Treachery in the Kingdom

by Dan Zangari

  “You don’t think Alacor was responsible for this, do you?”

  “Why attack Keth?” Griffith ponders aloud. “No I don’t think so…”

  With that said, the two mages silently study the shore while their ship nears an empty wharf. Once the vessel moors, both Griffith and Regas swiftly disembark and walk across the pier toward the city.

  An hour later, Griffith and Regas near a large four story building undergoing repair; the mages glance at each other, then Regas mutters, “If it spread this far into the city…”

  Griffith nods then says, “Hopefully Keth’s port magistrate can give us some answers.”

  With that said, both mages enter the building; once in the foyer, a young blonde haired woman approaches the mages, wearing a formal garb with woven insignias denoting Keth’s Port Authority.

  “You two look like mages,” the officer observes. “How can I help you?”

  “We’re from the Kingdom of Los and we have some questions concerning several vessels that have moored within the last two months,” Griffith answers. “Is the port magistrate available to speak with us?”

  “I’m sorry,” the officer sighs with disappointment. “But Magistrate Narshon has been missing for quite some time. You can speak with Sandel. Follow me.”

  With that said, the officer ushers the mages through the foyer to a spiral staircase; the trio ascends the steps and travel along a hallway until they reach a closed double doorway.

  The officer opens the doors, steps aside and motions for the mages to enter while saying, “She’s in the office to your right. Good day.”

  “Thank you,” Griffith bows.

  Amid Griffith’s gratuitous gesture, Regas steps through the doorway into an anteroom; three doorways line the other walls, with chairs tightly arranged between the doors.

  Both mages move straightway to the aforementioned office, knock once on the door then open it.

  While the agents enter the office, they see a middle-aged woman sitting on a chair at the far side of the room, her brown hair in disarray. She tiredly savors long drags from a curving pipe while staring out a window overlooking the bay.

  “Isn’t it a bit early to be savoring that pipe?” Regas quips.

  “Not when you’ve been awake all night,” Sandel retorts; she turns around, focusing her blood-shot gray-blue eyes on the mages, then demands, “And who are you?”

  “Mages from Alath,” Griffith answers. “We have some questions.”

  “Make it quick,” Sandel sighs while returning her gaze to the window. “But you better not bring any trouble… I have enough to deal with.”

  “We’re only seeking answers,” Griffith reassures. “First, can we see the port records for a ship called the White Duchess?”

  “You too, huh?” Sandel scoffs, “What do you want with that pirate? Was Kenard shipping something to the mages that he lost?”

  “What do you mean, ‘us too’?” Regas asks with surprise.

  “An admiral from Soroth was here looking for him, oh, about five weeks ago.”

  Both mages glance at each other with puzzled expressions while Sandel continues, “He left some warships in the west end of the bay. You’d think they would offer a hand with our repairs, but they just wade there. Waiting for who knows what.”

  Griffith regains his composure and says, “No, he wasn’t… but we believe Kenard is working with a powerful necromancer named Alacor; he’s caught our Order’s attention. Alacor could cause a great deal of harm. By helping us you’ll do a great service to everyone.”

  “I don’t know anything about Kenard and a necromancer,” Sandel sighs while blowing a trail of smoke.

  “His departing charter states he left Keth nearly five weeks ago after dropping off this necromancer and his sizeable party. It was signed by your port magistrate and bore Keth’s seal.”

  Sandel puts her pipe down and turns to face Griffith while sternly remarking, “That’s impossible! Zanille has been missing for over seven weeks.”

  Taken aback, both mages look at each other in confusion while Sandel continues, “I’m sorry, mages. You will have to excuse me. We have bigger problems here than tracking down a rogue necromancer.”

  “Like what?” Regas demands. “Nothing can be more dangerous than Alacor!”

  “Oh, yeah?” Sandel angrily retorts while raising her pipe to her lips; she abruptly stands, pointing out the window, “What about the man who did that?!”

  “The damage to the docks?” Griffith asks and looks out the window.

  While following Griffith’s gaze, Regas suspiciously mutters, “One man did that?”

  Sandel raises her brow in a sullied expression then replies in a demeaning tone, “With a black devouring mist. He was running from someone. Their clash destroyed part of the city and sunk most of the moored vessels. Both were wildly acrobatic, like the stuff of legends and fables. And his orange eyes…”

  Sandel’s words trail off in dreadful recollection; after a moment she mutters, “We’re still hauling the bodies from the bay and we are nowhere near to returning the docks to full working capacity. It’ll take a while to recover, especially since we’ve lost the majority of our work force.”

