A Prince's Errand

by Dan Zangari

“Where is Pagus?” Iltar demanded.

  “He is with Prince Jeridi, on his way to the throne room.”

  “We were too late,” Elsia cried, drawing a hand to her lips. “Iltar, please, we have to save him!”

  Iltar looked at her uneasily. Something didn’t feel right about this situation.

  “A boy shall suffer,” Reflection said, quoting one of Soron Thahan’s prophecies. “His anguish will unleash the Harbinger’s fury.”

  “A boy…?” Elsia muttered. She looked to Iltar with confusion, but her expression became enlightened. “Pagus!”

  “Apostates will not believe the Unspoken One’s advent,” Reflection continued. “They will fight against him, but he will prevail. None can stand against the Unspoken One and live, for Hemran’na upholds him. Go to the throne room, Iltar,” Reflection urged, “and reveal yourself.”

  Elsia’s expression turned ghastly. “That… that’s why you sought this research.” She backed away uneasily. “You’re the Unspoken One… Why-why didn’t you tell me?”

  Iltar just glanced to her. Elsia’s face twisted with disgusted abhorrence. She looked betrayed.

  “You need to hurry to the throne room if you wish to reunite with Pagus,” Reflection said, then vanished.

  “Come on!” Elsia shouted, dashing across the dungeon, her sword still drawn. “We have to hurry!”

  Obstinate woman. Iltar shook his head, and then darted after Elsia.

  In that moment, Iltar felt a total lack of control. Everything was pushing or pulling him to an inevitable confrontation with the Mindolarn Royalty. Of course, Iltar could flee like a coward with his rogulin crystal and escape the palace. But he couldn’t forsake Pagus. No matter how difficult a student, Iltar would not lose another apprentice.

  They dashed out of the dungeon and back the way they had come, with Iltar’s enthralled guards trailing behind them. If they were to storm the throne room and rescue Pagus, they were going to need an escort.

  * * * * *

  The music from the royal orchestra was serene, but the beautiful tones couldn’t calm Alanya’s nerves. The illusory transmutation of Iltar had whispered that Pagus was on his way to the ball, in the custody of Prince Jeridi.

  It would all fall apart. Soon, Iltar would storm the throne room to free his apprentice. The Royals would see that as verification of their assumptions. To them, he would be the Alathian. And Alanya would be doomed.

  She started when a hand touched her shoulder. She spun hastily, but breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing Lady Taeveya, the Duchess of Arido—a small duchy between Mindolarn and Ulvilo.

  “Oh, Alanya, everything looks so beautiful!” Taeveya said with excessive enthusiasm. “I hear you were in charge of most of the decorations?”

  Alanya nodded but didn’t engage the woman any further. Lady Taeveya had a tendency to give so much flattery that she was known throughout the empire’s aristocracy as a promiscuous sycophant.

  “Are you all right?” Taeveya asked, coming beside Alanya. “You don’t look well.”

  A gong rang from near the throne before Alanya could answer. Oh no… Alanya groaned inwardly. The gong signaled that the ball had officially begun. Raedina would speak, introducing all of their achievements at the Hilinard. After that, the emperor would give a short dedication and then the festivities would begin.

  After the ringing subsided, Chamberlain Caedaric climbed partway up the dais toward the throne. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Empire,” the chamberlain said with a booming voice, “it is my pleasure to present to you the achievements of our esteemed men and women of the Hilinard.”

  Applause erupted throughout the throne room. Alanya, however, didn’t join in. Why isn’t Raedina speaking? Alanya wondered, looking to the princess. Raedina sat beside the throne, her eyes fixed on the image of Iltar. Alanya could feel the hostility in her gaze.

  “You need to hurry, Iltar,” Alanya whispered to the illusory transmutation.

  The image of Iltar grinned. “Just watch for Pagus,” he whispered back. “We’re almost to the first floor.”

  “The elves had watched warily as dragons were hunted and the men of Aridia fought against each other. They knew war would sweep across Kalda. And so, they prepared. Their Gholirisulem Kalidrums—the minds who controlled the elven cities—created weapons that had been lost to time.”

  - From The Thousand Years War, Part I, page 53

  Iltar dashed toward the stairs leading to the palace’s main level, following his enthralled guards. Fortunately, they had encountered no resistance during their hasty flight. But if they had, Iltar would have subjugated those guards to his purpose.

