by Dan Zangari
“Ya, not bad at all,” Delrin added. “Now for some brandleberry tangrils!”
“You’ll spoil your lunch,” Jalim teased. “And those sweets will just slow you down.”
“Well, I gotta give them an advantage with you running circles around ’em.” Delrin waved his hands, exaggerating the sweeping motions.
Jalim laughed, and both men entered the home, leaving Iltar alone.
Smiling, Iltar turned back toward the yard, gazing into the trees as if peering beyond the forest. His amused expression, however, was fleeting. Where are you, Pagus? Iltar thought, the muscles in his face tensing. It had been nearly three hours. What was that boy up to?
“The days after Cheserith’s exile were lonely. I can’t remember how long I wandered. I longed for my beloved. I’d never see her again, or my children…”
- From Origins and Oaths of the Keepers, preface
The sun set in the east as the acolytes continued drilling with Iltar’s guards. Each of the boys had progressed since lunch. Many of the acolytes stopped both Delrin and Jalim before they reached them. Their progress pleased Iltar. He stood watching his acolytes, hands clasped behind his back.
“Master Iltar,” one of the boys called, “How long are we going to keep at this?”
“Tired, Bilda?” Iltar asked without looking at the boy. Bilda was one of the youngest acolytes.
“Well… I’m kinda bored, y’know?”
“It takes much discipline to become a powerful mage,” Iltar said.
“What if I wanna be an average mage, y’know? A regular ol’ necromancer.”
Iltar grunted. He knew that’s not how Bilda really felt. The boy was tired and trying to make excuses to get out of running the drills again.
“There’s more to the magical arts than necromancy.”
“But you’re a necromancer, Master Iltar,” the boy retorted.
That struck Iltar as funny. “I’m more than just a necromancer,” he said, looking down at Bilda. The boy sat cross-legged, leaning forward and propping up his chin with his hands. “I started off as an illusionist.”
“Really?” Bilda turned toward Iltar with wide eyes. “You didn’t have to become a necromancer first?”
Iltar shook his head. “I first wanted to become a grand mage, but my father said I wasn’t skilled enough. When I was twelve, he said he’d test me further. But that never happened.”
“So, why didn’t he?” Bilda asked.
“Something came up,” Iltar said calmly, though he choked back the real answer. His father had left after Iltar’s grandfather died. His father never told Iltar why. He left him and his mother alone here on their homestead. And the next time he saw him—
No!
Iltar sucked in a deep breath and walked away. He was having another fit. He couldn’t let the boys see it. These fits had never occurred this often. What was happening to him?
Iltar hurried around the house, the sounds of the acolytes and guards barely reaching his ears. He continued around the walls of a chimney and tucked himself beside it. Iltar leaned against the house, tears trickling from his eyes.
Tears? The tears turned to soft sobs, and he wept, slumping against the chimney. This had not happened in years. Iltar struggled to bring himself to the present. He was lost, overcome by sorrow. Iltar closed his eyes, trying to think of something else, but he couldn’t shake those baleful memories of his parents.
No!
His mother’s horrified screams echoed.
No!
Eruptions of magic rang loud.
No!
Iltar opened his eyes, but saw a dreadful sight. His mother lay on the grass before him. No, she’s not here! Her elegant form was still, her eyes glazed over, looking skyward.
“This is not real,” he told himself, clenching his teeth. “You’ve been gone a long time,” he said to the corpse.
Burned leaves filled the air. Iltar looked around. The forest was on fire. Men in black robes and crimson armor hurled deadly orbs of magic through the yard.
No!
“This isn’t real.” He closed his eyes, but the sounds of battle raged around him. They resounded, growing louder and louder. “This isn’t real!” he shouted. He focused on the grass, but he could see the battle raging around him.
“Master Iltar,” a soft voice said from behind him.
All became silent.
His mother’s body was gone. The forest wasn’t on fire. The errant magic vanished. All was normal.
Eyes reddened and tear-soaked, Iltar turned around. All the acolytes stood nearby, watching him. Some were confused, others concerned. Delrin and Jalim jogged up behind the boys. They both saw Iltar’s woeful demeanor.
