by Dan Zangari
“I was able to get something out of the sailors,” Laeyit said. “Supposedly, the Sorothians were whispering about their leader dreaming of a battle that happened years ago.”
“It sounds like the man was taken to Vabenack,” Bratan said. “But why would a man like him be chosen to walk in such a sacred place?”
That question provoked an answer within Kaescis’s mind. Lord Cheserith is preparing him for me, he smiled. This had to be part of his glorious errand. Not only would he recover tevisrals from Kalda’s utopian past, Kaescis would become the hero needed to lead his empire to victory. To embrace the Ko’delish and defeat a man like Cornar Dol’shir—the son of the infamous Butcher of Tor—would purify him in a way that would rival the great ones who came before him. He would unite those lands his people had lost and spread the empire’s borders farther than his father’s domain. He would be Kaescis Midivar, Hero of the Empire, Champion of Cheserith.
Just thinking of that title filled him with glorious purpose.
“He’s smiling…” Bratan grunted.
“Probably not listening.” Laeyit took another sip from her stein.
Kaescis chuckled. “Oh, I’m listening, all right,” he said. Laeyit and Bratan perked up, eagerly studying Kaescis. “This is a sign from our Almighty Father.” Kaescis beamed with excitement. “I know what they want from me.” He looked to Laeyit. “You were right.”
Laeyit looked confused, and Kaescis continued, “The hiss’thraks are preparing me, and in order to rise to my destined station I must have a worthy adversary, and so, Dol’shir has been selected. Who better to stoke my fury than the son of my enemy, the man who slew my brother and in effect murdered Helgara and Aritese.” He studied his friends for a moment.
Both nodded with approval.
“Cornar Dol’shir will die at my hand, along with anyone else who stands in my way of slaying him,” Kaescis declared with fervent purpose. “Their deaths will be a fitting sacrifice.”
Laeyit grinned, taking in a deep breath.
Bratan chuckled. “A fitting fate,” he said, refilling his stein for the third time. “You killed his father, and now you’ll kill him.”
* * * * *
Several days had passed since Alacor had received a message from Jahevial. The damned man probably hadn’t the chance to send another message. The last one Jahevial had sent was right before he and the others boarded the Promised Maiden in Kretin. The news was disappointing. Other than odd books, the expedition to Klindil had been fruitless. No tevisrals. No artifacts from the ancient past.
Frustrated, Alacor retired to his office at the Necrotic Order after a long day of instruction. Kreely had been exceptionally stupid today. The pathetic fool still couldn’t get the incantation right for the life-draining spell he was learning.
What happened to all the great ones? Alacor wondered, plodding over to a grand seat akin to a throne. These boys are just so dull. Nowadays only the weak came to the doorstep of the Necrotic Order. Ten years ago, droves of talented students had flocked from all the islands of the Principality. Now, barely anyone came. Most children nowadays became soldiers.
“Perhaps I can change that,” he whispered. The Sorothian Navy did have mages in their ranks. Some of those men were getting older and would retire in the next decade or so. Although, not all those mages were necromancers.
At the next meeting of the Senate, Alacor nodded. He could put out feelers then. See if anyone would support a bill to enlist the youth of Soroth into the Necrotic Order.
Alacor—like other grandmasters before him—occupied a seat in the Senate of the Principality. Cordis had finagled the seat a year before his death. It had been retained throughout the years, although some grandmasters didn’t utilize it as often as they should. None of them had been as active as Alacor. He saw his involvement as a way of fulfilling Cordis’s dreams and ambitions. Perhaps one day a grandmaster would be governor of Soroth. It might not be Alacor, but he had to pave the way for future generations—just perhaps not these acolytes.
I can’t even picture them running the Order, let alone a nation, Alacor grunted. These boys were a dismal bunch.
A knock at the door filled the office, and then Jalel slipped into the room.
“Any word?” his brother asked.
“No.”
“How could they have been wrong?” Jalel asked, putting his hands on his hips. “They knew tevisrals were there on Klindil, didn’t they?”
