A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

  As they stepped out onto the ramp, chatter from above them reached their ears.

  Cornar stopped, looking to the broken ceiling. Soon, Nordal’s head poked through.

  “Fancy seeing you there,” Nordal quipped with a grin. He examined the ruined hallway and then grunted, but turned wide-eyed when he saw the barsion ramp.

  “Come join us,” Cornar said, stepping out of the way.

  Nordal nodded, then shouted back to Midar and Tinal. Soon, all three of them were climbing through the broken ceiling and landing upon Vargos’s barsion.

  Together, all three groups marched across the barsion. The moonlight from Kistern and Kaelyrn lit the night sky. Partway across the barsion ramp, Cornar glanced to the ocean now seven stories beneath them. He felt a sudden jolt of dizziness and stopped abruptly, steadying himself.

  Nordal reached out instinctively and grabbed his mentor. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Cornar nodded, sucking in a deep breath. Focusing ahead, Cornar continued across the barsion ramp.

  The others reached the edge of the magic and turned, gasping with surprise and wonder. The younger men, Tinal and Kamdir, gawked with slack jaws. Vargos shook his head in disbelief and Igan’s eyes widened.

  What’s their— Cornar turned and flinched in astonishment.

  A gigantic crater marred the mountainside. Unlike most craters, however, this one was sideways. The hallway they were searching was near the base of the crater. Dozens of floors were exposed all throughout the mountainside, looking like a cut-away diagram.

  Tinal gasped. “By all that’s magical…”

  “Wha-what could have done that?” Kamdir asked.

  Cornar turned, looking across the horizon. His eyes searched the ever-calm façade veiling the island from that treacherous storm. How could anything breech the magic protecting Dalgilur? Surely, a meteorite couldn’t penetrate that invisible barrier—let alone make it through the storm.

  The others debated the crater’s nature as Cornar spun, drawn irresistibly to the center of that impossibility.

  There, you must go there, that booming voice from his dreams whispered, as if dancing on the faint ocean breeze.

  “Did any of you hear that?” Cornar asked, interrupting the debate.

  “Hear what, Cor?” Gregan asked.

  “A voice on the wind…” Cornar said, trailing off. The warriors gave each other unsettled glances.

  “What did it say?” Igan asked.

  “That I must go to the center of the crater.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Nordal asked, walking back across the barsion. Gregan and Haetan hurried behind Nordal. The three of them were almost running back to the ruined hallway.

  Midar brushed past Cornar, glancing to his mentor with a look that asked, “We’re going, right?” The mages came beside Cornar a moment later.

  “What time is it?” Igan asked.

  Cornar looked to his timepiece tevisral. “We should go back to camp,” he suggested. “We can find the impact point in the morning.”

  “Are you going to report this to Prince Kaescis?” Tinal asked.

  Vargos snorted, shaking his head.

  “Not yet,” Cornar said, turning back to the center of the crater. “Perhaps that will be our alluring discovery.”

  “Cheserith’s true intention with the Chosen was to create an army of powerful beings that could match the strength, speed, and intellect of his draconic brethren. The minds of the Chosen were not inhibited and could use the draconic Words of Power to manifest the various Channels. And so, the Chosen could manifest the Channels faster than any man or elf, and rivaled the dragons in unimaginable ways.”

  - From The Thousand Years War, Part I, page 36

  Alacor watched the duel between his and his brother’s apprentices. The apprentices were but two participants in a dueling tournament the Necrotic Order hosted semiannually. It was held at the Necrotic Order in an old dueling arena sunken into the ground. Rows of benches surrounded the ring, sparsely filled with onlookers. Years ago those seats would have been full.

  Only a few mages from Soroth had come to the tournament to pit their apprentices against each other. There were twenty contestants, all in all. Each of the council members had their apprentices present—except Iltar.

  Iltar… The thought of Iltar made Alacor’s blood boil.

  Ten days ago, Makivan had returned from Sarn with news about Iltar—the necromancer’s tale of the Scurn inheritance was a fraud. Count Coralis Scurn was still alive, as was his wife, Elsia. Iltar had used the ruse of their death as means to leave Soroth in the pursuit of research in Mindolarn. What type of research, the count didn’t know.