“Come now, boys,” Delrin said, grabbing the nearest by the shoulder. “I think we can use a break. Let’s go inside.” Both guards ushered the acolytes away, leaving Iltar alone.
They saw him. They all saw him. A moment of weakness, and now they knew. Overcome, Iltar slumped against the chimney. A wind rustled through the trees, breaking against Iltar and the house. Dark storm clouds loomed over the northern horizon. The clouds were traveling fast.
“Your time for vengeance is coming, Iltar,” a voice whispered on the wind. It sounded familiar, almost like it was his own.
Startled, Iltar stood up, frantically scanning the lawn. “Who’s there?!” he snarled, stretching out his hand, poised to cast a spell. Faint laughter reached his ears, but soon faded.
What was happening? Was he going mad? It seemed like it. Seeing things that weren’t really there. Hearing strange voices. The inability to control his emotions. Oh, I’m going senile…
Thunder clapped in the distance.
The storm!
Iltar came to his senses and hurried around his home. None of the acolytes were in the yard. Iltar darted to a covered porch, to the home’s main entrance. The door was open, slightly ajar. He hurried inside and closed the door behind him. More lightning crackled, muffled.
He took a deep breath and searched the home’s foyer. No one was present. Faint conversation echoed from his left. Iltar turned, walking to a staircase leading to the upper floors. It rose along the foyer. Belsina’s voice faintly sounded from one of the upper hallways. Soon after, the maid walked onto the landing atop the stairs and descended the steps.
“I was showing them to some rooms,” she said, looking earnestly at Iltar. “Those clouds look thick, and I don’t want those boys traveling back to Soroth in the storm.”
Iltar simply nodded, stepping aside so Belsina could pass him. Belsina stopped beside him, gently placing her hand on his arm. Her gaze was concerned. She knew. Belsina had to know. “Why don’t you have some tea?” she suggested and walked down the foyer.
“That sounds fine.” Iltar nodded and followed her. “I’ll take some messel.” They moved down the foyer, passing several rooms on either side. They eventually came to the rear corridor that led to the kitchen.
“Twice in one day,” Belsina said in a hushed voice. She didn’t look at Iltar, but glided across the kitchen to fetch a large, black stockpot. Iltar silently watched her fill the stockpot from a spigot near the stove. Belsina stoked the fire and set the stockpot on a rack inside, placing a lid with a whistle atop it. They had an apparatus that could hold magical flame, but it was only good for something as small as a teapot.
“I know of what’s happening to you, Master Iltar.” She turned around, looking him square in the eyes. “It’s this place. I know you love this home, but there’s a lot of sorrow here.”
Iltar folded his arms, averting his gaze to the kitchen island. Belsina had never brought this up. Why now? But, she was right. He was fond of this place. It was home. Iltar had warm memories from his youth, and even after his parents’ death, there were good memories then too.
He opened his mouth to speak, but footsteps echoed into the kitchen. Soon, Hegdil and all the boys were present. The acolytes eyed their master in the magical arts, concerned. Young Bilda, however, approached h
im.
“Master Iltar?” the boy asked. “Are you okay?”
Iltar narrowed his eyes and raised his brow, attempting a hard look. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You looked like you were going crazy,” said one of the boys with a grin. “Like that old conjurer out in the woods.”
That lightened Iltar’s mood, and he chuckled. The thought of him becoming like old Amendal seemed humorous. Amendal was a crazed man, but he’d been that way since the dreadful expedition to the Abodine Wasteland. Amendal was the sole survivor. And, he had the strangest delusions about his survival. Amendal was mad. But Iltar couldn’t imagine him otherwise.
“You were screaming like a lunatic,” Agen said, looking worried.
“Don’t worry, Master Iltar, if you go crazy we’ll take care of you,” another boy chimed in.
“Take care of me?” Iltar asked, grunting. “It’ll take a lot more than a few acolytes to put me down.”
The boys laughed.
“No!” the same boy retorted. “Take care of you, like a grandparent.”
“Are you calling me old?” Iltar asked with humor in his voice.
