by Dan Zangari
Hegdil continued, telling of heroic battles and fables of intrigue. He vividly described the fictional war. He told how evil dragons were slain, or imprisoned. But some were banished—where, he didn’t say. He also spoke of inventions, describing many tevisrals—both fictional and real—as products of the war. That was a common tale. Many men believed that tevisrals were ancient. In this day and age, no one knew how to recreate such things, not even experienced mages. Even methods of repairing them were unknown.
Iltar sat back, listening. His groom was entertaining.
“The platinum dragon had finally turned the tide of the war. It had been hundreds of years. He marched at the head of an army built on hope. They laid siege to the enemy capital. The battle was bloody. Many died. But, they won. The enemy was finally defeated. But,” Hegdil gestured, holding up a finger, “one day the enemy will return and the men of Kalda will have to fight for what’s right once again.”
“Well, I’ve never heard that ending,” Agen said. Neither had Iltar.
Hegdil finally took his seat. He had been standing the entire time. Everyone else had since finished their pudding. “Well, it’s true,” Hegdil said in a matter-of-fact tone. He sat in his chair, eating his pudding.
“Wow…” Belsina said with a playful tone. “I can’t believe you abstained from your pudding this long.”
She had a point. Hegdil loved food. But he was equally engrossed in telling the tale of the Dragon Wars. Usually, it would have been a boring tale. Iltar had heard it so many times, so many ways. But today, the way Hegdil told it conjured a sense of curiosity. Weapons that could absorb magic, Iltar thought. That was something he had never heard attributed to dragons or their war. He knew of such weapons. Worked with them, even.
“Food isn’t the only thing I love,” Hegdil said with a sullen tone. “There’re horses and… stories!”
“Hegdil the Fabulist,” Belsina said, chuckling. “Breeder of Horses, Connoisseur of Desserts. In that order?” She smiled playfully.
She always teased him. Never hurtful, though. They had a sweet tension between them. Iltar wondered why they hadn’t gotten together as a couple. Perhaps they had, and he didn’t know it. After all, Iltar lived primarily in the tower behind the home.
Hegdil squinted, thinking. “No…” he said slowly, shaking his head, “flip the last two.” He winked at Belsina, scooping up a last spoonful of pudding.
Belsina grinned widely, holding back laughter. Soon after, she stood and gathered the empty plates. Hegdil joined her, carrying what he could.
“Why don’t you help them out?” Iltar said to the acolytes. The boys complied, taking the plates, ramekins, utensils, and other dishes used to serve the evening meal.
Everyone filed out of the dining hall, except Iltar. He strode to the parlor and stopped at the fireplace. The wind still beat against the window, and the rain continued pouring. It was springtime, after all. Storms like these weren’t uncommon. But, by all that was magical, this was an awful one.
Lightning streaked across the sky, thunder faint.
Iltar grabbed the tome atop the mantel and opened it. He took his seat and looked over the last page he had read. It told how the hero and his friends opened the portal to the realm of Desnong. Wouldn’t that be something? he thought. Traveling to other worlds. That idea seemed so absurd, but it was fun to imagine. Just the thought of it made him feel like a boy again, filled with wonder. He hadn’t felt like that in a long time.
One by one, the boys reentered the parlor, eager for their master to resume reading the tale.
Iltar took a deep breath and eased into his seat. “Together, they reached for the portal,” he continued reading. “Upon touching it they found themselves on that distant world of Desnong. The Ancient One had told them it was a location for one of the Shards of Aulnak. Now, where would they begin their search?”
* * * * *
Iltar opened his eyes, finding himself in his parlor. Sunlight shone through the window, and there was no sign of the raging storm. Odd, since it had been pouring when he retired to bed. Not even the remnants of rainfall were on the grass. But why was he here in the parlor? Iltar had retired to one of the bedrooms upstairs.
He wasn’t sleepwalking now, was he? Shaking off the thought, Iltar entered the foyer. “Belsina,” he called. He moved through the foyer, to the rear of the home. The kitchen was empty.