  Master Rovin should never have trained him, Alacor thought. Rovin’s decision to teach Iltar all those years ago baffled Alacor. Iltar had always proven to be a nuisance. If Master Rovin had planned some grand scheme, it went awry years ago.

  Alacor’s attention was abruptly drawn back to the duel. Kreely flew backward, propelled by a blast of acid from Tindil. The fool fell awkwardly and stumbled to his feet.

  What an idiot, Alacor sighed.

  Kreely dashed sideways, casting an acidic javelin, but Tindil was already mustering several acidic orbs. Before Kreely could finish, Tindil hurled his orbs at Kreely’s barsion, causing it to shatter. The barrier’s sundering interrupted Kreely, and his javelin didn’t form

  “Are you jealous yet, brother?” Jalel asked haughtily

  Alacor grumbled, watching as Tindil cast another spell, summoning ensnaring tentacles. Kreely tried to muster his acidic barsion barrier once again, but Tindil’s spell had already manifested. Green tentacles zipped through the air, wrapping around Kreely’s neck, arms, and legs. Struggling, Kreely continued casting his spell, but a fourth tentacle forced its way into Kreely’s mouth, abruptly stopping his incantation.

  A moment passed before an old mage stepped onto the dueling ring, announcing Tindil as the winner.

  “Stupendous!” Jalel cheered, clapping for his apprentice. A few other onlookers applauded Tindil’s victory; their acclaim was more polite than enthusiastic.

  Alacor gave his brother a hard look. Though he wasn’t on the dueling field, Alacor couldn’t help but feel a sense of defeat. He hated feeling beaten. It was a loathsome experience.

  “Perhaps next year, brother,” Jalel said, taking his seat beside Alacor. Not amused, Alacor shook his head and grunted.

  The next two contestants entered the ring—Melnor’s apprentice, Odinal, and a young wizard named Danaeya. She was apprentice to an elementalist named Baekal, one of the few mages who taught in small groups outside the Order. Such tutelages were permitted, but students like Danaeya could never be officially acknowledged as full-fledged mages unless trained in the art of necromancy at the Necrotic Order.

  Many mages had taken the opportunity, becoming what some called “Dualist Mages.”

  The match began, and both Danaeya and Odinal mustered barsion barriers. Odinal’s barsion dripped acid while Danaeya’s erupted into flame.

  “Grandmaster Alacor!” Alacor turned. One of the Order’s guards hurried down the steps. “Grandmaster,” the guard said, “you have an urgent visitor from the Mindolarnian Embassy.”

  The Mindolarnian Embassy? Alacor raised an eyebrow. He glanced back to the match. Odinal was opening a conjuration portal, and Danaeya was casting some kind of spell—it sounded like she was trying to make a flaming blade.

  “Grandmaster?”

  Alacor turned to face the guard. “I can meet with them later,” he said, waving off the guard.

  The guard, however, didn’t move. “They insist that you come, at once,” he said shakily.

  “What’s the matter?” Jalel leaned toward Alacor, his eyes still on the match.

  “Someone from the Mindolarnian Embassy wants to meet with me,” Alacor replied.

  Jalel’s eyebrows rose in interest. “Do you suppose it has to do with that bastard, Iltar?”

  Al
acor didn’t answer. Instead, he continued watching the match. Danaeya finished her spell. Flame burst from her hands, becoming a claymore-sized shaft of fire. She lunged toward Odinal as he finished summoning his conjuration—a cestolin.

  Cestolins were large red reptilians that were as long as a man was tall. An ivory exoskeleton lined their backs and limbs, coming to razor-sharp points along their joints. Their heads were mostly covered in a thick skull-plate, adorned with sharp points.

  Danaeya and the cestolin clashed, but the conjuration tackled her to the ground. Alacor could see the pain in the cestolin’s eyes as the creature tried ripping through Danaeya’s flaming barsion.

  “Grandmaster,” the guard spoke again, “I must insist. They… they were quite persistent that I fetch you.” Alacor pursed his lips, not amused.

  Danaeya broke free, swinging her flaming blade at the cestolin. The beast’s skull-plate ignited, but the creature was ultimately undaunted.