Everyone laughed
After the laughter died down, Bilda stepped forward and hugged Iltar. He was small; his head barely reached Iltar’s stomach. Although, Iltar was quite tall. Taken aback, Iltar raised his eyebrow. None of his apprentices or the acolytes in his charge had ever showed this type of empathy. Except Balden.
All the other boys gathered around Iltar and Bilda, embracing their master. A tear trickled down Iltar’s cheek. These boys were unique. There was something about them that made them different from the other acolytes of Iltar’s Order. Perhaps it was the way he treated them? He wasn’t harsh and cold like Alacor and the other necromancers. But then again, they were nothing like Iltar.
“Wow…” Hegdil muttered, glancing back and forth between the crowd of boys and Belsina.
Lightning flashed through the windows, followed by thunder.
“Well, I think this is enough of this,” Iltar said, and another tear trickled down his cheek, catching in his goatee. The boys stepped back, smiling at Iltar.
“It seems this storm has evoked some strange things, in all of us,” Iltar said. “As we won’t be practicing any longer today, why don’t we retire to the parlor? I can tell you all a story.”
* * * * *
The storm waxed throughout the evening. As Iltar had suggested, he and all the others gathered in his parlor, including Hegdil. The guards, however, returned to their posts at Iltar’s tower.
Iltar sat in a large high-backed chair beside the fireplace, reading aloud from a book called The Myth of Morgrid. It was a mythical tale about a young boy and his journey to reclaim the realm of Aletstyr. It originated from long ago, perhaps a thousand years. This particular tome was a reproduction of the tale, penned a hundred and fifty-two years ago.
The acolytes were scattered across the parlor. Some sat on the sofa in front of a window with a view to the front yard of the homestead. Three boys sat on the other chairs while the youngest sat on pillows in front of Iltar. The tale intrigued the acolytes. They leaned forward, intently listening to the story.
Hegdil, however, listened from the far end of the room, eating one of the brandleberry tangrils Belsina had made earlier that day.
“And so,” Iltar read from the book, “Dorith and his friends reached the pinnacle of Mount Ulinar. They found, atop the peak, a flat spot of ground hemmed by forty-two pillars. Legends said councils were once held here that decided the fate of all Aletstyr.
“Dorith strode boldly to the center of this council area. He twirled his staff and slammed it into the ground. He then removed a black sphere from his pouch. It glowed with tiny lights, arrayed like the stars of the night sky.
“Holding his staff in one hand, and the black ball in the other, Dorith spoke the ancient words of the Irumsebsil. The ball glowed. It shone exceedingly, beyond the luster of the sun at noon. A hum rippled through the air, then a violent screech.
“The light faded, and a gigantic sphere hovered before Dorith. It was a portal to another realm. The sky was a blood-red. The landscape looked like char, with rivers of orange. There were no trees. Only spires of rock.
“Taking courage, Dorith stepped forward. His friends joined him. Together they reached for the portal—”
“Dinner is ready,” Belsina’s voice carried from a dining room next to the parlor. A wide archway connected both rooms.
Iltar paused, glancing to his right, where Belsina was putting out place settings. The dining room was large enough to hold a table that seated sixteen. “We’ll resume reading after dinner,” Iltar said, placing a velvet strand on the page he was reading. He shut the book, placing it on the mantle.
The younger boys groaned. Enthralled by the tale, they pestered Iltar to keep reading. The older boys, however, got up from their seats and filed into the dining hall. Iltar was the last to take his seat at the table. He sat at the far end, looking back at the parlor and watching the raging storm. The trees of the forest danced wildly. A broken tree branch bounced across the yard then flew through the air. It struck the parlor’s window with a resounding clatter.
“Dreadful storm,” Belsina muttered. “It’s a good thing you boys are staying the night.”
She had a point. This was a dangerous storm. But even if it had let up, Iltar wouldn’t have wanted them traveling back to Soroth. The roads through this part of the forest would have been washed out. Hopefully the storm would end soon, or they’d have to stay another day. It would afford more training.
Belsina dished out the food for each of the boys first, then Iltar and Hegdil. Their evening meal consisted of a stewed beef, with cooked vegetables native to Soroth. They were served over boiled potatoes.