“Agen!” Iltar shouted, moving back to the foyer. “Bilda, Tigan!” He expected to hear a pitter-patter of footfalls from the second floor, but there was nothing. Iltar hurried up the stairs, rounding the landing and arriving at the first bedroom. It had been his when he was a child. The door was wide open; the bed was made up neatly. It didn’t look like anyone had ever slept there. His eyes were drawn to the window, to a yellow sky with blood-red clouds.
That’s not normal… he thought, hurrying to another room. It was just like the first. Tidy.
“Where are they?” he whispered warily, thinking of his acolytes. Iltar hurried back down the stairs, darting outside. He ran around the home to the roadway leading to the stables and his tower.
“Hegdil!” Iltar shouted, nearing the stables. The wagon and the horse, Filly, were gone. “Delrin, Jalim!” he shouted toward the tower. Usually, the guards would have been standing at the tower’s entrance, but they weren’t there.
“Where is everyone?” Iltar grumbled with annoyance. Nothing seemed right. Then there was that odd sky.
Puzzled, Iltar hurried down the path leading to the forest. It turned from stone to dirt shortly after the tree line. Surprisingly, the ground was dry. No trace of mud. He ran for what seemed hours. Usually there was traffic on the forest roads, but all was quiet. Too quiet. Iltar passed no one. Where had everyone gone?
Iltar eventually broke from the forest, entering the vast coastal plain containing the city of Soroth. However, what lay ahead of him wasn’t Soroth. At least the Soroth he knew.
The forest highway which led to the northern gates of the city was destroyed. Large craters marred its face. Walls which lined the city were toppled. Buildings which would have been standing were demolished. Soroth was in ruin.
How…? He gawked, dumbfounded. “What happened?”
Iltar regained his composure and ran to the ruins. Many of the roads were destroyed like the forest highway. Remnants of buildings were strewn across many of the roads, making them impassable.
Eventually, he neared the southern piers. Soroth was a major port city on the various trade routes of the world. Surely, there would be vessels moored. Perhaps the survivors were there. But, Iltar hadn’t seen anyone as he hurried through Soroth. Not even corpses. With all that destruction there would have been dead about, wouldn’t there?
Iltar rounded a corner, seeing the city’s southernmost piers. To his dismay, they were like the rest of Soroth. Wharves were crushed. Vessels were capsized. Some ships were snapped in two, their broken hulls rising above the water… water that was purple! What was wrong with this place?
“This can’t be real…” Iltar muttered, raising an eyebrow. Was he dreaming?
He hurried down the road, nearing the coast. An undamaged pier caught his attention. It was the only thing intact. Iltar hurried toward it, running faster than he ever had. Seeing that intact pier sparked a hope within him. He darted onto the wooden planks, his footsteps resounding.
A masculine figure stood at the end of the pier, clothed in a red robe.
Finally, another living soul! he thought. Perhaps he could find answers. That was silly. Wasn’t this a dream? It didn’t feel like one though. He was lucid, totally and completely.
The robed man stared out into the ocean. Iltar couldn’t see his expression although he thought it full of resolve. He was imagining it, wasn’t he?
The man’s red robe was finely detailed, with embroidered symbols unknown to Iltar. The embroidery was mostly red, with accents of gold. The symbols had a symmetrical pattern to them, mirrored along an invisible line along the
back of the robe.
A wind picked up, rustling the stranger’s robe.
Iltar stopped his hasty dash only a few paces away. “You there!” he shouted. “What happened here?” The robed stranger glanced over his shoulder. His white hair was long, hanging partway down his chest. His face was covered in a thick white beard. Brilliant sapphire eyes peeked at Iltar. But he didn’t turn. His expression was grim, not stoic as Iltar had imagined.
“Who are you?!” Iltar shouted. The stranger continued glancing over his shoulder, but he didn’t speak.
Iltar tilted his head, raised an eyebrow, and set his jaw. He had to be dreaming, but he found himself speaking, anyway.
“Tell me what’s going on here? Where is everyone? Why is Soroth in ruin?”
