by Dan Zangari
Agen raised his brow, then looked at Iltar. “So, why aren’t you a grand mage, Master Iltar?” he asked.
“My father said I wasn’t gifted enough,” Iltar said, averting his eyes to the ceiling. “Since my childhood, my mother had trained me as an illusionist. I begged him to test me again. He did. But the results were the same. When we relocated to Soroth, I joined the illusionist sect at the Order.”
“We had an illusionist sect?” one of the boys asked.
“The Necrotic Order was not always the Necrotic Order,” Iltar said. “At one time they welcomed all the arts.”
“Where’d they teach all of them?” another boy asked.
Iltar chuckled. “Your dorms weren’t always dorms. The Order was quite packed back then. We had thousands of students when I attended.”
“Thousands?!” the younger boys blurted in unison. Less than a hundred students were currently studying at the Soroth Necrotic Order. That didn’t include any private students, like those currently studying under his friends. But even those didn’t raise the student body beyond two hundred.
“So you graduated as an illusionist?” Agen asked.
“No, he graduated a necromancer-illusionist,” Kreely said. “I looked up Master Iltar’s records the other day. After our… uh, encounter.”
“When did you become a necromancer, then?” Tindil asked.
“When I was eleven,” Iltar said, his tone saddened. Those were dark times. Lying to his mother. Sneaking out in the middle of the night. Agreeing to study the necrotic arts was like signing his parents’ death warrant.
“And Rovin was your only teacher?” an acolyte asked.
“In the necrotic arts, yes,” Iltar answered. “He taught me outside the Order.”
“Do you ever wonder what happened to him?” Tindil asked. “Master Rovin disappeared about the same time as Grandmaster Cordis, didn’t he?”
“Does anyone know what happened to them?” Agen asked.
“They just disappeared,” Tindil said. “A lot of mages went missing back then. Master Jalel said it almost crippled the Order. It was a trying time. A lot of other mages left Soroth too, non-necromancers. Eventually, the entire council disappeared. But Grandmaster Alacor rose to the occasion, or so Master Jalel said. He and several others banded together and took upon themselves the burden of leading our guild.”
It wasn’t quite that way, Iltar thought. The others were using Alacor as bait. The boys continued discussing the disappearances. Iltar declined answering any questions, simply shrugging or shaking his head whenever they asked him about details they were unsure about. Iltar didn’t want to remember those times. That was his past. He was not that man anymore.
“We should get to bed,” Iltar said as the fired died. “You’ll have an early day tomorrow. And I have just the right exercises for the lot of you.”
He rose from his chair and exited the hearth room. Iltar glanced back, and the boys stirred. They gathered their blankets but continued discussing the disappearances of long-lost mages.
* * * * *
Iltar found himself standing in the hearth room of Pagus’s home, sunlight struggling to shine through the draped windows. It looked different from when he retired to bed. There were different chairs by the hearth. He knew those chairs, had sat in them as a boy on cold evenings. This is how the room had looked when it belonged to Rovin.
“Why?” Iltar said with a groan. “Why am I dreaming of that time?”
“You know who you are, don’t you?” a familiar voice asked from behind him.
Iltar spun about, seeing Reflection standing in the hallway.
“The Unspoken One,” Reflection said. “The Harbinger of Hemran’na.”
“What am I doing here?” Iltar demanded, frazzled.
Reflection smiled wryly.
Iltar stomped across the hearth room, coming to stand squarely in front of Reflection. The oddity was dressed in his same crimson robe. “I want you to leave me alone,” Iltar said, his voice shaking.
“Afraid of your destiny?” Reflection said, chuckling, and then snapped his fingers. Iltar started, then saw movement out of the corner of his eye.
Another familiar voice spoke. “Iltar, my boy, what brings you here?”
It was Rovin! Iltar turned, looking at the hearth where his former master liked to stand.
Rovin was dressed in a casual tunic and pants. He was a little taller than average height with a pot belly. His black hair had large streaks of gray and his clean-shaven face was wrinkled. Rovin’s brown eyes weren’t looking at him, though.