Alacor shrugged. “Krindal is looking for proof of his theories,” he said. “That might not come in the form of ancient tevisrals. Jahevial’s report about that buried temple was quite detailed. Just the architecture alone is enough to validate that trip, at least in Krindal’s eyes.”
Jalel groaned. “Or the Sapphire Guard took them.”
That was a possibility.
“Why do you think Krindal neglected to tell us about the elves?”
“I don’t know,” Alacor said. “I wouldn’t have committed anyone or offered aid if I’d known that Krindal was in competition with them. Besides, Krindal had the aid of the Mindolarnians. I don’t see why he needed to appeal to us. They had—no have—a sizeable army. Cornar and his men wouldn’t have made a difference either.”
“Perhaps Krindal wanted to gather everyone he could to fight against the elves,” Jalel speculated. “What about this island—Dalgilur? Have you found anything about it?”
“No. Not even on a map.”
Jalel hummed disappointedly. “Well, what about—” Jalel abruptly shifted his gaze to Alacor’s desk, drawn to the communication tevisral pulsing a dark-orange light. “There’s another message!” he said, hurrying across the room.
Alacor watched as Jalel grabbed the communication tevisral. Jalel activated the receptor and waited for the message to play. Soon, Jahevial’s voice came from one end of the tevisral. “I don’t have any more details about this Dalgilur. The fleet has been headed south, and we’ve picked up a favorable tailwind. Captain Salisar believes we’ll also hit a current, which should get us to the supposed island in a little over a week.
“I managed to go through all the books that were found, and a few would be of interest to the Order. One speaks of the construction of tevisrals, confirming earlier theories that tevisral manufacturing was commonplace in the ancient world. The Mindolarnians didn’t seem to have any interest in these texts. Kaescis is after whatever is on this Dalgilur. I’ve heard a few rumors, saying that Dalgilur is the fabled Isle of the Ancient Ones.”
“The birthplace of humanity?” Jalel broke in.
Alacor didn’t answer. He wanted to hear all of what Jahevial had to say. Jahevial’s earlier reports had been lacking.
“The prince and his retinue seem to be focused on that place. Even Krindal is looking forward to making discoveries on Dalgilur, despite all the evidence we were able to collect at the Keepers’ Temple. I wish you could have seen it. The temple was a spectacular sight.”
Jahevial went on for several more minutes, giving details that the other scholars had found while exploring the temple. It was the headquarters of a long-dead Order dedicated to the preservation of Kalda. Alacor had heard a little about this group, some of which had been mentioned by Cordis. These Keepers seemed to fit the description of an organization that was a threat to the Empire of Karthar.
After Jahevial’s message ended, Alacor contemplated the report.
“So, these Keepers were our ancestors’ enemies,” Jalel mused aloud. Alacor nodded. “What do you think the prince is after?” Jalel asked.
“Anything,” Alacor said. “Perhaps something to turn the tide of Mindolarn’s losses… reclaim territory.”
“But why wouldn’t he say that when he met with us?” Jalel demanded. “This doesn’t feel right, brother. I don’t think Kaescis can be trusted.”
“He’s a pureblooded qui’sha,” Alacor said, staring hard at his brother. “His very nature dictates that he is trustworthy.”
Jalel shook his head
with a sigh. “The Codices warn of apostates.”
“Are you making accusations, brother?”
Jalel frowned. “I am only voicing possibilities. The prince knows you, Alacor. I don’t see why he couldn’t have confided in us.”
“Not everyone who was present at Krindal’s demonstration is part of the Ca’trusin. Krindal isn’t even one of us.” Jalel sighed again and Alacor gestured for him to hand him the communication tevisral.
Alacor made the appropriate actions to send a message, waiting for the tevisral’s gem to pulse a pale blue before speaking to Jahevial. “I thank you for the report. If there is anything else that happens from now until you reach the island, let us know.”
He handed the tevisral back to Jalel, and then the gemstone on the tevisral pulsed with a dark-orange light—indicating another message. Jalel activated the tevisral, and Jahevial’s voice spoke from the device. “There is one other thing,” the scholar said. “The night after we left Kretin, Cornar Dol’shir was found bloodied. It looked like he had bled out completely. His entire cabin was deluged in blood, but there wasn’t a single wound on him.”