They ate and conversed about different things: the exercises of the day, current events, and aspects of the tale read by Iltar. The storm, however, continued raging.
After they finished their meal Belsina rose from the table. “Hegdil, come with me,” she said. “I need help with dessert.” The groom nodded, and wiped his face, leaving his napkin on his plate.
“Master Iltar,” one of the boys said, “Do you think there’s any truth to The Myth of Morgrid?”
“Truth?” Iltar asked with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair. He glanced to the ceiling, eyeing the chandelier hanging over the table. It had small clear stones encased in decorative gold, each emitting light. The stones were mostly gray, except for a couple which were blue. They were gems imbued with magic. Most people called them lightstones. “You can always find truth in tales,” he continued, still staring at the chandelier.
“I mean, do you think any of it really happened?”
That struck Iltar as funny. He found himself laughing. The Myth of Morgrid was just a fanciful tale used to inspire young boys to become great men. In fact, the main hero’s name had changed throughout several editions. Iltar had even heard people tailoring it to their own children when they told a verbal reiteration.
“Well, he’s laughing,” Agen said. “So to answer your question, I’d say no.”
Iltar quelled his laughter, and Belsina reentered the room, carrying ramekins filled with dark-blue pudding. Hegdil was not too far behind her. “Are we talking about real tales now?” the groom asked, excited.
Each of the acolytes turned toward him, and one spoke up. “Do you know of any, grooms-master?” That title seemed a little inflated. The boy was obviously stroking Hegdil’s ego.
“Well, everyone knows the Dragon Wars were real,” Hegdil said, setting down the ramekins.
Iltar rolled his eyes. Yes, the fabled Dragon Wars. Everyone had heard that story. There were as many versions and iterations as there were stars in the sky. In fact, that was one of the first stories that Iltar’s father ever told him. At least, the first one that he remembered.
“Dragon Wars?” Bilda asked. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“But, dr
agons aren’t real,” Agen said. “No one’s ever seen one.”
“Just because you haven’t seen it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” Hegdil retorted, following Belsina back out of the dining hall. They still had to dish out more pudding.
“Doesn’t that crazy old conjurer think dragons are real?” one of the boys asked, the same who had called Iltar crazy earlier in the kitchen.
“Yes, he does,” Iltar nodded with a sigh. “Amendal claimed to have fought one in the Abodine Wasteland.”
Several of the boys snorted, attempting to quell their laughter. Iltar shared their opinion. Yet, he wasn’t as vocal.
“Can you tell us the story, Master Iltar?” Bilda asked. The boy seemed to be the only one who didn’t know about the Dragon Wars. Very odd that no one had ever told him the tale. It was a foundational story for all Kaldeans, or so he thought.
“Certainly,” Iltar said, grabbing a spoon. He tapped it on the table, waiting for his pudding. “A long time ago, it was said that dragons ruled Kalda. Various breeds composed a council. They ruled for centuries until one of their own turned against them. He slew those who opposed him, taking control of this council. From there, he waged a war that spread across Kalda, engulfing the human and elven realms—”
“Like Morgrid!” Bilda interrupted, but flinched.
Iltar chuckled, but continued relating the tale. “The war was said to have lasted for a thousand years. Both worlds of elf and man were split, and brother fought against brother.”
Belsina and Hegdil returned, carrying the last of the ramekins. Iltar paused and began eating his pudding. Hegdil, however, chimed in excitedly. “They say that the leader of the evil dragons, he who killed the others who ruled with him, could grant immortality. He was a living god! People worshiped him all across the world. That’s why everyone fought. Some didn’t believe that a deity could walk among them.”
The boys sat intrigued, not even touching their pudding. They watched Hegdil emphatically tell the tale.
“Then, one day, the hatchling of one of the slain dragon leaders started a rebellion. He rallied both men and elves and waged a war to avenge his father. He was a platinum dragon. The greatest of his kind! The three races—dragons, elves, and men—banded together to fight against tyranny. They were valiant soldiers, gifted in the magical arts. The good dragons, which were of the platinum and golden breeds, forged armor and weapons for their allies. They say that those weapons could absorb magic.”