“No, no, no…” an acolyte responds, his gaze darting between Cornar and Iltar.
“They’ll torture us,” the other acolyte timidly interjects, “I’d rather die.”
“So be it,” Cornar dashes forward, swiftly closing the gap between him and the acolytes. He grates his serrated dagger into the ribcage of the acolyte on his left and severs the arm off of the other on his right. The warrior quickly spins around, bringing the weapons back toward his chest. He rapidly extends his arms as he raises his weapons to shoulder height, grating and slicing his tools of death through the necks of both students of the dark arts.
With nearly all their foes vanquished, Cornar walks back toward the six bound members of the council. He looks at each of them, still calm in the wake of the horrible battle.
As Cornar reaches the one closest to him he kneels down and says, “Let me free you, Grandmaster Alacor.” The warrior then unties the knots in both the elven cords and scarf.
“Thank you, Cornar,” Alacor responds as the scarf falls from his mouth. He is a tall and lanky man with dark skin. His white hair has flecks of gray throughout and his hazel-blue eyes sternly gaze at the warrior.
“My pleasure,” Cornar unenthusiastically answers and frees the next nearest member of the council.
Iltar relinquishes his protective barrier, causing the sphere around him to dissipate and finally break down into the mist it once was. The black cloud then seeps back into Iltar’s skin. With the magic relinquished, Iltar steps toward Cornar and the other members of the council.
“What of the others?” Iltar demands in disgust as he reaches the other council members, “Are these all the rebels?”
“No, there were more,” Alacor responds. “They went to detain the remaining guards. About ten, maybe more if I recall correctly.”
Pointing at the two writhing acolytes and the mercenaries by the doors the grandmaster asks Iltar, “And what do you have in mind for them?”
“I’ll show you,” Iltar retorts as he abruptly turns towards the door.
The enraged necromancer stretches out his hands and utters a quick incantation; a blue magical charge builds up between his palms within several seconds. Immediately thereafter, a burst of lightning instantly surges through the last two of the mercenaries, their clothing and armor bursting into flame.
Fire then leaps from the mercenaries and onto the rebel mages’ garments. Both mages roll on the floor, partially out of overwhelming fear and to put out the flames.
Several of the council members chuckle at the sight and Iltar steps near Cornar.
“When they stop rolling around Cor, kill them,” Iltar whispers to his friend. Turning back around, the necromancer addresses the council members, “We need to find the others and put a stop to this nonsense. Where did they go?”
“To the guard’s chambers on the lower floors,” the leader of the council responds, then shakes his head slowly. “You had the power of surprise over these, but they will hear us coming as we descend to the barracks. And they will give us a warm reception. I’m sure you’re almost exhausted from this battle.”
Giving Alacor a condescending glance, Iltar coldly states, “There’s only one way in or out of the basement.”
“Yes, you’re right… I see,” Alacor rubs his clean shaven chin. He glances warily at Cornar, who grunts and moves to the wounded acolytes as they finish putting out the flames. The warrior stabs each through the heart. As Cornar pulls his dagger and sword from their chests their screams which had previously filled the air die out.
“Well then, you need not attack them,” Iltar replies sarcastically. “You can just seal them in and wait for them to get hungry. They are young and undisciplined. They won’t last for long in a sealed windowless dungeon,” Iltar’s lips curl in a cruel smile.
With that said, the newly freed members of the council exit the decimated chambers through the passageway their rescuers entered, with Alacor pompously leading his six brethren and Cornar. From there they descend to the main level of the edifice. They pass through the large foyer, which to their surprise has remained spotless from battle.
The six necromancers and lone warrior move eastward, through a hall just off the grand foyer. At the end of the hall, they turn a corner and come to the doorway which leads to the guard’s barracks.
Upon reaching the entrance to the guard’s section of the lower levels, Alacor recites the words to muster forth a transmutive magic; beige-gray particles wisps from his hands and seeps into the doorway, binding the hinges, frame and door into one solid mass. The magical transformation gives off a soft hum as the components fuse into solid stone.
“Now if we had any surviving guards we could set them at the door,” Iltar says during the mystical incantation.
“We will need to hire fresh blood,” Melnor, one of the council members interjects as Alacor finishes the incantation, sealing the rebel acolytes within the guard’s barracks.
“If you don’t mind,” Cornar speaks up, “I can set several of my men here until you recruit replacements.”
“That will do,” Alacor turns to the lone warrior, “Thank you again Cornar. My predecessor always spoke highly of your prowess in combat, and now I know why.”
With that said, Alacor bows to the warrior who had risked his life to save them just moments earlier.
“It is my pleasure, and obligation. I wouldn’t have been so successful in all my endeavors if it wasn’t for this Order and its members,” Cornar responds while glancing to Iltar then continues in a formal tone. “I should have two of my men here within half an hour.”
“Excellent, instruct them to inform me when our foolish children break,” Alacor says the last with a twist of anger. “I will be here within our grand hall until they do.”
Alacor presses his way through his brethren, and back towards the main foyer. The others who had been bound follow him, each taking their time and allowing each other to walk alone whithersoever they willed.
