The Dragons' Legacy by Dan Zangari & Robert Zangari
* * * * *
The road to Soroth is a wide and winding dirt path, carved through the forests of the island. Many paths diverge off the dirt highway to various estates and manors concealed in the forest. Much like Iltar’s, those residences are often home to the darker events of Soroth.
Iltar’s estate, formerly that of his parents and before that his mother’s parents, is nestled deep inside the island. A typical ride from the city to his home takes roughly an hour, but at magically enhanced speeds the trip is much faster.
Soroth, the city, is on the south eastern part of the landmass. Its port surrounds the city on two sides and is a major focal point of the mid-sized municipality. Unlike other cities on Kalda, Soroth is of smaller than average size, but is still large enough to be considered a major port on the world’s designated trade routes.
Midway to the city, Iltar’s champion steed catches Cornar and his brown beauty. Cornar’s horses were known for their almost perfect features. At a young age he had married a woman who was set on breeding the animals for shows on the mainland. However, she was not known for exerting her horses’ riding capabilities.
For Iltar he found this method of breeding pointless, and in a gesture of boastfulness he pushes his horse just past Cornar’s along the Sorothian road.
Once he reaches a full length ahead of Cornar, Iltar slows the gallop of his horse slightly to come even to match Cornar’s steed. The two horses gallop side by side until the woodland’s edge, and Iltar glimpses Cornar grinding his teeth in annoyance.
As they break the edge of the forest, Soroth’s buildings come into view. Both men focus on a group of gray stone buildings, all standing above the rest of the city’s short skyline; the Necrotic Order’s guild hall.
With determination, the duo press their steeds toward the city, and onto the rebellion.
Soon after entering the city, Cornar and Iltar near the hall of the Necrotic Order; a complex of buildings interconnected and surrounded by walls rising a story and a half from the ground.
A small crowd has formed just outside the walls of the guild’s hall at a large gate made of metal rods; however, the group of people pay no attention to the two men approaching the gateway.
“Go!” Iltar shouts at his horse, who hesitates near the people at the gate.
Startled, the people clear a path for Iltar and Cornar, who is closely following the necromancer.
Both men boldly ride their horses into the courtyard, turning on a path leading to stables left of the gate.
Once inside the stable, Iltar and Cornar swiftly dismount their steeds and quickly secure them; Iltar with a stern and firm hand, Cornar gentle and caring.
The necromancer emerges from the stables first, and studies the magical abode. The Necrotic Order of Soroth’s bastion squarely covers four city blocks. Each of the structures, and the walls surrounding them, are entirely made of gray granite-like stone called, galstra.
Iltar focuses on the main building, which houses the order’s council chambers and offices, standing four stories tall. Windows line only the upper level while a single double-door entrance marks the center of the northern side of the building. A path that leads straight from the main gate of the magical complex.
Usually several sets of guards patrol from the gate to the main entrance and throughout the courtyard, but not today; all is silent.
Cornar steps beside Iltar and both men glance at each other; without a word, they warily cross the grass onto the path leading to the doors of the main building.
Gasps fill the air behind them, but neither spare a glance to the onlookers.
The two companions pass several dead bodies near the building’s doors, some with blood pooling around them; others lay silently, killed by the acolytes’ deadly magic. An awful stench reaches Cornar and Iltar’s nostrils, but both stomach it with barely a grimace. Death’s decaying odor was all too familiar to them.
Side by side, both men enter the threshold into the necromancers and other magic wielder’s domain. Directly in front of them is an ornate foyer, with smooth galstra walls and flooring. Toward the south of the hall is a grand stairwell which opens before them and towering windows behind that illuminate the room. A majestic crimson carpet flows from the doorway toward the wide corridor that further opens up into the grand hall and ultimately up the stairs. However, this path is not the course the intimidating duo chooses.
Stepping cautiously, Cornar leads the pair along the right of the entry into a corridor running along the exterior of the building.
As they creep down the hall, Cornar, with as much silence as possible, unsheathes his weapons. In his left hand is his preferred weapon of choice: a large dagger with serrated edges, which by some standards may be called a short sword. The polished metal glistens slightly in the light of the magical orbs lining the hall.
In his right hand is a short sword, its slightly longer than his forearm and razor sharp on both edges.
Cornar’s skill with both weapons are unrivaled in Soroth. For as long as he could remember, warfare was a focal point of his life; his father trained him to use those weapons since his youth.
But this is not all, Cornar is vastly proficiency with various weapons and hand-to-hand combat; this coupled with years of experience and strategic knowledge make him a deadly warrior, even in his mid-fifties.
Over the last thirty years, Cornar had developed one of the most rigorous combat training regimens on Soroth. His skills were renown and attracted many men and women. His pupils often became body guards for the Sorothian nobles while others joined the ranks of the Sorothian Navy, the Guardians of Soroth and the Soroth City Watch; however, some joined his private band of adventurers and accompanied him and Iltar on their many exploits.