Reflection snap his fingers again, and another person appeared in the hearth room, directly in front of Rovin’s gaze.
It was Iltar! But his hair was blond, and he looked younger, much younger.
“I heard you went off with that crazed conjurer,” Rovin said. “Were you actually able to enter the Karthar Valley?”
“We sure did.” The younger Iltar grinned.
“Spinning tales, eh?” Rovin asked, chuckling. “You should learn that lying gets you nowhere, Iltar.”
Oh no… Why was he experiencing this? It had to be because he was back in this home, spending all that time in the hearth room reading to the acolytes. Worried, Iltar peered around Reflection. A darkened silhouette of a large man holding two weapons stood farther down the hall. A youth was right behind him, clutching a large two-handed sword. Iltar could faintly see a black light around each weapon.
Iltar glanced back to Reflection. “Why are you showing me this?”
“To remind you of who you are,” Reflection said, gesturing with his head toward the exchange between Rovin and the younger Iltar.
But Iltar couldn’t look.
“Your actions that day weren’t evil, Iltar,” Reflection said. “Rovin was a parasite, corrupting the pond. His filth only added to the damming effects that others had put in place.”
Iltar turned away, looking down the hall at the man and the youth, but he still heard the exchange between Rovin and his younger self. He couldn’t bear to watch.
“I actually have something to show you, master,” the younger Iltar said.
“Oh?” Rovin asked. There was tension in his voice, something Iltar hadn’t noticed all those years ago. Had Rovin an intimation of what Iltar had planned?
Iltar heard Rovin gasp, “It can’t be!”
“Oh, it is!” younger Iltar cackled.
“B-bu-but, how?!”
“That’s a very good question,” younger Iltar said. “I haven’t quite figured it out myself.”
Rovin rattled off an incantation, but screamed in pain. Rapid footfalls rushed from the hallway, accompanied by a leap, a landing, and swinging metal. Still pained, Rovin continued his incantation.
“This is impossible!” Rovin yelled, panicked.
Iltar couldn’t be here anymore. He opened his eyes, briefly seeing four figures in the hearth room, two of whom were clothed in a black aura, before hurrying down the hall. Iltar dashed past where the man and the youth had been concealed, but kept going.
Soon, Iltar darted into the home’s large foyer. Blood-red clouds covered the sky, visible from the windows surrounding the home’s main entrance. A pained scream howled behind him, but he kept running toward the doors. He grabbed the knobs, but they wouldn’t turn.
“Don’t you remember all the precautions you took?” Reflection asked. “You planned this perfectly. No one could come in or out.” Another scream wailed from the rear of the home.
“Get me out of here, now!” Iltar shouted.
Reflection sighed and shook his head. “The Harbinger will betray his master, slaying him in his very home.” Reflection’s tone was like Iltar’s when quoting something. “The master’s passing will go unnoticed. His death will be dismissed without consequence.”
Wailing sobs echoed from the hearth room, followed by younger Iltar’s shouting, “This is for my mother!”
That cry pained him. The memory of his mother evoked tears
, and Iltar slumped against the door, covering his ears. But he could still hear the screaming.
A moment later he heard his younger self shout again. “This is for my father!” More sounds of agony resounded through the home.
“Stop this!” Iltar shouted. “Stop this, now!”
“You were already doing it, Iltar,” Reflection said, “fulfilling Soron Thahan’s prophecies.”
The wailing died out, but Iltar knew it wasn’t over.
“Embrace who you are,” Reflection said. “Don’t fight it.”
Silence lingered for a moment, but was soon broken by younger Iltar. “And this is for me!”
One last resounding wail echoed through the home, and then all fell silent. Rovin was dead.
“Keep searching that tome,” Reflection urged. “It’ll be a guide to you when you’re lost, or in times that I cannot speak to you. Something approaches that bars me from Kalda. But it will pass.”
Then Reflection stepped aside.
Soon, footfalls echoed from the hallway, and Iltar looked up. His younger self entered the foyer with a younger version of Cornar. The teenage Kalder was right behind them, carrying a pail. The black aura that had surrounded each of them had since faded.
