan while he descends the steps and tosses the shimmering cloak to Tilthan. The warrior runs both of his weapons along each other, creating a grinding sound and the blood on them drips onto the black carpet.
Once the warrior reaches Cilgan’s side, Cornar slowly swings his serrated dagger in the air above the baron’s body, from his stomach up to his chest, blood spattering on Cilgan’s face.
“I hate you,” Cornar disgustedly snarls while looking down at Baron Cilgan. He spits on his face, where the warm spit and blood from his guards mingles.
Cornar swiftly rear straight up and thrusts himself forward, stabbing the dagger deep into the baron’s stomach. The warrior’s face turns to a cold stare as the Baron gasps and cries out in pain. Cornar’s green eyes glare with disgust as he grates the serrated blade up Cilgan’s torso, following the same motion he traced earlier above the demented ruler’s body. The warrior snarls as he slowly carves through bone and flesh.
“This is for Ralin,” the words drip with disdain from Cornar’s mouth as he brutally grates the weapon through Cilgan’s body.
The screams of the dying baron fill the room as his executioner meticulously carves him.
As Cornar’s serrated dagger grates through the lungs of the baron, the warrior quickly pulls it from the ruthless ruler who is dying a ruthless death.
Swiftly rising from the ground, Cornar lets out a loud yell and spins; he quickly lowers his other weapon down upon Cilgan’s neck, severing it from his body and choking off his blood filled gasps.
Without a word, Cornar walks away from the scene and toward the doors of the throne room while Tilthan creeps forward to the lifeless decapitated body.
“You don’t suppose he has a treasury do you?” the thief calls out to the warriors and necromancer leaving the throne room.
Receiving no answer, the thief rummages through the baron’s bloodied clothing and finds several items: a key, a fist-sized pouch and a small token. Tilthan quickly puts the key in his pocket then examines th
The token is oval in shape, with a gold rim and silver background. Within its center is a raised symbol of a winged creature. Tilthan runs his finger over the raised metal form and feels intricate grooves along the body. He looks closer and recognizes the features of the beast with some surprise. It is a dragon, a red dragon.
Tilthan pauses for a moment, then flips it over, but there are no other visible markings on the emblem. The thief quickly shoves the token into his bag and secures it, then runs after the men already out of the room.