At the end of the hall they come to a tight spiral staircase, wide enough for only two men to walk abreast; they quickly ascend to the next floor.
Upon reaching the landing they discover more dead guards and several acolytes strewn throughout the corridor, which they ignore.
The necromancer and warrior continue up the stairs to the third and then the fourth and final floor; more bodies litter the steps at the top of the stairs and the adjoining landing.
The landing opens up to two halls which run along the north and west sides of the building, paralleling the outer walls. Windows, waist-high to ceiling, line both corridors, allowing ample morning light to illuminate the hallways.
Both Iltar and Cornar move down the western corridor, cat-like in their gait, carefully stepping over the bodies of the dead. After a moment, they arrives at two large, ornate wooden doors pulled tightly shut, positioned midway down the hall.
Iltar leans forward slightly while Cornar presses an ear against the doors. Muffled voices converse beyond the beautifully carved wooden slabs, their words garbled and faint.
Cornar motions they should charge into the room, but Iltar stretches out his palm to stop him.
Shaking his head, Iltar motions around Cornar further down the hall to the south, urging his friend to continue.
Cornar gives him a perplexed look and turns, noticing a single door situated close to the far end of the corridor. The warrior nods his head once, then steps even more cautiously than before toward it.
Again, the companions press their ears against the carved wooden slab.
Hearing nothing, Iltar nods and whispers, “Let’s go in.”
The necromancer’s wrinkled hand grasps the silver knob, slowly turning it. Pressing his free palm against the door, Iltar pulls back slightly on the knob, ensuring the door opens in silence.
Once opened, Iltar leads his companion through to an anteroom, which is nothing more than a small study. A modest chair sits in the corner, along with a circular table, no larger than an average dinner plate.
As they step into the room, Cornar lowers his guard with a puzzled expression across his face, about to speak.
Iltar motions hurriedly for him to clo
After closing the door, Cornar whispers, “What are we doing here?”
Ignoring the warrior, Iltar leans his ear against a bookcase close to the back of the room. He nods his head and grins.
“We need to get into the council chambers,” Cornar demands again, slightly louder. “What are you doing?”
Still at the bookcase, Iltar pulls on several of the books. In response, the bookcase releases itself from the wall and moves to the left. It shifts completely in front of the bookcase beside it, revealing a narrow passageway.
Iltar smiles at Cornar while pointing to the opening and whispers, “This is much better than barging through the doors. And I thought you would have asked me earlier if there was a secret passage.”
“You could have warned me,” Cornar scowls.
“You didn’t ask,” Iltar smirks while he steps over the small lip of stone and into the passageway.
They follow the hidden corridor until it turns left along the council chamber’s eastern wall, ending shortly thereafter; a small doorway marks the end of the passageway on the duo’s left.
For the third time, both men listen through a door, Cornar directly behind Iltar. This time though, they hear a faint conversation.
“Pagus, I tell you, someone will come to investigate. And what about Master Iltar? The City Watch is not stupid, you know.”
“I have it under control,” a cocky voice responds, “We needed to be quick to catch these old fools off guard. Now that we have control of the council we can dictate terms. They will not dare storm this place for fear of us killing the pompous bastards. Besides, my father’s influence will stay their hand for a time.
“As for Iltar, he’s probably off conducting some experiment as we speak; he doesn’t care about this council anyway.”
“Pagus, we need to place guards at the entrance,” a third voice interjects. “Anyone, especially Iltar, can walk right in…”
“We are guarding this chamber,” Pagus snaps. “I don’t care if they have access to the rest of the building. The Council Chambers can only be entered from these main doors.”
After listening to the argument a while longer, Iltar turns to Cornar and whispers, “I only hear three of them. Pagus and his chums, no doubt.”
Cornar pulls Iltar from the door and whispers, “There’s bound to be more. When they rushed the main building there were at least forty men. Besides, there were no acolytes outside and only a handful of dead ones the way up here; plus several others that were not guards nor your guild’s apprentices.”
Iltar nods then slowly speculates, “Maybe twenty or thirty. Let’s move back toward that anteroom and prepare ourselves.”
Retreating to what they deem a safer distance, near the passageway’s entrance, Iltar whispers the words to a magical incantation.
Dark purple and black magic wisps from Iltar’s hands and surrounds Cornar’s weapon; the magical particles seep into the blades, causing them to glow.
After the weapons are enhanced, Iltar utters another incantation and a vivid green mist surrounds Cornar, covering his body in a faint hue.
Cornar examines his weapons and gives the necromancer a wistful smile; throughout his many adventures with Iltar, Cornar developed methods to maximize both their strengths, and such magical augmentation was one such strategy.
With Cornar sufficiently empowered by his magic, Iltar turns his attention to himself. Without an incantation, a black cloud seethes from the necromancer’s pores, as if releasing itself from inside his body. As the blackness thickens, it violently separates from Iltar’s body and creates a protective barrier around him.