“You have it?” younger Iltar asked the youthful Cornar. The young warrior grinned, removing a blue rock from beneath his armor, a rogulin crystal.
“Let’s go to the attic,” younger Iltar suggested, waving his hand toward the doors. He was dismissing a spell placed upon them. “No one should see us teleport in there. And that dank stench will mask the crystal’s smell.”
Without any further exchange, the three conspirators climbed the stairs, leaving Iltar alone with Reflection.
“Get me out of here,” Iltar complained. “Get me out of this stupid dream!”
Reflection snapped his fingers. The foyer vanished.
Iltar felt himself falling, as he had in the other dream. He fell through a mass of darkness, but heard the words in the distance, “Heed the words of the Messenger of the Promise and fulfill your destiny.”
The words faded, and Iltar gripped silky sheets beneath him. He was lying on a bed inside the chef’s chambers, and he was alone. The chef had vacated the room to allow Iltar a place of privacy. Iltar was grateful for that. He didn’t want to wake from one of those nightmares with the acolytes nearby. That would be embarrassing.
Sitting up, Iltar took in a deep breath. These dreams were becoming tiresome. Would they ever stop?
“This seemed to be a fortunate surprise. I hadn’t seen anything of the outside world. It wasn’t good that I shut myself away, but it was necessary due to my oath. I couldn’t wander the world, but she could. So I put forth a proposal.”
- From Origins and Oaths of the Keepers, preface
A wave of heat washed over Cornar. He looked about frantically. The sky was covered in smoke, and homes were burning all around him. Homes? But he was aboard the Promised Maiden, sailing through the Kalishir Ocean toward the Mainland. They had left Soroth seven days ago.
He must be dreaming. Steeling himself, Cornar took a deep breath and surveyed the burning buildings. Cornar stood at the edge of a village, upon a cobblestone road. Dying screams wailed through the air.
He ran toward those sounds. Most men would run away, but not Cornar. Those screams were like a clarion call, beckoning him to provide aid. Cornar ran through the streets for several minutes. This place looked familiar. He knew this road—
A burning lamppost fell before him, and Cornar leapt over the burning pole and into a billow of smoke. Coughing, Cornar could see the outlines of two small figures moving through the street. Soft sobs came from their direction. Cornar remembered hearing cries like that long ago.
The smoke cleared briefly and a young boy and a girl ram toward Cornar. Both were dirty, covered in soot. The boy clutched a baby in his arms, wrapped in a filthy beige blanket. They stopped upon seeing Cornar. Both looked familiar. In fact, they looked exactly like—
“Galana, run!” the boy cried, handing her the baby. With tears in his eyes, the boy stood ready to fight Cornar.
Galana? Cornar wondered. That was his sister’s name. Am I reliving that frightful night? He took another look at the boy. The boy looked exactly like Cornar when he was that age. The boy lunged at him, fist poised to strike.
“Wait, Cor!” Cornar shouted to the boy, dodging his advance. “I’m here to help.”
“How do you know my name?” the boy demanded as he recovered, dropping back into a fighting stance.
“I’m a friend,” Cornar said. “Keep going down this street. Don’t take the alley to the market.”
“Why?” the boy demanded, edging forward. “The market is the fastest route out of town!” He was slowly closing the gap between him and Cornar.
“Trust me,” Cornar said in a slow deliberate tone. “Bandits are ransacking the market. This path is clear. I just came that way.” The young boy looked at him with distrust.
“You’ve got to save baby Kalder,” Cornar said urgently. His tone exuded paternal protection. “You can’t let him get hurt. It’s your job to protect him now!” The young boy dropped his guard, studying Cornar quizzically.
“He’s probably a friend of Father’s,” the girl said to her brother. “Like the other man.”
The other man? Cornar had remembered his sister mentioning another man on this night, all those years ago. But after the initial attack, Cornar had run straight to the cradle where baby Kalder was sleeping. After that, Cornar had heard his father’s command for him to run, and so he had, with his sister Galana in tow.
This was a frightful night. Why was he dreaming about it?
“If you’re lying, I’ll hunt you down,” the boy threatened.