  “How do you plan to bypass the sentries at the stairs?” the countess asked between breaths.

  The only answer Iltar gave her was the uttering of an incantation. Orange light gathered in his hands, forming a ball of life-draining magic. He held the spell in place as they climbed the northern stairwell.

  His enthralled minions bounded across the landing and up the stairs, drawing the attention of the guards stationed on the first floor. Those atop the stairs started upon seeing their comrades’ hasty advance.

  “What—”

  Iltar unleashed his spell. Orange light surged up the stairs in a flash. The life-draining wave became tentacles gripping each of the men—including those enthralled by Iltar.

  The soldiers struggled against the deadly magic, but couldn’t utter more than a gasp. Each was dead within seconds.

  “That was stupid…” Elsia complained, eyeing the dead soldiers.

  Iltar gave her a sidelong glance. The woman really didn’t comprehend the laws of magic. Why would he run into the throne room with enthralled men that could easily be turned on him with a dispel?

  “Go scout to the third floor,” Iltar whispered, casting his concealing magic on Elsia. “I need time to reanimate these,” he gestured to the lifeless guards.

  “Okay…” Elsia whispered, her light footfalls disappearing as she climbed the staircase.

  Iltar cast his concealing magic once again. Now invisible, Iltar uttered a necrotic spell he hadn’t used in ages. Dark-purple light flowed from his invisible hands and wisped into the corpses. The reanimating spell permeated every part of each guard—it had to, otherwise the spell’s effect would be less than perfect.

  “It’s clear,” Elsia whispered from the stairs. Her footsteps slowed, indicating a halt. “Oh my…” She gasped, as the first of the reanimated guards rose from the floor, standing as naturally as if the man were still alive. Soon, all six were upright and hefting their fanisars.

  “That’s… disturbing,” Elsia muttered.

  Iltar grunted. “Let’s go,” he said grimly.

  * * * * *

  “Her Imperial Highness, Princess Raedina Midivar, has asked me to present the following tevisrals,” Caedaric said, gesturing to the left side of the throne room.

  Men marched to the throne carrying a variety of tevisrals.

  “Each of these has military application,” the chamberlain said, gesturing to the men now gathered beneath the dais.

  Alanya watched with horror. Her eyes were drawn to an enormous sheathed sword held by two men. The blade was as long as a man was tall and had a slight curve to it. Its black scabbard was thick, adorned with red symbols that looked like the language from Dreamwalker. The sword’s handle was a vibrant red adorned with a golden guard. A black gem rested within the pommel glowing a black light.

  “… and this here is a miniaturized version of our current communication rods,” Caedaric said. The chamberlain lifted a small shaft that fit within his palm.

  Applause filled the throne room.

  “Where are you, Iltar…?” Alanya murmured nervously. She scanned the throne room, looking for any sign of the captive Pagus. But there was no sign of the boy.

  More tevisrals were introduced, but Alanya’s focus was elsewhere. Her fears were being realized. She would lose everything—including Iltar. For how could one man st
and against the might of Mindolarn?

  Caedaric ceased speaking and gestured to Emperor Marden. “His Imperial Majesty will present the last and final achievement of the Hilinard.” The chamberlain stepped aside.

  The men carrying the sword delivered it to the emperor. He took the massive weapon by the hilt with one hand while grabbing the scabbard with the other. And then the unthinkable happened.

  Crimson light burst from the symbols, and the scabbard liquefied, running up the emperor’s hand to his elbow. The liquid hardened, forming a gauntlet with glowing symbols identical to the scabbard.

  Now exposed, the sword’s black blade glistened, misting blackness. Its edge was a deep red.

  “Behold, citizens of Mindolarn,” the emperor bellowed, “Shal’mirak, the Deathcleaver. Its blade—forged by infusing the essence of the gods—harnesses the power of the Ko’delish. The weapon’s edge—imbued with ever-persistent annihilation particles—will disintegrate anything it touches. This magnificent weapon is the first of many blades that will be crafted for our brave soldiers.”

  Cheers and applause resounded.

  “Deathcleaver’s light weight makes it a formidable weapon, allowing grace and finesse in combat. And now to demonstrate Deathcleaver’s majesty.”