Feeling invigorated, Iltar firmly commands, “Cor, open the door and rush them. I’ll deal with Pagus.”
Smiling grimly, Cornar nods his head and grips his weapons tightly, “Let the fun begin.”
Back at the hidden door, Cornar quietly cracks it open. He steals a glance into the room and notices the three acolytes with their backs towards the passageway. Seeing this, the warrior’s smile turns to a wide grin.
Without hesitation, Cornar quickly slips through the tight opening. He glimpses twenty others toward the back of the chambers: a mixture of the other acolytes, hired brawlers and thugs wielding an assortment of weapons. They are scattered around the room, with the majority near the council chamber’s doors; its entrance is barricaded with an elegant long rectangular table and several matching chairs, the only pieces of furniture in the room.
Cornar bounds across the short space between him and what seems to be the three ringleaders of the revolt. Counting on the distance of the others to give him time to deal with them.
The nearest of the three acolytes notices Cornar out of the corner of his eye and turns, but not quick enough to evade the experienced warrior’s advance. Cornar’s serrated dagger sings through the air and grates through the young man’s neck.
Quickly circling around the dying apprentice, Cornar comes into reach of the middle acolyte, Pagus. He swings his elbow and forcefully strikes his second victim in the face, just as he turns toward Cornar. Stunned by the blow, Pagus falls backward to the ground.
Meanwhile, Iltar steps through the door, violently swinging it open the rest of the way. The wooden door, with its false rock surface, bounces against the wall. Upon its hidden side, particles of black magic dissolve the wood from Iltar’s touch.
Arrogantly striding into the room, Iltar recites the words to a spell; orange light gathers in his right hand and he flicks his wrist toward the third leading acolyte. The orange magic lashes out from Iltar’s palm in the form of a cord and wraps around his neck.
“No!” the acolyte gasps in agony as the magic weakens him, draining his life.
The cord rapidly pulses and the young man convulses, eyes rolling to the back of his head, then lifelessly collapses backward onto the stone floor.
While Iltar siphons the acolyte’s living energies, Cornar recoils from his rotating motion. With the blade in his right hand, he quickly slices through the initial acolyte’s torso, severing him in half. Cornar yanks his serrated dagger from the dying acolyte’s neck and turns to face the remaining rebel forces turning to face him. As the acolyte’s body falls to the ground his blood spills across the cold stone floor.
“What in the name of–” exclaims Pagus, but is interrupted as his friend’s torso hits the stone floor next to him. Pagus, the instigator of the entire revolt, looks up from the floor to see Iltar glowing in raw demonic power.
“M-M-Master I-Iltar…” Pagus stammers in horror as he gazes upon the necromancer, shrouded in a dark dissolving sphere of invulnerability.
Black waves ripple across the surface of the protective magic as Iltar steps forward.
Pagus pales visibly at the sight of the magic. With his arms outstretched, he trembles as he tries to push himself up from the floor; however, he falls forward weakly and partially kneels in fear before Iltar.
“And I thought you were ready to see the greater secrets of our Order after your demands last night,” Iltar sneers.
Stopping just in front of Pagus’s hand, Iltar looks at him with one final disdainful glance. “Well, regardless of your ability you will see and experience them.”
Iltar stretches forth his left hand. Without incantation, black magic seethes from his palm, gathering beyond his fingertips in the form of a ball.
“I will privy you to something that not even those on the council have witnessed. I call it a globe of darkness,” Iltar chuckles. “You should feel privileged!”
As Iltar taunts the young acolyte, several arrows from the hired thugs fly from the door. The arrows, along with a magical orb of arcane power and an acidic bolt, collide against Iltar’s shielding sphere. The assault cause the globe to violently ripple; the magic dissipates while the arrows turn to dust.
Ignoring the assault, Iltar focuses solely on the once defiant acolyte before him.
The small black sphere flies from the protective barrier, like a fish leaping from the ocean’s surface, striking Pagus’s back.
Pagus screams in excruciating agony as the globe of darkness spreads across his body, dissolving every part it touches.
Amid the wailing, Iltar coldly smirks, “Now you have what you sought so eagerly. Unfortunately, you won’t appreciate the lesson.”
Iltar flicks his right wrist in a beckoning motion and the orange magic leaves his first victim through his chest, racing back into a ball just beyond the necromancer’s open hand. Closing his grasp around the orange sphere, Iltar takes a deep invigorating breath, and absorbs it through his pores.
While Iltar toys with Pagus, Cornar bounds across the room. Several bolts of acidic magic race toward him but the masterful warrior tumbles forward, rolling upon the stone floor. The magic sails over him and he swiftly rises back up upon his feet, resuming his dash.
Not more than a leap and bound forward, two more bolts of red magic fly toward the warrior; Cornar swings his weapons in arcing motions in front of him, one after the other. With perfect timing, the bolts of magic impact upon the purple light surrounding his weapons and he precisely deflects them across the room.