The robed stranger finally turned around, holding two dark-red tomes in his hands. Their covers were embossed with a strange design. Iltar couldn’t quite tell what it was, but it looked like seven spikes above a ball. But there was more to them. Claws around the ball?
Still confused, Iltar stared at the stranger. It was like looking into a mirror. He looked exactly like Iltar, except for the beard and hair. But his face… it was exactly like his, how he was now. That hawk-like face and that sharp nose! They were his. Every wrinkle. Every blemish. He was a perfect reflection.
“Why do you look like me?!” Iltar found himself shouting. The stranger’s identical appearance angered him, though he knew not why. The robed man blinked, but said not a word.
A resounding knock echoed across the ruined pier. Iltar looked around, frantic. Where was that sound coming from?
The knock sounded again, and again.
“Iltar,” a feminine voice boomed from across the ocean. “Master Iltar.” Iltar looked around, but was drawn to the stranger once more. The man looked sternly at Iltar, his gaze exuding determination.
Suddenly, everything changed.
He was no longer on the pier over that strange ocean.
“Master Iltar,”—Belsina’s voice was muffled through a door—“breakfast will be ready shortly.”
Iltar sat up on his bed. It was the same room where he had retired after reading to the boys. His childhood bedroom. The sheets were tossed on the floor, and so was the pillow.
He darted from the bed to a nearby window. It wasn’t storming outside, but it was partly cloudy. The blue sky peaked through the clouds. Gray clouds. “What a nightmare,” he muttered.
Iltar pulled himself from the window, walking to a dresser. Neatly folded on top of it were the black tunic and pants he often wore under his black robes.
I need to go into Soroth today, he thought. I have to find Pagus. That boy better not have gotten into trouble.
“Eventually, I came to the shores of those desolate lands. I fashioned a boat by use of transmutative magic. Luckily, I had some solidifiers with me. Or that would have been a short trip.”
- From Origins and Oaths of the Keepers, preface
Cornar dodged a shimmering claymore. It swung past his face, just barely. He was still spry for his age, only fifty-three. But he was in good shape. Tall. Toned.
Evading another swing, Cornar twirled his serrated dagger—a favored weapon. The dagger’s blade was as long as his forearm, almost the length of a short-sword. But his father always referred to it as a dagger, so Cornar did too.
Cornar shuffled through the tall grass, weapons ready. In his other hand he wielded a double-bladed short-sword. The short-sword was longer than the serrated dagger, but not by much.
Kalder—a large, burly man wearing brown chain mail—charged at him. Kalder was a little taller than Cornar.
Gripping both weapons, Cornar blocked another blow from the claymore, catching the larger weapon between the dagger’s serrated edges while reinforcing the block with his short-sword. Pushing the claymore away, Cornar lunged forward, kicking the burly Kalder in the stomach.
Kalder staggered backward, but he didn’t fall. Kalder was too skilled for that. He’d better be.
“Ha!” Cornar said with a grunt and smiled. “Not bad, Kalder,” he shouted as his opponent rebounded for another assault.
Kalder wasn’t the only one advancing on him. Gregan, clad in dark-brown plate armor, was approaching. His breastplate bore the emblem of a sword rising out of the water, with a snake wrapped around it. That emblem signified the Soroth City Watch, the organization that policed the isle’s capital. Gregan, however, was no watchman. At least, not any longer.
Gregan wielded a fanisar—a staffed weapon, much like a halberd. It had a curved blade on one end and a metal ball on the other.
Cornar didn’t care much for those weapons. He knew how to use them, but they weren’t preferable.
At that moment, Kalder came close, swinging his claymore. Cornar parried the blow, directing the large weapon toward Gregan. The parry forced the second fellow to shuffle sideways, slightly slowing his advance. But Gregan continued, swinging his fanisar in a downward strike.
Cornar crossed his blades, catching the fanisar in front of his face. Kalder swung again. Noting the rebounding swing from Kalder, Cornar redirected the fanisar to the side. He ducked under the claymore, and it sailed over his head. Cornar spun, kicking Kalder’s knee while throwing his elbow at Gregan’s plate gorget. Cornar recoiled from the unison strikes, spinning as he landed behind both his foes.