  Alanya was pushed forward, but grabbed from behind. No! she gasped as her hands were pulled tight behind her back. Green light flashed before her eyes and then her mouth was bound.

  Another flash of green passed beside Alanya.

  A glistening cord appeared around the mouth of Iltar’s illusory transmutation. An invisible force tightened around the transmutation’s head, making it impossible for him to speak.

  Elsewhere in the throne room, Iltar’s other illusions were bound.

  Gasps resounded throughout the chamber as Alanya and the others were dragged to the dais.

  “Citizens of Mindolarn,” the emperor declared, “today I deliver to you the murderer of my beloved brothers. The notorious grand mage of the Alathian cult, the accursed son of Adrin, the so-called Liberator of Klis.”

  Alanya and the illusions were forced to their knees. Men behind them cast spells. Something reached up behind Alanya, grabbing her ankles and pulling her arms back, forcing her chest to arc. The others were also bound, shackled to the floor with some kind of transmutation.

  “Today, justice prevails!” the emperor shouted.

  Raedina rose from her chair, her eyes fixed on Alanya. The princess strode down the dais, her face contorted with suppressed fury. “Give her to me,” Raedina commanded. “I want her to watch.”

  The transmutative shackles broke, and Alanya was pulled from the ground. Raedina took the cord binding Alanya and dragged her up the dais. Many of the guests gasped, and Alanya heard her named muttered among the crowd. Before reaching the top of the dais, Raedina spun Alanya to face the attendees. The princess forced Alanya to the step. Alanya fell, struggling to stay upright. Everyone looked at her with disbelief. Many were appalled. Some were disgusted.

  Those gazes pierced her heart like a thousand daggers. Tears filled Alanya’s eyes. Her only escape was to gaze out the throne room’s towering windows. A burst of brilliant light caught her eye across the horizon—like lightning. But there were no clouds in the night sky.

  “Today you die, son of Adrin!” Emperor Marden shouted. He twirled Deathcleaver, so the blade pointed toward Iltar’s illusion. The emperor reared back and hurled it like a javelin.

  Deathcleaver struck the image of Iltar through the chest, tearing through flesh and fabric. The blade struck the floor behind the illusion, lodging so deep that the sword’s guard was shoved into the illusions chest.

  Iltar’s image gasped and its eyes bulged. But there was no outcry.

  “That was too easy,” Laedar said skeptically, leaning forward from his chair.

  Though Alanya knew it was not Iltar, she couldn’t help but feel excruciating anguish. Seeing that monstrous blade piercing the image of her lover was too much to bear.

  Despite the gag, Alanya screamed.

  * * * * *

  That horrific wail debilitated Iltar. He staggered, feeling weak.

  No, he groaned. Not now! The smell of smoke filled his nostrils.

  Eruptions of magic rang in his ears. And the world became a blur. No longer was he in the palace at Mindolarn. Tree branches swayed against strong erratic gusts. Explosions were crisp, booming through the forest.

  Why… Iltar wondered. “Why am I here?” Alanya’s scream must have triggered one of his fits. But this was beyond what he typically experienced… Iltar felt the wind against his face, and the smells of the forest—and the battle—struck him.

  It all felt so real… Was he in Vabenack? No, the sky was blue. A pained cry echoed through the forest and smoke rose nearby.

  “This isn’t real,” Iltar growled. “I’m in the palace at Mindolarn, not in the forests of Soroth.”

  More eruptions filled the air, and strong gusts blew the trees. It was as if they challenged his statements. A sudden surge of anger welled within Iltar. At what, he did not know. But that rage compelled him forward. Iltar dashed through the trees, coming to the battle-riddled yard of his family’s woodland estate. Men in black robes stood to the north, hurling deadly orbs of magic past the homestead. Armored men—who he recognized as Crimson Praetorians—charged with fanisars drawn, mustering their own magic.

  They were all focused at the center of the yard behind the homestead. Iltar hurried around his family’s home, finding the guesthouse aflame. Beyond the burning rubble, a lone man encased in barsion danced acrobatically, hurling a rainbow array of orbs against his foes. It was Iltar’s father. Adrin, the Hero of the West.

  “Iltar, no!” his mother screamed.

  Gwenyth lay on the ground between Iltar and the burning guesthouse. Her brown hair was matted with blood. Ash covered her face. Her clothes were ragged. His mother looked directly at him. “Go, Iltar!” she screamed frantically. “Run!”