As Cornar charges, three of the hired mercenaries leap from the doors to intercept him; however, one of the errant bolts races toward an advancing mercenary. It burns a hole through his chest and knocks him to the floor.
Another bolt of magic races toward Cornar, but he effortlessly dodges it and clashes with the two surviving hirelings, swiftly parrying their blows. The black magic enhancing his weapons cankering his opponent’s blades.
Cornar darts to his left and with his short sword in his right hand. He thrusts it through the chain-linked armor protecting the mercenary’s chest.
Recovering from the warrior’s parry, the other mercenary strikes at Cornar once again. However, Cornar deftly evades the blow and swings his serrated dagger. It grates through the mercenary’s armor-clad arm, messily severing it below the elbow. Without hesitation, Cornar kicks the hireling back, and he falls to the floor, screaming in excruciating pain.
As the mercenary lands upon the stony floor, two masses of green magic flies at Cornar from the acolytes guarding the bound council members.
Noticing the magic, Cornar dodges one, but a part of the second mass wraps around his left arm. Green tentacles burst from the mass, attaching to the warrior’s arm and the stone floor. Within an instant, the magic quickly pulls Cornar down and ensnares him.
“Everyone after him!” a mercenary calls out from near the doors. “Don’t you know who that is?! We’ll all have to gang up on him!”
Cornar remains calm and quickly glances to the barricaded doors, seeing nine mercenaries darting toward him.
With his free hand, Cornar efficiently hacks at the magical tentacles securing him to the ground. His magically enhanced sword cuts through the green tentacles and swiftly severs the bond. After several swings, Cornar frees himself from the mass and rolls over his right shoulder, away from the mass and the advancing mercenaries.
As the warrior recovers from his tumble, he rises up on his rear foot and forward knee; at the same time, three more crimson magical orbs race through the air at him.
Cornar swings his weapons to deflect two of the orbs but is struck in the chest by the third, knocking him off balance and onto his back; his protective green barrier flickering from the magical friction.
Falling to the floor, Cornar notices the mercenaries have come within reach and are encircling him. From the ground, he swings his weapons at the legs of the nearest hireling, cutting across the mercenary’s thigh, dropping him to the floor.
The other eight mercenaries engage Cornar in a furious bout while Cornar is on his back; he tirelessly parries their weapons while kicking their knees, temporarily repelling his foes.
Amid the melee, several bolts of acidic magic arc through the air over the mercenaries toward Cornar, mentally redirected by the acolytes controlling them.
Cursing inwardly, Cornar recoils his serrated dagger, swatting at the plummeting bolt. Miraculously, it ricochets off the weapon’s edge and into the face of a hireling to his right. The acidic magic quickly burns through the mercenary’s skin, and he drops to the stone floor.
Still in danger, Cornar swings his weapons, using his dagger to parry another blow and his sword to swat another bolt. However, Cornar misses and two of the acidic bolts impact upon his chest, stunning him with their force, but luckily not breaking through his protective barrier.
As Cornar gasps for air and struggles to deflect the oncoming blows, several of the mercenaries’ weapons strike the warrior in the chest, but the haze of green magic prevents them from piercing his flesh.
While Cornar defends himself from the eight mercenaries in the center of the room, Iltar briefly survey’s the battle before him: Two acolytes and two hesitant mercenaries stand by the barricaded doors while four acolytes guard the council members to Iltar’s right. The latter four have been primarily flinging magic at Cornar.
Each of the senior necromancers are bound by shining white cords and similarly shimmering scarves wrapped around their mouths. Iltar recognizes them as elven cords and scarves. These magically composed materials were said to have been created by the western elves. Historically they have been used by non-magic wielders to subdue magical creatures or to suppress mages. The fabrics are often smuggled from the mainland and sold on secret markets, one such market was often in commerce in Soroth.
Deciding that Cornar has the most pressing need, Iltar stretches out his left hand and utters the words to a spell. Green magic flows around his hand, growing into a cluster very similar to that which had ensnared Cornar.
As the magic grows within his grasp, Iltar notices the barrier around Cornar is flickering and dimming; the hired mercenaries strike the warrior repeatedly, weakening the protective barrier. However, Cornar continues to defend himself; kicking his opponents away and parrying their weapons. Iltar watches amid his incantation as the magic protecting his friend completely vanishes and the mercenary nearest to the necromancer raises his axe high in the air.
At this moment the magic coalesces and Iltar splays his fingers wide, sending the magic through the black sphere surrounding himself. Green tentacles speeds toward the mercenaries surrounding his old friend.
“Die, Cornar!” a mercenary shouts, swinging his weapon toward the warrior’s shoulder. However, as the axe falls toward it is grasped by the thick green tentacles.
The magic rips the weapon, then the mercenary and three others from around Cornar; the four men let out startled cries and swing their weapons at the ensnaring tentacles. They struggle to no avail while the magic slowly drag them across the floor.