Jalel turned a ghastly color, dropping the tevisral on the rug beneath him. “I-it can’t be,” he muttered.
Alacor set his jaw and picked up the tevisral, sending another message to Jahevial. “What else have you heard about this incident?”
The reply came a few seconds later. “From what I’ve heard from Cornar’s men, he was dreaming of a battle. Cornar was wounded and healed, all within this dream.”
“The prophecies…” Jalel muttered.
Alacor ignored his brother, working the tevisral to send another message. “Jahevial, gather all you can about this incident. I want to know every detail.”
A brief moment passed before Jahevial replied. “I will find out all I can, grandmaster. Word has already spread through the fleet, worrying many of the Mindolarnians. It shouldn’t be too hard for me to get the facts.”
Alacor nodded, resting the tevisral in his lap. It spanned the entire width of his chair. It was a long device, longer than he thought necessary. But alas, it was the best tevisral-crafters were able to do.
“Those chosen by God will bleed as though they had wounds, yet they shall be unharmed,” Jalel quoted a line from that apocryphal tome. “They shall herald His glorious return.”
“You know, reading that tome is heretical,” Alacor said flatly.
“Master Cordis believed in it,” Jalel said, then laughed. “I never thought a man like Cornar Dol’shir would be chosen.”
Chosen? Men like Cornar weren’t suited for divinely appointed tasks. Besides, if anyone was to fulfill a divine role it would be a qui’sha or a member of the Ca’trusin.
“Any word from Makivan?” Jalel asked.
“Nothing this week,” Alacor said. “Iltar is still missing.”
Jalel shook his head. “What is that bastard up to?” Although Alacor didn’t care for Iltar, Jalel downright hated the man. “I bet this was all some kind of ruse,” Jalel grumbled, pacing back and forth.
“For what?” Alacor asked. “Iltar didn’t even protest my stipulation on those taking part in Krindal’s adventure. What could be greater than embarking on a quest that would undoubtedly change the world?”
“I don’t know,” Jalel said, stopping and gazing hard at Alacor. “But Iltar is up to something… I just know it.”
Alacor shrugged. It very well could be a simple answer. But whatever it was, Makivan would get to the bottom of it. He was a cunning man, and a powerful necromancer. After all, Makivan had been Alacor’s pupil, his first apprentice.
* * * * *
“What a tedious task,” Makivan muttered. He sluggishly climbed along the winding road that ran along the northern face of Mount Setigas. It was one of the largest mountains on the Isle of Sarn. Where could Iltar be?
Makivan had spent nearly a month searching for Master Iltar. The sly eel was nowhere to be found. Makivan didn’t know why the grandmaster and his brother wanted him to find the man, but he was not supposed to ask questions. After all, they were his superiors in both the Necrotic Order and the Ca’trusin.
Makivan grunted as the road became steep.
Iltar had hidden himself and his acolytes well. They weren’t at either of the places they should have been. In fact, no one at the Aliteran Estate had seen them. Each time Makivan came to call on Master Iltar, those at Scurn Villa had said Iltar and his students were out around the island.
Makivan found that suspicious.
The road leveled, winding around a small patch of trees. Soon, a tunnel came into view. Perhaps that’s a place where I can rest, he thought.
After his previous failures at both places, Makivan had decided to do some research on the holdings of the Scurn and Aliteran families. He found that they owned many places across the Isle of Sarn. Makivan had covertly searched most of the properties and was down to the last three.
Sighing, he reached the tunnel. It had two lightstone sconces on either side of the opening, with crude chandeliers lining the entire tunnel. A bench was recessed within the right wall, wide enough to seat three. Makivan welcomed the reprieve as he rested on the stone bench. What is Iltar really up to?
When Makivan first received the grandmaster’s order he thought it odd. He knew the others on the council didn’t completely trust Master Iltar. After all, he wasn’t a member of the Ca’trusin. Makivan wondered if it had to do with his lineage, being the son of Adrin, the Hero of the West.