“C’mon boys!” Cornar shouted. “You can do better than that!” Kalder and Gregan spun, settling into defensive postures, waiting. Clever. They wanted him to come to them. Neither had landed a blow the entire sparring session. They had been on the offensive, and Cornar simply reacted to them.
“What’s wrong, Cor?” Gregan asked from beneath his helmet, his voice muffled. “Tired already?”
Cornar grinned with exhilaration. “Not yet.” No, he was not tiring. Cornar was invigorated! Though this was just a sparring match, it simulated what he yearned for most.
Twirling both weapons, Cornar lunged forward and let out a battle cry. He meant to distract his opponents, but they didn’t react. Instead, both Kalder and Gregan eyed him carefully, weapons at the ready. Their stances mirrored each other, their leading arms side by side, so that Cornar couldn’t pass between them, like he had before. This was a common tactic Cornar had developed. If one were to fight side by side with another they could easily watch each other’s backs.
Cornar pulled his feigning strikes, shifting in front of the armored Gregan. He moved sideways, jabbing at the joints of Gregan’s armor. Gregan, however, twirled his fanisar across his chest, forcing away Cornar’s weapons.
Cornar danced back around them, but both men shifted their stances. They blocked and parried Cornar’s swings, defending each other when possible. Cornar landed fewer blows, but he sneaked in an occasional one here and there.
They continued sparring for a while longer until a feminine voice shouted across the field, “Cor, Ordreth and your sister are here!” His wife Karenna’s voice came from Cornar’s nearby home, undoubtedly from one of the windows overlooking the field.
The men stopped, breathing heavily. Cornar swiftly sheathed his weapons and took in a calming breath.
“Well, that was fun,” Kalder said, dropping the point of his claymore into the grass.
“As always,” Gregan exclaimed, lifting the visor on his helmet. Sweat dripped down his freckled face, his bright red beard wet.
“I’m going to get cleaned up,” Cornar said, running his hand through his brown hair, still thick and free of gray. Cornar didn’t have many wrinkles either, and his round face was clean-shaven, making him look younger. He cast his emerald eyes westward, noting the sun rising over the horizon. Last night’s storm was nowhere to be found. The winds had torn up part of the brandleberry vineyard. It was a good thing they had harvested a few days before.
“Yeah, I’m sweaty,” Gregan said with a chuckle as he removed his helmet. “I doubt anyone will want to be in the same room with me.”
“Uh-huh,” Kalder groaned. “P
lease, clean up.”
The three of them laughed and turned to walk across the field. They all looked about the same age, though Cornar was the eldest, twelve years Kalder’s senior. Gregan was a year younger. They laughed and bantered as they crossed the field. They were close, like family. The three of them had been through a lot together. Their sparring and training wasn’t the only thing that bound them.
Once out of the field, the two younger men continued bantering as they approached a small guesthouse. It was one of several buildings on Cornar’s countryside property. Besides the guesthouse, there was a stable, a winery, and the main house. Kalder and Gregan often stayed at the guesthouse, even though they had homes of their own in the city, Soroth. Many of Cornar’s former pupils often stayed there when visiting.
Cornar, however, continued to his home. It was the largest building on the sprawling property. He’d raised three children here with Karenna. They had settled on this plot of land nearly thirty-five years ago. My, time flies, Cornar thought. This wasn’t the same house they had started with.
When Cornar had bought the land, they lived in a tiny shack. That humble home had now grown into the manor house standing before him. It hadn’t taken long. Cornar was an adventurer, and a good one. He had amassed a fair amount of wealth before he was twenty-five, about the same time his oldest daughter was born. She was the middle child.
Cornar hurried up to a side door, which led to a mudroom. He quickly slipped off his chain mail; it was much like what Kalder was wearing. Cornar dumped the armor into a large trunk and then hurried into the house carrying his weapon belt. He wouldn’t leave that there.
Cornar wound his way through a hallway, coming to the rear staircase leading to the upper floors. He climbed the steps two at a time, a habit he had picked up as a child. Cornar rounded another hallway and came to his bedroom, where the door was cracked open.