Cornar throws himself across the floor through the opening in a rolling motion and rises back onto his feet. He swiftly engages the remaining four mercenaries in a rapid assault. He kicks one hireling away, giving him enough of a chance to stab another of his opponents in the stomach.
With only two of the hired thugs left standing in front of him, Cornar mercilessly cuts through their defenses, dropping both to the ground.
The mercenary Cornar had kicked away gets back on his feet and readies himself in an aggressive stance.
“You’re a fool,” Cornar remarks and shakes his head.
Cornar twirls both his weapons, preparing as the mercenary lunges forward and lets out a cry meant to intimidate him.
As the hireling comes within reach of Cornar, the warrior executes a beautiful flurry of movement: Cornar’s serrated dagger digs diagonally across the mercenary’s chest, tearing through his leathery armor, which is nothing more than thin parchment for Cornar’s magically enhanced weapons. He quickly cuts through the mercenary’s thigh with his short sword, then slices and grates his weapons across the hireling’s ar
Cornar twirls around the mercenary and the hireling falls to the stone floor in pieces. The warrior notices the other six acolytes, each uttering incantations with their eyes focused on him.
Meanwhile, Iltar slowly pulls the four hirelings in his magical grasp toward his black protective sphere; however, he stops short of dissolving them against his corrosive sphere.
Iltar steps past the three dead acolytes, noticing the two young mages at the doors, each mustering white dispelling magic.
The necromancer furrows his brow and quickly utters the words to a spell; reddish light gathers in Iltar’s right hand and five orbs of arcane power take shape.
At this same moment, the acolytes thrust their dispelling magic toward the entangled mercenaries; however, Iltar hurls his arcane orbs toward the white particles to intercept. Two of the arcane orbs strike the dispelling magic over Cornar’s head and nullifies the magical effect; while the other three whiz toward the acolytes and erupt against their shoulders, maiming both of them.
Seeing the acolytes mangled by Iltar’s magic, the two remaining mercenaries by the doors begin to hastily throw aside the chairs barricading the council chamber’s entrance.
“You can’t leave!” Iltar shouts with a cackle then utters the words to another spell, gathering a graze haze in his right hand.
The necromancer finishes his spell just as the mercenaries push the table out of the way of the doorway.
With a dark laugh, Iltar hurls the gray haze across the room. It races past the mercenaries and erupts against the door, causing a dust-like cloud to form. The enthralling vapor wisps into the mercenaries and maimed acolytes mouths, noses and ears.
All four confederates exude dreadful screams as the magic fills their bodies and twists their minds with visions of horrifying and debilitating illusions.
At this same moment, Cornar twists around his last mercenary opponent, darting toward the remaining four acolytes guarding the council members. Each of them are still uttering incantations as Cornar reaches them.
With precision, the warrior briskly executes the nearest acolyte, severing his head with his short sword. A split second later he stabs the next nearest in the heart.
Frightened by Cornar’s deathly advance, the remaining two acolytes quickly scurry across the room to put distance between themselves and their foe.
“This little rebellion is finished,” Iltar shouts and steps toward the four mercenaries still in his magical grasp. He motions with left forefinger and the mercenary who had nearly severed Cornar’s shoulder races toward him, quickly dragged by the magical tentacle.
The mercenary wails as he flies into the necromancer’s corrosive barrier, completely dissolving to dust; not even his clothing or armor is remains.
Iltar slowly strides toward the remaining three hirelings, and as he does each of them let out shrieks of terror while attempting to escape the magical grasp. He continues his gait forward, and the three mercenaries resume their struggling, but are eventually pulled toward the sphere and devoured by it in part.
The remaining two acolytes slowly back up, moving toward the rear of the room on the opposite side where Cornar and Iltar had entered. They utter incantations to muster forth acidic and flaming magics and hurl the coalesced spells at Cornar.
Anticipating this, the warrior swiftly deflects the magics and slowly advances, as a lion does with his prey; the errant magic flies from his blades, impacting against the walls and the ceilings.
“Finish them already Cor!” Iltar shouts.
With his focus on the acolytes, Cornar stoically beckons, “You can give up.”
“No, no, no…” an acolyte responds, his gaze darting between Cornar and Iltar.
“They’ll torture us,” the other acolyte timidly interjects. “I’d rather die!”
“So be it,” Cornar sighs, dashing forward and swiftly closing the gap between him and the acolytes. He stabs his serrated dagger into the ribcage of the acolyte on his left while severing the arm of the other on his right. He quickly spins around, bringing the weapons back toward his chest. Cornar rapidly extends his arms as he raises his weapons to shoulder height, grating and slicing his tools of death through the necks of both students of the dark arts.
With the battle finished, Cornar walks back toward the six bound members of the council. He looks at each of them, still calm in the wake of the horrible battle.