  Years ago, Iltar had obeyed—to a point. He hid in the trees, watching the battle.

  “No…”

  Arcane bolts whizzed past Iltar, striking his mother. She wailed horrifically. A Praetorian charged at Iltar, knocking him to the ground. Iltar recovered, rolling sideways and coming back onto his feet. The repulsion felt so real… The Praetorian ignored Iltar and ran straight for Gwenyth, stabbing her in the back with his fanisar. Iltar watched his mother die for the second time in his life.

  A second surge of fury swelled within him.

  The murderous Praetorian ripped his fanisar from Gwenyth’s back. Gwenyth’s corpse turned and her lifeless eyes gazed skyward. The Praetorian ran off, joining the tumultuous battle.

  The guesthouse collapsed, but the flames continued to burn. Fiery magic shot from the yard, striking the trees. Leaves ignited, and smoke veiled the northern skies. The remaining Praetorians and mages were flushed from the trees, all focused on their lone foe. Amid their advance, Iltar noticed a hulking figure standing within the burning woodland.

  The stranger wore black armor beneath dark robes, his head hidden beneath a cowl and his face covered with a mask. His gauntleted hands crossed his chest. The figure exuded arrogance.

  Had there been a man like that all those years ago? Iltar couldn’t remember. And then, black mist appeared beside the hulking figure. Two others emerged from those mists, assuming the same arrogant demeanor as the first. One wore formfitting plate armor the likes of which Iltar had never seen. The other wore a black robe, his head covered with a blackened helmet.

  Together the three of them gazed across the yard, standing within the flames. Eruptions grew louder, and strong gusts blew through the air. Iltar’s fury swelled upon seeing the battle. Though hundreds of men and women littered the ground, Adrin struggled to hold his own. He had slain more than any one man should. It was no wonder he was a legend.

  Dozens of Adrin’s disintegrating orbs volleyed through the air, striking the advancing mages and Crimson Pr
aetorians. Adrin’s magic tore through their armor, evaporating their flesh. Wails resounded as a dozen mages and Praetorians collapsed before reaching the fray.

  Adrin leapt unnaturally into the air, glowing a vibrant violet. He hovered for a moment, then a beam of disintegrating magic shot to his foes beneath him. The attackers scattered, but some could not escape. The disintegrating blast eliminated six men while maiming a dozen others. Adrin landed among the decimation, casting another spell. A plethora of orbs gathered about him, arrayed in a myriad colors.

  Black blades sung through the air, thrown like javelins. They hit Adrin’s barsion, shattering it. All but one blade erupted, exploding with a shower of blackness that rained destruction upon friend and foe alike. The lone blade, however, pierced Adrin above the elbow. That blow maimed him. Fighting through apparent anguish, Adrin finished his spell.

  A rain of orbs—composed of arcane, acidic, flaming, icy, and disintegrating magics—struck the regrouping army. Dozens more fell to his spell, but more soldiers and mages advanced. Iltar started upon recognizing many of his father’s assailants.

  Prince Kaescis Midivar charged at Adrin, wielding a blade composed of pure blackness, about the size of a long-sword. Prince Laedar was right beside Kaescis, wielding an identical blade. The five brothers of Mindolarn—Medis, Mendal, Magdolin, Monddar, and Marden—each advanced in their own unique way, wielding a variety of tevisral-type weapons. Among the mages was Prince Negaris, casting his own necrotic spells to reanimate his fallen comrades. That woman—Laeyit—was also among the Royal ranks, charging beside a burly Praetorian.

  They all converged on Adrin.

  Iltar’s father held his own, keeping some at bay. Adrin deflected weapons and dodged blows, but struggled to resume his barsion.

  Kaescis lunged, stabbing Adrin through the stomach. The prince yelled a cry of vengeance. That caused a fourth surge of fury within Iltar.

  Adrin brought the brunt of his orbs upon the prince, stalling his advance. Wounded, Iltar’s father leapt backward unnaturally. Adrin staggered as he landed, violet magic surging around him. And then, Adrin exploded with energy. A violet burst washed from him, streaming off his body. Amid that disintegrating aura, Adrin glowed a brilliant green hue—undoubtedly the result of some arpran spell.