Once the six other council members have left the corridor, Iltar and Cornar quietly converse at the sealed doorway.
“Part of me wants to burst down there and kill them!” Iltar snarls while looking at the door. “Just to spite Alacor and show my prowess.”
“I’m sure you could,” Cornar smiles at his lifelong friend. He reaches out his arm and wraps it around Iltar’s shoulders. “You’re not feeble like those old fools.”
In response, Iltar chuckles and glances to Cornar with a diabolical grin then says, “We’ll let them stew in their fear then.”
With that said, the two companions follow the others into the grand foyer. Cornar notices that the doors to the courtyard are still opened, along with a crowd that has grown since they entered.
“I’m going to leave,” Cornar says and walks toward the building’s entrance.
“As am I,” Iltar grumbles and quickly comes to Cornar’s side. “There’s nothing here for me, and I want to sleep.”
With no other exchange, the deadly duo steps out the main doors into the courtyard where the late morning sun hangs almost midway through the clear sky. Its beams are enough to cause the two heroes of the day to squint as they step down the stairs and across the courtyard.
Gasps and cheers erupt from the crowd outside the gates once they see Iltar and Cornar emerge from the main building of the guild.
The necromancer shakes his head in response and the two companions continue down the path toward the entry of the Necrotic Order’s establishment.
“You know, this was fun. I wouldn’t mind doing this more often,” Cornar says with a smile, looking at Iltar then back to the crowd. He waves at them, signifying that everything is fine. “It’s almost like old times.”
With a smile provoked by other thoughts Iltar responds, “Perhaps I can arrange that for you my friend.” Iltar chuckles as Cornar continues to woo the crowd.
After a moment near the gates, the deadly duo turns to their right and walks down the narrow path to the stab
les. Both men are deep in thought: Cornar thinking of the events that has just transpired and of the actions needed to help the necromancers of Soroth recover. However, Iltar was drawn elsewhere.
The duo walks in silence, untying their horses solemnly and riding to the gate in like manner.
As they approach the gate, the men and women outside the walls of the Necrotic Order move aside.
Without any further acknowledgement to the crowd, both men canter their steeds toward the west.
Before they approach the intersecting roadway which lines the order’s complex, Cornar turns to his friend, “I probably will not be here for the rest of the day, nor the next several days. My wife will undoubtedly want to hide away from this mess in the country side.”
“Very well, I will most likely call on you soon,” Iltar says flatly as he continues to look ahead.
With that said, Cornar turns down the road to their left, leaving Iltar alone on the road which will eventually lead to the highway through the Soroth woods.
As he moves toward the northern gates of the city, the necromancer’s mind reflects on the events of the previous night and the sudden wakening of the morning. Cornar’s observations of the map continued to ring in his ear.
“Draco Isola… I’ve never seen this island before.”
Neither had Iltar, and the mysteries of the elven text continue to haunt the necromancer’s mind. “What secrets are on this Dragon’s Isle? And what of Merda? Could it be so simple that all the parts of the amulet were in both of those places?”
3
Opportunity
“What’s that sound?” one of the more senior acolytes queries in response to a faint humming noise; he glances at each of his fellow acolytes, who have shocked expressions across their faces.
“I don’t know, Agen,” another responds to the first.
“You two,” Agen points at two of the younger acolytes, really boys of teenage years, “Go check what is happening.”
In response, the aforementioned acolytes run out of the barracks, listening for the sound. They enter the anteroom of the guard’s chambers, passing the empty desk which once held an officer. Both apprentices race up the stairwell to the small landing where just beyond is the doorway to the main floor.
The first boy who reaches the door grasps the silver knob. To his surprise the mechanism has become solid. He turns to his companion with paled skin.
“What, is it locked?” the other asks.
Silently shaking his head, the first boy backs away from the door. He stares off into the distance with flashes of their doom across his eyes.
Pushing the first aside, the second boy grasps the handle and attempts to jar it loose. With his physical efforts thwarted, he turns to his magic. He rubs his smooth childlike chin and queries aloud, “How did that unlock spell go…?”
After several seconds he casts a spell upon the handle. The unlocking magic has no effect on the intricately sealed door. Trying his luck, the young man who had cast the spell attempts to fiddle with the door, but is stopped by its solid nature.
Sighing and shaking his head, the second boy grabs the first, who is still in shock. They descend back to the other acolytes who have bound the guards with magical cords, summoned from their own magic.
“The door to the main floor is sealed shut!” the calmer of the two boys shouts as they enter the room with the others.
“What?!” Agen demands, placing his hands on either side of his head.
“Could the council have escaped and sealed us in here?” one of the other acolytes asks.
“We had them bound with elven cords,” Agen gasps still clutching his head. “Every chronicle and story I’ve ever read says they are impossible to break free from. Someone must have come from outside. I knew we should have blocked the main doors!”
“Did you try to unlock the door?” another of the acolytes asks
“Yes, but the spell didn’t work,” the one who had attempted the feat replies.
“Maybe we should surrender…” the boy frightened by the solidness of the door speaks up from his shock.