As Cornar reaches the one closest to him he kneels down and tiresomely says, “Let me free you, Grandmaster Alacor.” The warrior then unties the knots in both the elven cords and the scarf.
“Thank you, Cornar,” Alacor responds with half-hearted gratitude. He is a tall and lanky man with dark skin. His white hair has flecks of gray throughout and his hazel-blue eyes sternly gaze at the warrior.
“My pleasure,” Cornar unenthusiastically answers and frees the next nearest member of the council.
Iltar relinquishes his protective barrier, causing the sphere around him to dissipate and finally break down into the mist it once was. The black cloud then seeps back into Iltar’s skin. With the magic relinquished, Iltar steps toward Cornar and the other members of the council.
“What of the others?” Iltar demands in disgust as he reaches the other council members. “Are these all the rebels?”
“No, there were more,” Alacor responds stiffly. “They went to detain the remaining guards. About ten, maybe more if I recall correctly.”
Pointing at the two writhing acolytes and the mercenaries by the doors the grandmaster asks Iltar, “And what do you have in mind for them?”
“I’ll show you,” Iltar retorts as he abruptly turns towards the door.
The enraged necromancer stretches out his hands, uttering a quick incantation. A pale-blue charge builds between his palms in seconds. A burst of lightning instantly surges through the last two of the mercenaries, their clothing and armor bursting into flame.
Fire then leaps from the mercenaries and onto the rebel mages’ garments. Both mages frantically roll on the floor, partially out of overwhelming fear and in effort to douse the flames.
Several of the council members chuckle at the sight and Iltar steps near Cornar.
“When they stop rolling around Cor, kill them,” Iltar whispers to his friend. Turning back around, the necromancer addresses the council members. “We need to find the others and put a stop to this nonsense. Where did they go?”
“To the guard’s chambers on the lower floors,” Alacor, the leader of the council responds, then shakes his head slowly. “You had the power of surprise over these, but they will hear us coming as we descend to the barracks. And they will give us a warm reception. I’m sure you’re almost exhausted from this battle.”
Giving Alacor a condescending glance, Iltar coldly states, “There’s only one way in or out of the basement.”
“Yes, you’re right… I see,” Alacor rubs his clean-shaven chin. He glances warily at Cornar, who grunts and moves to the wounded acolytes as they finish putting out the flames. The warrior stabs each through the heart. As Cornar pulls his dagger and sword from their chests their screams which had filled the air die out.
“Well then, you need not attack them,” Iltar explains with exaggerated patience. “You can just seal them in and wait for them to get hungry. They are young and undisciplined. They won’t last for long in a sealed windowless dungeon.” Iltar’s lips curl in a cruel smile.
Nodding in agreement, the newly freed members of the council exit the decimated chambers through the passageway their rescuers entered, with Alacor pompously leading his six brethren and Cornar. From there they descend to the main level of the edifice. They pass through the large foyer, which to their surprise has remained spotless from battle.
The six necromancers and lone warrior move eastward, through a hall just off the grand foyer. At the end of the hall, they turn a corner and come to the doorway leading to the guard’s
Upon reaching the entrance to the guard’s section of the lower levels, Alacor recites the words to muster forth a transmutive magic. Beige-gray particles wisps from his hands and seeps into the doorway, binding the hinges, frame and door into one solid mass. The magical transformation gives off a soft hum as the components fuse into solid stone.
“Now if we had any surviving guards we could set them at the door,” Iltar says during the mystical incantation.
“We will need to hire fresh blood,” Melnor, one of the council members interjects as Alacor finishes the incantation, sealing the rebel acolytes within the guard’s barracks.
“If you don’t mind,” Cornar speaks up, “I can set several of my men here until you recruit replacements.”
“That will do,” Alacor turns to the lone warrior, “Thank you again, Cornar. My predecessor always spoke highly of your prowess in combat, and now I know why.”
While he speaks as one accustomed to being superior to all others, it was still high praise from one of his stature, and Alacor bows his head to him.
Cornar’s eyes widen at the unusual show of respect, and cordially replies, “It is my pleasure, and obligation. I wouldn’t have been so successful in all my endeavors if it wasn’t for this Order and its members.” He glances to Iltar then continues in a formal tone, “I should have two of my men here within half an hour.”
“Excellent; instruct them to inform me when our foolish children break,” Alacor says the last with a twist of anger. “I will be here within our grand hall until they do.”
Alacor presses his way through his brethren and heads back towards the main foyer. The others council members follow him, except Iltar, each taking their time and allowing each other to walk alone whithersoever they willed.
Once the six other council members leave, Iltar and Cornar quietly converse at the sealed doorway.
“Part of me wants to burst down there and kill them!” Iltar snarls, looking at the door. “Just to spite Alacor.”
“I’m sure you could,” Cornar smiles tiredly at his lifelong friend. He reaches out his arm and wraps it around Iltar’s shoulders. “You’re not feeble like those old fools. However, this was your plan to begin with, so it would look rather contrary to break in there, now.”