  “Fine.” Alacor sighed and rose from his seat. He followed the guard up the steps of the arena and was surprised to find his brother trailing behind him.

  “What are you doing?” Alacor asked, his manner brusque.

  “Satisfying my curiosity.”

  Alacor jerked his head back toward the arena. “You’ll miss Tindil’s next match.”

  “Were you not paying attention?” Jalel asked, chuckling. “He was in the first match of this rung.” Alacor turned back, disgruntled, and they followed the guard in silence.

  A dozen men—ten wearing ceremonial Mindolarn plate—stood in the foyer of the Order’s Main Hall. The other two men, neither of whom Alacor recognized, stood at the head of the armored men, wearing formal attire. These two were undoubtedly Mindolarnian officials.

  “Greetings, Grandmaster Alacor,” the man on the left said. “I am Ambassador Dumar. Please forgive our intrusion, but we come on urgent business from the Royal Family. May we speak somewhere private?”

  Alacor glanced to his brother, and Jalel returned the gesture with wide eyes.

  “Why, yes,” Alacor answered. He eyed a trunk behind the ambassador. “We can go to my office.”

  “Alone, please,” the ambassador insisted.

  “He is my brother,” Alacor gestured to Jalel. “And a fellow Devout.”

  Ambassador Dumar eyed Jalel for a moment, then nodded. “Lead the way.”

  Only the officials entered Alacor’s chambers. The soldiers remained outside after delivering the trunk. The ambassador and the other man stood, while Alacor sat in his throne-like chair. Jalel, however, took a seat on the far couch.

  “We appreciate your discretion,” Dumar said, then gestured for the other man to open the trunk. “I received an urgent message last night from Prince Negaris, requesting to speak with you directly.”

  Alacor leaned back in his chair, watching the other official open the trunk.

  “Have you ever heard of or seen one of these?” Dumar said, gesturing to the trunk.

  The other Mindolarnian official lifted a communication tevisral from the trunk, identical to the one Alacor had used to converse with Jahevial.

  Alacor looked nervously at the tevisral, then glanced beside his desk. His own communication rod was safely tucked away. It was a good thing too. Its presence would only arouse suspicion against him. After all, Alacor had stolen the pair—his and Jahevial’s—amid the confusion at the Feast of Sorrows.

  “I have,” Alacor answered stiffly. “One can speak across the world with one of those.”

  “Yes, precisely,” Dumar said, grabbing the tevisral. He tapped on the bottom gem and proceeded to activate the device. “Your Imperial Grace,” Dumar said, “we are here with Grandmaster Alacor.”

  A moment of silence passed, and then the gem on the tevisral glowed a dark orange, indicating a message had been received. Dumar activated the tevisral and held the gemless end to Alacor.

  “Grandmaster Alacor, I thank you for meeting me like this,” Prince Negaris’s voice spoke from the tevisral. “I regret not coming in person, but this is a delicate matter that must be addressed immediately.”

  The tevisral’s gem stopped flashing, and Dumar proceeded to activate the tevisral for transmitting, then extended the same end to Alacor.

  “Of course, Your Imperial Grace. How may I be of help?”

  Dumar sent the message, then the prince sent a reply.

  “My brothers and I wish to verify the identity of someone who has come to the seat of the empire, a man named Iltar. He claims to be a necromancer from your Order, and a member of its council. He is here with a woman named Elsia Scurn, as well as several acolytes.”

  Alacor feigned perplexity. This could be advantageous, he thought and continued listening.

  “Normally we wouldn’t bother with such a matter, but my dear cousin, Princess Raedina, believes him to be the murderer of our late emperor. She was the only eyewitness to the assassination—besides my brother Kaescis—and insists this Iltar looks exactly like the murderer.”

  Alacor recalled the meeting with Krindal three months ago, noting that Kaescis’s eyes had lingered on Iltar. The prince had sternly studied him. So, they think Iltar is one of the Alathians who attacked during the feast, Alacor mused. The princes must be planning a move against Iltar; why else would they contact me?

  “… Iltar has weaseled his way into the confidence of a renowned duchess here in Mindolarn,” Prince Negaris continued. “My dear cousin has encountered him several times and fears he might be here to launch an attack similar to the one we suffered during the Feast of Sorrows.”