But now, after searching for Master Iltar, Makivan began to question the man’s integrity. What is he doing that he has to hide it? Makivan wondered. And using acolytes to cover his actions. That sickened him. At that moment he understood why the grandmaster didn’t care for Master Iltar.
The faint beating hoofs and squeaking wheels entered the tunnel. Makivan leaned forward, peeking around the tunnel’s opening. Was that a carriage? he wondered. Wasn’t the road too winding and dangerous to drive a carriage?
A single horse trotted past the patch of trees, drawing a covered carriage. Golden trim adorned the carriage’s exterior, and a dark-blue emblem was emblazoned on the door, the silhouette of a great cephalopod with wreathed vines and leaves wrapped round it.
Who could that be? he wondered. That symbol belonged to the Aliteran family. The coachman driving the carriage didn’t seem to notice Makivan. That gave him an idea.
He slipped back into the tunnel and climbed on the bench, whispering an incantation. White-blue magic wisped around Makivan, cloaking him in a veil of invisibility. Makivan waited quietly as the carriage entered the tunnel. It passed by, and he glimpsed the carriage’s interior. Well, isn’t this interesting, he mused, eyeing High Duke Finlar Aliteran. The man was reading from a ledger.
The carriage exited the tunnel and Makivan stepped down from the bench.
What is he doing all the way out here? Makivan wondered. According to the land records, this particular holding of the Aliteran–Scurn family used to be an old lookout station built seven hundred years ago. It had since been abandoned by the Principality of Soroth and replaced by a more suitable installation farther up the mountain.
Perhaps Iltar is here, Makivan thought. But why would Iltar be all the way out here? That made no sense. Regardless, whatever required the high duke’s presence was obviously important.
Makivan hurried out of the tunnel, invigorated by his curiosity. He caught sight of the carriage and kept a safe distance behind it, careful not to alert the horse or the coachman to his presence. His directness in the past had bred unfavorable results. It was time to use a more circumspect method, and hopefully it would reveal something worth telling.
The winding road climbed a little higher before forking. The left branch continued around the mountain. The right, however, led to a walled compound enclosing a building of brownish-yellow stone that rose six stories. Wooden gates opened as the carriage approached but closed before Makivan could get close.
> Blast, Makivan groaned. He would have to find another way inside the old lookout station.
Only a few guards were around. In fact, only one patrolled the ramparts. That gave Makivan an idea. He hurried around the walls, climbing the sloping ground behind the compound. A few trees had sprouted near the walls. He could probably climb them and jump onto the ramparts. This place obviously wasn’t in active use; otherwise all the trees would have been cleared.
Makivan was on the ramparts within a minute. He glimpsed the high duke entering the main building. Makivan wasn’t too far from it, and he could see into a few rooms. One of the windows was open, allowing a view into a bedchamber at the building’s southwest corner.
A man sat at a table, facing another window that looked to the west. He was playing a card game by himself. He looked bored. Several loud knocks carried from the open window, and the card player turned in his chair. “Come in,” he yelled.
High Duke Aliteran entered, glancing about the room. “What’s this, Coralis?!” the high duke shouted, angrily gesturing to the windows.
Coralis? Not Coralis Scurn? Hadn’t that man died?
“I needed some air, Finlar,” the man said frankly.
“You can’t keep these open. What if someone is watching?” Finlar demanded and stomped across the room to the western window. Makivan heard the window close, followed by the sound of drapes drawn violently.
“I feel like a prisoner, Finlar,” Coralis said, rising to his feet and straightening his shirt. He stood in a regal manner.
“I’m sorry, but this is what we agreed upon,” Finlar said, stepping to the window where Makivan was eavesdropping. “Hopefully, Master Iltar and my son will be finished soon.” High Duke Finlar closed the window and drew the drapes.
Those statements, cryptic though they were, sent Makivan’s mind spinning. Iltar was up to something. That was why he wasn’t around. But what was he—?
Footsteps grew louder as the guard patrolling the ramparts approached at a slow methodical pace. Unfortunately, the ramparts weren’t wide enough for both Makivan and the guard. He had to move.