Iltar chuckles and glances to Cornar with a more relaxed grin and says, “We’ll let them stew in their fear, then.”
With that said, the two companions follow the others into the grand foyer. Cornar notices that the doors to the courtyard are still opened, along with a crowd that has grown since they entered.
“I better find some of my men,” Cornar says and walks toward the building’s entrance. “Are you going to stay?”
“No,” Iltar grumbles, following Cornar. “I want to sleep.”
With no further exchange, they steps out the main doors and into the courtyard, where the late morning sun hangs almost midway through the clear sky. Its beams are enough to cause the deadly duo to squint as they step down the stairs and across the courtyard.
Gasps and cheers erupt from the crowd outside the gates as they see Iltar and Cornar emerge from the main building of the guild.
The necromancer shakes his head in response and the two companions continue down the path toward the entry of the Necrotic Order’s establishment.
“You know, this was fun. I wouldn’t mind doing this more often,” Cornar says with a smile, looking at Iltar then back to the crowd. He waves at them, signifying that everything is fine. “It’s almost like old times.”
With a smile provoked by other thoughts Iltar responds, “Perhaps I can arrange that for you my friend.” Iltar chuckles as Cornar continues to woo the crowd.
After a moment they near the gates and the deadly duo turns to their right to walk down the narrow path to the stables. Both men are deep in thought: Cornar thinking of the events that has just transpired and what would need to happen to help the necromancers of Soroth recover. Iltar, however, was drawn elsewhere, to a broken map and secrets of a hidden power.
They walk in silence, untying their horses solemnly and riding to the gate in like manner.
At the gate, the men and women outside the walls of the Necrotic Order move aside, and without any further acknowledgement to the crowd, Iltar and Cornar canter their steeds toward the west.
Before they approach the intersecting roadway lining the order’s complex, Cornar turns to his friend, “I probably will not be here for the rest of the day, nor the next several days. My wife will undoubtedly want to hide away from this mess in the country side.”
“Very well, I will most likely call on you soon,” Iltar says absentmindedly as he continues to look ahead.
Cornar nods farewell and turns down the road to their left, leaving Iltar alone on the road leading to the city’s northern entrance.
As he moves toward the northern gates of the city, the necromancer’s mind reflects on the events of the previous night and the sudden wakening of the morning. Cornar’s observations of the map continued to ring in his ear.
“Draco Isola… I’ve never seen this island before.”
Neither had Iltar, and the mysteries of the elven text continue to haunt the necromancer’s mind. What secrets are on this Dragon’s Isle? And what of Merda? Could it be so simple that all the parts of the amulet were in both of those places?
3
Opportunity
“What’s that sound?” one of the more senior acolytes queries in response to a faint humming noise; he glances at each of his fellow acolytes, who have shocked expressions across their faces.
“I don’t know, Agen,” one of his companions responds.
“You two,” Agen points at two of the younger acolytes, boys of teenage years. “Go check what is happening.”
The acolytes obey and run out of the barracks, listening for the sound. They enter the anteroom of the guard’s chambers, passing the empty desk which once held an officer. Both apprentices climb the stairwell to the small landing where just beyond is the doorway to the main floor.
The first boy who reaches the door grasps the silver knob. To his surprise, the mechanism is solid. His face pales as he turns to his companion.
“What, Tigan, is it locked?” the other asks.
Silently shaking his head, Tigan backs away from the door. He slumps against the wall, feeling hopeless. Agen would kill them for delivering this news, but then again, their doom was assured.
Pushing Tigan, the second boy grasps the handle and attempts to jar it loose. With his physical efforts thwarted, he turns to his magic. He rubs his smooth chin and queries aloud, “How did that unlock spell go…?”
After deliberating, he casts a spell upon the handle but the unlocking magic has no effect on the intricately sealed door. Trying his luck, the young man attempts to fiddle with the door, but is stopped by its solid nature.
Sighing and shaking his head, the second boy grabs Tigan, who is still in shock. They descend back to the other acolytes who are watching the bound guards they took captive with summoned magical cords.
“The door to the main floor is sealed shut!” the calmer of the two boys shouts as they enter the room.
“What?!” Agen demands, stomping on the stone floor.
“Could the council have escaped and sealed us in here?” one of the other acolytes asks.
“We had them bound with elven cords,” Agen snarls. “Every chronicle and story I’ve ever read says they are impossible to break free from. Someone must have come from outside. I knew we should have blocked the main doors!”
“Did you try to unlock the door?” another of the acolytes asks
“Yes, but the spell didn’t work,” the one who had attempted the feat replies.
“Maybe we should surrender…” Tigan frightened by the implications of the solid door speaks up from his shock.
“Yea, if it’s really the council, what else can we do?” another stammers.
??
With that said, the four acolytes go up to the sealed door and try their hand at removing the spell, to no avail.
