Treachery in the Kingdom

by Dan Zangari

  “Good,” Demitru nods his head then points to the sack between Cornar’s legs, “And I take it that’s what you owe me?”

  “Part of it,” Cornar states coldly, “I still do not completely trust you, so we will break up what we owe you into small payments up till we free Iltar.”

  “You’re shrewd,” Demitru grins, “But I suppose I don’t blame you; although, you can trust me.”

  “I don’t trust Tilthan,” Cornar retorts, “What makes you think I would trust you?”

  “Uh,” Tilthan speaks up, “I think that’s the wrong thing to say…”

  Laughing, Demitru glances to Tilthan then back to Cornar, “That’s fine. I wasn’t planning on selling everything all at once; I would attract far too much attention to myself.

  “We can do it your way Cornar, small payments are fine with me. Think of it as another act of good faith on my part. Now let’s see what you have.”

  Sternly examining Demitru, Cornar leans forward and opens up the sack. He rummages through the Sorothian coin mingled with the various objects which comprise some of his share of the loot.

  “Here,” Cornar sighs as he pulls a thin strip of gold from his sack and gently sets it on the low table between the three couches. The strip is a quarter of a phineal long and a tenth wide, with intricate engravings on both its surfaces.

  “Let’s see,” Demitru mutters as he leans forward to grab the strip, “Well judging by its size I’d say it’s –”

  As Demitru holds the golden strip in his hands, his jaw droops in surprise and his eyes widen.

  “What’s wrong?” Arina asks with a puzzled expression across her face.

  “I can’t believe it…” Demitru mutters and flips the strip in his hands toward Arina, “Look.”

  Arina’s eyes narrow at the surface of the strip facing her; in its center is an etching of a dragon’s head staring outward within an oval shape; above the depiction is a phrase written in the common language of Kalda, “Upon Him we rely.”

  As her eyes focus on the engraving Arina gasps, “Is that…?”

  “Yes,” Demitru smiles widely.

  “Uh, Demitru,” Tilthan speaks up, “What’s so important about some dragon head?”

  “This is not just ‘some dragon head’ my friend,” Demitru says with a growing sense of seriousness in his voice. “This is the God of Kalda.”

  Hearing Demitru’s statement, Cornar’s eyes narrow in thought, reflecting upon similar words spoken by Remnillia aboard the White Duchess after their flight from Merda.

  “God of Kalda?” Nordal laughs and slaps his knee.

  “What?” Hagen asks and looks to Demitru, “But there are no dragon gods in any of the pantheons I’ve heard of.”

  “That is because His identity was stricken by the Mage-King and his father. They forced the world to forget Him and killed everyone that would not bow down to worship them.

  “The current pantheons are merely an attempt to reason the origins of our world by those who are groping in the dark for enlightenment–”

  “How much for it?” Cornar interrupts the historical rhetoric.

  “Well,” Demitru glances to the leading warrior, “This is worth more than its weight in gold. I can probably sell it to someone within my order for maybe, double or triple its value.

  “I’d say…” Demitru pauses and balances it in his hands for a moment then says, “Forty seven dorins… which means it will probably go for one hundred or more. I’ll give you one hundred for it, and whatever else I make in addition to that will count toward your debt to me.”

  “That sounds fair,” Cornar nods his head.

  “A hundred dorins?” Nordal asks in a pleasantly surprised tone. “I could live on that for almost a year.”

  Grunting at Nordal’s remark, Tilthan replies, “I’d blow that in three months.”

  “Yea…” the warrior rolls his eyes and looks at the thief. “That’s because you don’t know how to manage your coin.”

  As Nordal and Tilthan banter between each other, Cornar carefully removes a black palm-sized sphere that is perfect in shape from his sack. He gently sets it on the table then sits back and folds his arms.

  Seeing the sphere, Demitru’s eyes widen and he softly mutters a strange word that Cornar doesn’t completely hear. However, just as the word leaves his lips, Demitru quells his surprise.

  “Huh?” Amendal asks and looks at Demitru, “What’s an Ul’thirl?”