“Yea, I think we should,” another stammers.
“You fools!” Agen snaps at them. “Haven’t you learned anything? Surely the council will torture and kill us if we try to surrender! You three,” pointing to the oldest of the lot, “Come with me, perhaps the four of us can break the door.”
With that said, the four acolytes go up to the sealed door and try their hand at removing the spell, with no avail.
Agen drives them to keep at it, persisting that the four of them, with all their intellect, can open the door. After all they were some of the few who had secretly found manuscripts of spells deep within the archives while their masters had been away. Learning that which was forbidden to them by those who instructed them in the dark arts. With their combined power Agen truly believes they could break the door open.
After several days the imprisoned rebels decide upon a plan. The days following their rebellion had left them in the concealed parts of the Necrotic Order’s hall with little food and no understanding of time. In their final hour one of the older apprentices addresses the others.
“Look, none of us want to go through the tortures of the council. We know they will put us through excruciating pain. We also know we’re going to die. I say we should commit suicide. We’re going to die anyway,” he looks around at the others who have come to terms with the reality before them.
“He’s right,” Agen responds, “And this way we can make sure we die with the least amount of suffering.”
“How…?” a young acolyte utters with trepidation.
Without a word, the older acolytes glance at their cohorts around the room.
As they do so, Agen spots several of the guards’ weapons on the far side of the underground chamber.
“We could kill each other with magic, or use some of the weapons, stabbing ourselves in the heart,” Agen replies to the bleak question.
“Weapons, I’ll take the weapons!” several of the boys cry out.
“If there are no objections…” Agen looks around at the other nine acolytes. Fear fills the eyes of the younger ones as the thoughts of death fill their minds. “Then it’s decided,” Agen continues and motions for the weapons.
One of the elder acolytes rises from the floor and retrieves several daggers and short swords from the weapon rack near the back of the wall.
Meanwhile, the bound guards in the other room next to the one where the acolytes gathered listen closely to the events transpiring.
With the weapons dispersed, the young man who retrieved the tools of their demise goes first, stabbing a dagger into his heart. He lets out a slight groan and falls to the floor. After several moments, one of the other older acolytes takes the dagger from his chest and passes it to the youngest of the group.
The boy reaches out to the dagger and trembles as he grasps it. Blood spatters from the drenched weapon as the young adolescent attempts to hold it firm in his hands.
Observing this, the acolyte who had handed it to him quietly moves behind him and steadies the younger’s grip. With a deep breath, both press the dagger deep into the young boy’s heart. The younger lets out a cry and slumps into the elder acolytes arms.
Amid the youngest acolytes assisted suicide, the rest of them use the other weapons to relinquish their lives.
Agen and the acolyte who had helped the first are the last to kill themselves. They stare at each other and simultaneously stab themselves in their chests, falling over and joining the rest of the acolytes lying in a circle on the stone floor.
With the students of necromancy dead, the conjured bindings which strapped the guards upon their beds fade. They stumble out of the beds, due to the lack of mobility of their limbs the past few days. The guard nearest the doorway to the other room leans against the opening. He stares at the dead boys and the blood draining from their bodies into a pool upon the floor.
The others stumble past
him, and one of the senior ranking guards wraps his arm around his shoulder, escorting him past the horrific scene.
“I’ll be glad once we get out of here Arelo!” the guard says to his superior next to him.
“I know what you mean, I wasn’t sure if they would take us with them or not. They must have been too busy thinking about their own hides to deal with us,” Arelo, the senior officer chuckles as they reach the stairwell.
The guards who had pressed ahead had already pounded on the door shouting, phrases such as, “Let us out! It’s us, the guards!” and “Open the door!”
Hearing the muffled shouts, the two men Cornar had enlisted to watch the sealed door look at each other. They are both taller than average height, of a strong build and in their mid twenties. One has straight brown hair which reaches past his ears and matching brown eyes while the younger has hazel-gray eyes and very short blonde hair.
“Cordel,” the brown-haired warrior states in a commanding tone, “Go find Grandmaster Alacor.”
“Right away Midar,” the younger nods.
Several minutes later Alacor and several other council members arrive at the locked door. The leader of the necromancers utters the words of a spell to revert the magical hold. A similar hum, much like before, resounds from the door. After several moments the door flies open as the captive guards hurry out of their quarters turned prison.
“Where are the rebels?” Alacor asks with impatience
“They’re all dead,” one of the released captives gasps. “They stabbed themselves.”
“Those cowards!” Jalel exclaims, one of the other members of the council.
“Yes, they were cowards my brother,” Alacor states. “But they knew what fate awaited them. I’m not surprised,” with that said, the grandmaster of the Necrotic Order turns to Cornar’s men. “Get them out of there. Take them outside the city and burn their bodies.”
Midar and Cordel nod their heads and briskly descend into the barracks. At the sight of the dead bodies, both warriors glance at each other and shake their heads in disgusted disappointment. One by one they lift the lifeless corpses and carry them out into the courtyard, piling them near the large building’s entrance.
The Dark Necromancer Page 6