Agen drives them to keep at it, persistant in his belief that the four of them, with their combined intellect, can open the door. After all, they were some of the few who had secretly found manuscripts of spells deep within the archives while their masters had been away; learning that which was forbidden to them by those who instructed them in the dark arts. With their combined power, Agen truly believes they can break the door open.
However, their efforts drag on with no results, and Agen begins to truly worry after several days’ effort. Their rebellion has left them in the concealed parts of the Necrotic Order’s hall with little food and no way to track time. His hold over the other acolytes grows tenuous, and Agen does not think he can command them much longer. As he sits, his own brooding thoughts consume him while the other acolytes talk quietly to each other.
“Look, none of us want to go through the tortures of the council,” an older acolyte says. “We know they will put us through excruciating pain, and then we’ll die. I say we should commit suicide. We’re going to die anyway. This way we deny the council the pleasure of our painful deaths.” He lets the words sink in, looking around at the others who seem to have also come to terms with the reality before them.
“He’s right,” Agen responds, surprising the others. “We can make sure we die with the least amount of suffering.”
The weight of the decision settles on the group heavily. If Agen agreed it was the only way, then they truly must have no hope.
“How…?” a young acolyte utters with trepidation.
Agen spots several of the guards’ weapons on the far side of the underground chamber.
“We could kill each other with magic,” Agen replies to the bleak question. “Or use some of those weapons.”
“Weapons, I’ll take the weapons!” several of the boys cry out.
“If there are no objections…” Agen looks around at the other nine acolytes. Fear fills the eyes of the younger ones at the thought of death, but everyone nods affirmatively; they all knew there were worse things than death.
“Then it’s decided,” Agen sighs, motioning for the weapons.
One of the elder acolytes rises from the floor and retrieves several daggers and short swords from the weapon rack near the back of the wall.
With the weapons dispersed, the young man who retrieved the tools of their demise fearfully gazes at his dagger. Silence hangs over the room until Agen urges, “Now!”
The acolyte breathes deeply, tightly shuts his eyes and stabs his chest. He groans and falls to the floor, his blood draining from his chest.
Unnerved by the suicide, the young men stare at their friend’s corpse. After several moments, one of the other older acolytes takes the dagger from his chest and passes it to the youngest of the group.
Tigan timidly reaches for the dagger, trembling as he grasps it. Blood spatters from the drenched weapon as the young adolescent attempts to hold it firm in his hands.
Seeing the hesitation, the acolyte who handed Tigan the dagger quietly moves behind him, steadying his grip. With a deep breath, both press the dagger deep into Tigan’s heart, and he slumps into the elder acolytes arms.
Amid Tigan’s assisted suicide, the rest of the young acolytes use the other weapons to relinquish their lives.
Agen and the acolyte who had helped Tigan are the last to kill themselves. They shamefully stare at each other and simultaneously stab themselves in their chests, falling over and joining the others lying in a circle on the stone floor.
With the students of necromancy dead, the conjured cords binding the guards fade. They stumble out of the beds, lack of mobility over the past few days making their limbs weak.
The guard nearest the adjoining doorway leans against the opening. He sorrowfully stares at the dead boys and the blood draining from their bodies into a pool upon the floor; their lives had been wasted chasing after foolish ambitions.
The others stumble past him, but one of the senior ranking guards wraps his arm around his shoulder, ushering him past the horrific scene.
“I’ll be glad once we get out of here, Arelo!” the guard says to his superior escorting him.
“I know what you mean,” Arelo, the senior officer, shakes his head. Once at the stairs he adds, “I wasn’t sure if they would take us with them or not. They must have been too busy thinking about their own hides to deal with us.”
After Arelo’s speculation, the other guards pound on the sealed door, shouting phrases, “Let us out! It’s us, the guards!” and “Open the door!”
Meanwhile, the men enlisted by Cornar hear the muffled shouts.
They are both tall, of a strong build, and in their mid-twenties. One has straight brown hair reaching past his ears and matching brown eyes while the other has hazel-gray eyes and very short blonde hair.
Both men quizzically study each other then the brown-haired warrior commands, “Cordel, go find Grandmaster Alacor.”
“Right away, Midar,” Cordel nods and hurries off.
Several minutes later Alacor and several other council members arrive at the locked door. The leader of the necromancers utters the words of a spell to undo the magical hold. A similar hum, much like before, resounds from the door. The door flies open and the captive guards hurry out of their quarters-turned-prison.
“Where are the rebels?” Alacor asks impatiently.
“They’re all dead,” Arelo answers. “They stabbed themselves.”
“Cowards!” Jalel, another from the council, vehemently exclaims.
“Yes, they were cowards, my brother,” Alacor affirms. “But they knew what fate awaited them. I’m not surprised.” With that said, the grandmaster of the Necrotic Order turns to Cornar’s men. “Get them out of there. Take them outside the city and burn their bodies.”