  Cornar’s brow furrows at Amendal’s question while Demitru warily glances to the old conjurer then averts his gaze to the table. The warrior briefly examines Demitru then looks to Arina, whose face shows signs of tension around her lips and eyes.

  Thinking to himself, Cornar wonders, “This must not be an ordinary black rock… I wonder, is it a magical device?”

  Just as Cornar finishes thinking to himself, Demitru takes a deep breath then says, “Three hundred dorins.”

  “No,” Cornar shakes his head, “I think there is more to this sphere than meets the eye.

  “Ten thousand dorins.”

  “What?!” Tilthan blurts out and abruptly leans forward, nearly falling on top of the low table.

  “Ten thousand?!” Hagen gasps and looks to Cornar then to Demitru.

  Still staring at the table, Demitru replies in a anxious tone, “Five thousand.”

  Stroking his beard, Cornar calmly states, “Nine thousand, or we’ll keep it for ourselves.”

  “You have a deal,” Demitru nods his head.

  Hearing Demitru’s compliance, Cornar grimly grins while Hagen, Nordal and Tilthan gasp in surprise.

  “Th-that,” Hagen stammers, “Is nearly a tenth of our bounty!”

  “So,” Cornar looks to Demitru then to Arina, “What is it? What does it do?”

  Demitru looks to Arina with an uneasy expression and the later simply shakes her head and takes a deep breath.

  “It doesn’t concern you nor your quest,” Demitru answers, “Now what else is in the bag?”

  * * * * *

  A quarter of an hour later, Cornar, Amendal and Hagen enter the same bedchamber where they had met earlier that day.

  “I can’t believe it,” Hagen cheerily squeaks out as he closes the door to the room. “Cor, that was amazing!”

  “Well,” Cornar chuckles as he makes his way to the lounge chair in the far corner of the room, “He didn’t hide his emotions well enough.”

  “Now what do we do?” Amendal asks as he moves toward the bed and sits down on its edge nearest the warrior.

  “We need to get out of this city,” Cornar answers then adds, “I want to get to Arin as soon as possible. Hagen and myself will go alone.

  “I don’t think the rest of you should stay here; although Demitru is trying to gain my trust, I still don’t completely believe he is on our side nor loyal to us.”

  “How do you propose we get out?” Hagen asks, “Won’t there be mages dispelling magic at the gates?”

  “There are ships that go up and down the Arban river,” Amendal interjects, “I’ll fly some gossets to the northern shipyards. From there they can ride a boat up river.”

  “Aren’t those small ships?” Hagen worriedly asks then adds, “Someone is bound to see the conjuration anchor in their mouths!”

  “Just make the bird swallow it,” Cornar frankly states.

  “Yes!” Amendal excitedly smiles, “Then when the gossets get near Arin, they can fly ashore and rip the anchor from the stomach of the one whose carrying the anchor!”

  “That’s disgusting,” Hagen sadly retorts then shutters, “I can still see Nordal gutting Nilia’s conjuration.”

  Clearing his throat, Cornar speaks up, “We should prepare first thing tomorrow morning. Hagen, we need to figure out a our story and why we’re going to Arin.”

  13

  Plans

  Dorith’s hazel eyes dart to his right while rounding the pool within the Mages’ Park’s expansive plaza. The grandmaster of the Estate quicke
ns his pace and gracefully maneuvers around a young couple holding hands.

  While passing the couple, Rinden’s voice resounds from the pavilion of Beglar’s Theater, “Dorith! Dorith!”

  “Not now, Rinden…” Dorith whispers and diverts from the path, walking across the grassy lawn; he swiftly passes the theater’s northeast and strides toward the most notorious tavern of the Mages’ Park, the Drakes’ Seven, named after a card from the game of Sharzen.

  The tavern is nestled within the eastern part of the Mages’ Park; it’s a mostly rectangular building with a barreled roof. Its entrance rests along its western side, set back within a wide alcove thirteen phineals from the building’s western edge.

  Dorith strides into the alcove and up a narrow stone path lined by small bushes and clusters of flowers. Dull gray steps lead to a pair of double doors hemmed on either side by translucent windows.

  With a determined gait, the grandmaster of the Estate opens the doors and enters the tavern.