  The message ended.

  “Prince Negaris,” Alacor spoke into the tevisral, “I can confirm that Master Iltar is indeed a member of the Necrotic Order and one of its council members. But, he is currently on the Isle of Sarn. The woman you mentioned, Countess Elsia Scurn, passed away two months ago. Iltar’s apprentice, Pagus Aliteran, is her nephew and inherited her lands. Master Iltar is currently on Sarn to continue the boy’s training. His acolytes accompanied him as well and they are all staying at Elsia’s—rather Pagus’s mountain villa.”

  Ambassador Dumar sent the message and silence lingered in the office.

  Jalel looked at Alacor with disbelief. Alacor, however, shot his brother a fierce glance that said, “Don’t give me away.”

  After a few minutes Prince Negaris sent a reply. “You can verify unequivocally that Iltar is on Sarn?” Prince Negaris asked.

  “I visited him last week,” Alacor said. “And have every week since Iltar departed for Sarn two months ago.” Silence once again fell upon the room. The Mindolarnian officials were somber.

  Alacor eyed each of them, feigning confusion. This is perfect, he thought, fighting back a smile. Alacor glanced to his brother, who sat with his hands braced against his forehead, looking as if he were praying.

  Soon, the communication tevisral’s gem lit, indicating another message.

  “We appreciate your cooperation, Grandmaster Alacor,” Prince Negaris said. “The empire owes you a great debt for your help.”

  “It is my pleasure,” Alacor spoke into the tevisral. “Good luck in this endeavor.”

  There was no reply.

  “Thank you for complying with our summons,” Dumar bowed, handing the tevisral back to the other man. “Good day, grandmaster.” The ambassador hurried out of the office, and two soldiers fetched the trunk concealing the communication tevisral.

  Once they were gone, Jalel locked the door. “Are you mad, brother?!” he demanded, almost growling. “If they find out that you lied to them they—”

  “Shut up, Jalel,” Alacor scolded. “There is no way they can uncover the truth.”

  Jalel began pacing the room, as he only did when overly worried.

  “The Scurns’ deaths have been documented,” Alacor said. “Pagus did us a favor in that regard.” Jalel continued pacing, giving Alacor an exasperated glance. “If the Mindolarnians go to Sarn, they will see that both Coralis and Elsia are dead,” A
lacor added.

  “And what if they go to the mountain villa?” Jalel demanded.

  Alacor smiled reassuringly. “Then they will be met with the same dilemma that confronted Makivan,” he said. Even if the Mindolarnians followed Makivan’s course of investigation, they would never discover the truth. Makivan had seen to that. Even if Pagus’s father—or anyone from the Aliteran or Scurn houses—admitted the truth, there was no evidence to confirm it. The linchpin to their ruse—Count Coralis Scurn—had been dealt with. No one would find the count. At least, not on Sarn.

  Jalel sighed. He didn’t look convinced. “You know what this implies, don’t you?”

  Excitement beamed across Alacor’s face. “We will finally be rid of Iltar.”

  “But at the expense of how many lives?” Jalel asked. “How many Devouts will Iltar slay before he is killed?”

  “You overestimate Iltar’s abilities,” Alacor sighed, rising from his chair. “But sacrifices are necessary, brother. The world will be better off without Iltar. Now, let’s get back to the tournament. Hopefully, we haven’t missed your apprentice’s next match.”

  * * * * *

  Raedina nervously tapped her chin while pacing within her office. Malvonican had come to her earlier in the day, informing her that Negaris had spoken with Grandmaster Alacor. The grandmaster verified Iltar’s existence, but claimed the man was on Sarn.

  That did not bode well.

  Ambassador Dumar was going to Sarn immediately to verify the grandmaster’s claims. A predicament such as this couldn’t hinge on the word of just one man, no matter how trustworthy.

  This Iltar has to be that grand mage, Raedina thought. Oh, I wish Kaescis were here… She had tried contacting Kaescis, but the prince had left his communication rod on Klindala with Grand Marshal Galiur. That irritated her.

  The next few hours were torturous. Raedina couldn’t concentrate on anything. She had given all her projects over to Dalkalin. He was capable enough and far enough removed from the situation at hand as to not be bogged down emotionally.