  “That many people were killed?!” Regas gasps.

  “No,” Sandel shakes her head. “They left after the battle.”

  “I wouldn’t want to stay either…” Regas mutters, averting his eyes.

  Sandal shakes her head and murmurs, “They were elves. Half, quarter, so on. Those who weren’t welcome in Sharim.”

  “Why did they leave?” Griffith asks.

  “The day after the battle some elves came to Keth claiming Merda had been liberated from werewolves and vampires.”

  “Oh no,” Regas gasps and looks to Griffith. “We’re too late, Alacor must have it!”

  Griffith waves his hand toward Regas to keep him quiet, but Sandel notices the gesture and raises her brow while asking, “What are you talking about?”

  “The necromancer in question was intending to go to Merda, searching for an ancient power hidden within the elven city,” Griffith answers. “If the elves have left to reclaim their ancestral home, then Alacor has obviously succeeded.

  “We need to take our leave… but, can you tell us how the elves returned to Merda?”

  “They said the old mountain pass had been made traversable. There’s a highway leading from the northern gate directly to the mountains. How you get to Merda beyond that, I don’t know…”

  “Thank you,” Griffith bows then adds, “And when we get to Merda, I’ll mention your situation to the elves. Perhaps I can persuade them to help.”

  “I’d appreciate that, mage,” Sandel says with a relieved tone; a sense of compassion comes over her and she adds, “It’s a three day journey on horseback. If you need supplies, I can have some prepared.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Griffith says with a smile. “It’ll only be a day for us.”

  With that said, both agents exit the office and move straight for the hallway.

  While striding toward the stairs, Regas asks in a hushed tone, “Do you think Alacor destroyed the docks?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Whoever made all that mess used a black magic similar to what Iltar described,” Regas interjects. “But wouldn’t he have had more people with him?”

  Ignoring Regas’s question, Griffith speculates, “Something is not making sense. Why would the Sorothian Navy be looking for the White Duchess?”

  * * * * *

  In the early hours of the following morning, both Agents of the Order speed across the elven highway running through the forest on the eastern side of Merdan.

  “I need a break,” Regas yells, slowing his magical steed to a halt. The conjurer dismounts and steps onto the elven highway and loudly complains, “We’ve been riding all day and night!”

  Regas takes a deep breath as a breeze rustles through the woodland. He tiredly gazes through the leafy canopy, where moonli
ght beams from both of Kalda’s moons.

  “We should be there soon,” Griffith shouts while cantering his magical steed back toward Regas; the latter moves toward one of the trees along the path and stretches his legs.

  “You know, Griffith,” Regas sighs. “We should have taken those guards’ offer and stayed the night in the pass. Those beds looked really comfortable…”

  “Yes, they did,” Griffith smiles. “But we need to get to Merda as soon as possible.”

  “I guess those giant walking statues intrigued you,” Regas chuckles.

  “Yes, they did,” the grand mage nods and turns his horse back along the highway. “Hurry, Regas!”

  While Griffith speeds away, Regas grunts while mounting his steed, “Those elves are probably fast asleep… like we should be.”

  The conjurer motions his hand forward and the magically composed steed darts across the elven highway, chasing after Griffith.

  Half an hour later, the agents reach the clearing south of the elven metropolis. They follow the elven highway toward the grand arch acting as the city’s southern gate, passing the fields of roloush lining the highway.

  “Amazing…” Regas mutters as he gazes at the ornate elven buildings, each soaring to an exceeding height. “Simply amazing.”

  Once near the towering arch, Griffith slows his steed to a trot until he reaches two elven guards.

  “Halt, human!” the elven guard on Griffith’s right shouts in the common tongue. “What is your business in Merda, and why are you arriving at such a late hour?”

  “We are Mages of Alath, seeking information about a necromancer named Alacor. He’s visited your city and stolen something of great importance.”

  Both elves look at each other, and then come close together, whispering in their native tongue.

  While the elves quietly converse, Regas canters his steed beside Griffith’s and asks, “What are they talking about?”

  “I’m not sure,” Griffith answers. “Excuse me!”

  The same guard who had addressed Griffith extends his hand toward the mage.

  “I told you we should have stayed in the mountain pass…”

  After a moment, the guards abruptly stop talking; they glance toward their city’s heart, then slowly turn to the mages.

  The initial guard looks hard at the mages then says, “Come with me, He wishes to speak with you.”