That sounds like something I’d say at that age, Cornar mused.
“Just go,” Cornar said, and then hurried down the street, leaving the younger version of himself.
Cornar knew where he needed to go; the heart of the town. It had been years since he’d been in his hometown of Tergol, but he knew it like the back of his hand. Tergol was about halfway between Tor and Tilim, about a thousand grand phineals from either city. Tergol was north of the river which divided the Western Sovereignty and the Mindolarn Empire. It wouldn’t have been an easy target for disgruntled soldiers, but somehow they had found a way to attack.
Soon, Cornar arrived at the heart of Tergol. A manor home sat atop a mound, burning. His family’s home. The sounds of battle rang from beyond it. Soldiers—both Sovereign and Mindolarn alike—lay upon the mound, mingled with citizens. Cornar eyed several swords lying about.
“I’m going to need one of these,” Cornar said, picking the sword up from near a slain soldier. It was too long to dual-wield comfortably, so he decided to grab only one.
With weapon in hand, Cornar hurried up the mound. He rounded the burning home, passing corpses. Cornar didn’t want to look. His mother would be among them, and Cornar couldn’t bear to see her like that. He hadn’t seen her fall when living this night all those years ago. Cornar only knew of her death because his father told him.
The sounds of battle grew louder. Eruptions of magic resounded in the air.
Magic? But there hadn’t been any mages in Tergol when the rogue soldiers attacked. And the enemy consisted of only disgruntled footmen and bandits, right? Cornar rounded the manor home, approaching the southern parts of the village. Nearly a hundred soldiers were clustered around a small group of men. The soldiers weren’t trying to push into the city. They were all focused on that group.
As Cornar drew near, he realized the group was actually only two men. Both glowed with brilliant blue light. Was that barsion magic? They moved wildly, slaying the enemy soldiers. One of the men was dual-wielding two short weapons coated in flaming magic. His movements were familiar to Cornar. Was that his father?
The other was mustering magic and moving with acrobatic finesse. He flung a variety of destructive bolts into the enemy ran
ks, felling them quickly. Cornar hurried down the mound, ready to reinforce them. He hurried beside the mage and clashed with one of the Mindolarn soldiers.
“What are you doing here?” the mage shouted to Cornar. “You need to flee with the rest of the soldiers and citizens! We can hold them back ourselves!”
Cornar ignored the cry, piercing his foe between his armored plates. The soldier groaned and backed away; Cornar hadn’t delivered a mortal wound. As his foe retreated, Cornar glanced to the mage beside him.
The mage stood tall, his face hawk-like with piercing sapphire eyes. By Heleron’s Trident, he looked like Iltar! The mage even had the same goatee, but his beard and his hair were brown.
“To your right!” the mage shouted to Cornar. Cornar spun, seeing another soldier advancing.
“Melthas!” the mage shouted between spells. “One of your men is being insubordinate!” Melthas? So, the other man was his father.
Cornar dueled with the soldier and struck several blows, one to the leg and another to his sword arm.
The battle raged for several minutes. Cornar and the others eventually felled all the soldiers. Not all the Mindolarn soldiers were dead. Some were severely wounded. Cornar, however, hadn’t walked away unscathed. His left arm was bleeding. The pain felt real. This dream was too lucid.
Cornar carefully hoisted his sword in his belt and put pressure on his bleeding arm. He watched as the mage knelt beside one of the dying soldiers, whispering an incantation. As gray enthralling magic coalesced, the mage removed the soldier’s helmet.
“Good sir,” Cornar heard his father’s familiar voice. Oh, it was good to hear it! “I thank you for your assistance, but it wasn’t necessary.”
Cornar turned around, seeing his father walking toward him. Cornar wanted to run and embrace him, but doing such things would seem strange. But this was a dream, wasn’t it?
Melthas stopped a pace away from Cornar, eyeing his wound. Cornar’s father looked unscathed, even though he was wearing only simple clothing. Melthas was, however, glowing with a pale-blue hue. He was encased in barsion magic.
“Let me see the wound,” Melthas said, reaching toward Cornar, who nodded.