  Once inside, Dorith gently closes the doors while searching around a foyer; it is a small space, nearly eight phineals wide by fourteen long. Leather benches line the western wall on either side of the doors and curve along the north and south walls. Succulent aromas and cheery conversation linger through two doorways positioned near where the north and south walls intersect the east.

  A beautifully carved wooden podium stands not far from the eastern wall, where a young female hostess notices the grandmaster.

  She smiles widely and says, “Grandmaster Dorith, your guest is seated. Would you like for me to show you to your table?”

  “Thank you,” Dorith graciously replies. “It is a private booth, I presume?”

  “Yes,” the hostess responds while reaching toward a shelf housed within the podium. “Do you need a menu?”

  “No,” Dorith shakes his head with a smile.

  “Alright, follow me,” the hostess says and steps between two round pillars adorning the doorway leading to the main dining hall.

  Dorith follows the hostess in a casual manner; while passing through the doorway, the grandmaster reminiscently scans the main dining hall.

  It is quite large, measuring thirty phineals wide by fifty phineals deep and sunk the depth of two steps below the foyer. Dark polished wood paneling covers the walls and is accented by beige sconces illuminating the space. The barreled ceiling is covered in similar dark planks. A large shallow-circular bar lines the far end of the dining hall; situated at its center along the wall is a gray circular stone oven with an old copper hood and stove pipe reaching to the barreled ceiling. Criss-crossed wine racks line the wall on either side of the stove, full of various types of alcohol.

  Large round tables fill the dining hall, fifteen in all with eight seats each. Many of the tables are occupied with full parties of happily conversing patrons; their laughter and conversations fill the space with excitement.

  The private booths mentioned by Dorith line the north and south walls, with their tables and benches completely recessed.

  The hostess guides Dorith to the second booth on the southern side of the dining hall, saying with a smile, “Here you are. Enjoy your meal.”

  Dorith cordially nods his head, saying, “Thank you.”

  Once the hostess leaves, the grandmaster pleasantly turns toward the booth. A middle-age woman casually sits with a tall slender glass in her right hand; her black curly hair reaches past her shoulders and accents her olive skin. Her complexion is smooth, except for a single round mole protruding from her right cheek. High arching yet curvy eyebrows shift as her gray eyes examine Dorith.

  “And here I thought you would be late,” the words sarcastically leave the woman’s full lips; she pouts her lower lip, causing her long yet rounded nose to turn slightly.

  “But I wasn’t,” Dorith nostalgically smiles while sitting on the bench opposite the woman, then asks, “How are you, Maurin?”

  “Good,” she replies, sipping from her glass while staring Dorith squarely in the eye. “Shall we eat first? Or do you want to discuss whatever it is you wrote about in that note you left on my door?”

  “Let’s talk,” Dorith replies in a serious tone then asks, “How long have you been in Alath?”

  “Oh,” Maurin sighs while leaning back. She rolls her head along her shoulder while exaggerating her pouting expression in a thoughtful manner. After a moment she answers, “Nineteen years I believe. Why?”

  “And before that?” Dorith asks in a probing tone.

  “Holorum,” Maurin cocks her head. “Why?”

  Dorith lets out a disappointed sigh. “What about Soroth, have you been there at all, even while you were in Holorum?”

  “No,” Maurin shakes her head. “Never. You know as well as I we are not supposed to leave our assigned cities and regions… Which brings me back to my first two questions, why?”

  Dorith narrows his eyes, leans forward and answers in a hushed voice, “Yesterday Almar’s brother, an illusionist named Iltar, arrived in Alath. He brought a disturbing tale to our attention concerning a necromancer in Soroth, named Alacor, who is attempting to re-forge the Au’misha’k. Most of the others on the council believed the story except Phendal and Mathal, the latter is confident that Iltar is the man he is warning us about.

  “I myself believed Iltar’s story, until Almar mentioned Iltar’s reaction to the statue of Zatryn Phar; he was struck with overwhelming fear at its sight. And now I am–”

  Dorith stops his explanation as a youthful waitress approaches his private booth; once near she asks, “Are you ready to place your order?”

  “Yes,” Maurin pleasantly smiles while handing the menu to the waitress, “I’ll have the Serpent’s Skewers.” With that said, Maurin turns to Dorith and asks, “I assume you’d want the same?”

  Dorith nods, and the waitress steps away from the table toward the bar.

  Once the waitress is out of earshot, Maurin asks, “Do you believe he is the necromancer?”

  “Believing and knowing are two completely different things. For now we must believe him until he’s proven otherwise. That mage’s agenda is something I am not certain of.”

  “I’m intrigued,” Maurin smiles while placing her elbows on the table, interlocking her fingers; she stares at Dorith while resting her round chin atop her hands, saying, “Why don’t you continue.”

  “Iltar’s facts seem sound, but something does not feel right about his story. We are dispatching an agent to Soroth to gather information concerning this ordeal; but, I was asking about your previous… residences,” Dorith says with a quirky smile, “To see if you could provide me with any sound facts concerning a powerful necromancer from Soroth.

  “If Iltar truly is this man he’s warning us about, then he would have been or is a major influence in Soroth. Leaving a definite trail into the past.”

  “This is getting interesting…” Maurin mutters then asks with intrigue, “What are these facts?”

  “He knows some particulars of Ilnari’s scrolls and map. He has also been to the burial grounds and seen the Guardian. Iltar also claims to have fought a platinum dragon, who attacked him and his party on sight; a dragon which charged at them from the ground, demanding their devotion or face death.”

  Maurin’s round eyebrows arc in surprise while a ghastly expression smears across her face and she disgustedly whispers, “The vik’sha…”

  Dorith solemnly nods his head and continues, “But as far as Merda is concerned, Iltar has not voiced anything that would suggest he ever set foot in the elven metropolis. According to him, he has not been to Merdan, and the necromancer attempting to re-forge the Au’misha’k was planning a large scale assault nearly a month ago, about the time Iltar was forced to flee Soroth in secret–”

  “Dorith,” Maurin interrupts with a glimmer of surprise still across her face, “Isn’t there a document hidden with the housing that would point its discoverer to Alath?”

  “Three,” Dorith answers. “Almost identical
to what is in the council’s possession, written in Draconic, Elvish and Common.”

  “If Iltar is the necromancer, and he has gone to Merda, he would know where to look next,” Maurin warily speculates and stares at the table. “And his story is a lie, meant to bait you into confirming his tale while he searches for the Ka’nakar.”

  Dorith studies Maurin and his face reflects her somber logic.

  After a moment, the grandmaster says, “That’s what I am afraid of. But what is more disturbing are the implications of him being the necromancer. He would have to be immensely powerful to rid Merda of the Ma’lisha, not to mention an astute strategist; then there’s the assumption that he survived an encounter with the vik’sha… Iltar spoke of the necromancer’s abilities, one of which was the unspoken manifestation of the Ko’delish.

  “That’s impossible!” Maurin blurts while snapping her gaze back to Dorith. She narrows her eyes and adds in a tenuous tone, “No one can muster magic without incantation, not even the most powerful of the Sha! This doesn’t make any sense…”

  Silence hangs in the booth for a moment before Maurin adds, “There is no way he could have learned nor mastered that power without the help of the Ma’lisha, or a Lish qui’sha. So, why would he turn on them…? Unless he’s working for them.”

  “Iltar claims that this necromancer learned to harness the Ko’delish from the ruins of Karthar. Perhaps by some miraculous means he learned to wield the Ko’delish on his own. If so, he would not necessarily be tied to Esmid, Candersil nor Nethon. As for the qui’sha, it is possible that the necromancer could have ties to them. Soroth was once allied with Mindolarn’s empire. Or it is possible he is a part of Angath’s cult, I have heard reports of late that remnants have surfaced.

  “In Iltar’s story he conveyed a clandestine combination between the necromancer and Soroth’s governor; so, it is possible that news of the discovery of Ilnari’s record spread to the qui’sha. They could be manipulating the necromancer.”

  Maurin silently stares at Dorith before asking, “What are you going to do? You can’t bring this before the council. They’ll ask too many questions.”