  Both mages look at each other with confusion, not understanding the guards’ abrupt change of heart.

  They follow the guard, and he guides them through the elven city, passing through the grand southern plaza; the same place where the battle culminated one month prior to the mages’ arrival. Unknown to the mages, many of the structures in the plaza have been repaired, and have a pristine appearance.

  The elven guard leads the mages northward, along the northern running highway and toward a cluster of buildings at the end of the roadway, hemmed by a waist-high wall.

  Once at the buildings, the elven guard leads the mages along a stone pathway through a grassy courtyard.

  After a moment, they reach the tallest building in the city, the Merda Spire. The path leads directly to a three story protrusion housing a pointed arched doorway; large glass-like windows surround the door, covering most of the southern wall.

  “Leave your steeds here,” the guard instructs, pointing to the grassy lawn. “Then go inside, and He will meet with you.”

  With that said, the guard leaves, walking back to the south.

  “Okay, that was strange,” Regas remarks while dismounting his magical steed. He motions it toward the grass on his left, dismissing the cohesive magic. “Who do you think he’s referring to?”

  “I don’t know,” Griffith says while dismounting. “But let’s find out.”

  Both mages enter a tall foyer which encompasses the entire space of the protrusion; it is dimly lit and devoid of furniture.

  “That way I suppose,” Griffith points across the foyer toward a wide corridor only one story tall.

  They travel over two hundred phineals before entering a sprawling room with a square pillar in its very center; the entire room is bare, composed of decayed stone.

  “There’s no one here,” Regas complains and sighs.

  “Perhaps there’s some stairs,” Griffith wonders. “Whoever we’re supposed to meet is probably on another floor.”

  “I don’t know, Griffith… This place seems dead.”

  “I would argue against that,” a voice calmly states from every direction in the room.

  “Whoa!” Regas blurts, dropping into a defensive posture while turning his head every which way.

  “Who’s there?” Griffith demands cautiously.

  “Come to the northern side of the pillar,” the voice states. “That’s the other side you can’t see.”

  A white light suddenly illuminates the far side of the room from the aforementioned pillar.

  Still leery, both mages warily walk around the pillar.

  Upon its northern face, elven words are chiseled above a forming pattern of lit grooves. Within a moment, the pattern clearly resembles a door, then the solid stone surface within the lines compresses with a humming sound. The stone slabs slide open, revealing a brightly lit ornate cylindrical chamber composed of beautiful white stone.

  “Step into the transportation shaft,” the mysterious voice urges.

  Griffith turns to Regas and shrugs, then both mages enter the chamber. Once inside, the doors shut and a soft hum fills the round space.

  “You two must be from Alath,” the voice observes. “Since the steeds you were riding were modeled after Alathian Thoroughbreds.”

  “That’s right,” Griffith says. “We’re Agents of the Order, but how did you know what we were riding?”

  “He was probably looking out a window,” Regas mutters.

  “I don’t look out windows much,” the voice chuckles. “Here you are.”

  The doors open, revealing a reception hall several phineals wider than the cylindrical chamber, covered in ornate stonework. The reception hall is very deep, with several corridors branching off from either side, and lined with long elven crafted couches and potted plants

  Further down the corridor, on the wall opposite the opening, are a pair of glass double doors, perfectly aligned with the transportation shaft.

  “Well, get out,” the voice gently urges.

  The mages comply, but stand only a few phineals into the reception hall.

  “The doors in front of you,” the voice states.

  Griffith and Regas tread across the hall to the doors; as they near, they slide open and reveal a large squared room of similar décor to the reception hall; it spans fifteen phineals on either side of the doors. Within the center of the room rests a large Y-shaped table of exquisite stone craftsmanship. At its head, on the far side of the room, sits a masculine elf, dressed in a white robe.

  Behind the elf, a curving bay window allows a view to the Merdan Plateau, and the grand pyramid fortress. The elven citadel strikingly stands out against the woodland and the starry sky, glowing a white hue.

  “Welcome to the Merda Spire,” the elf speaks, his words sound from his mouth and the room’s walls. “I am, Shem’rinal.”

  “It is a pleasure, Shem’rinal,” Griffith bows and approaches the curve in the table nearest the doors. “I apologize for our coming at this late an hour.”

  “Late? It’s early,” Shem’rinal chuckles with a smile. “The sun will be breaking the horizon in a couple hours. Besides, the elves coming will have received sufficient sleep.”

  “What about you?” Regas asks with a raised brow.

  “I don’t sleep.”

  “Huh?” Regas glances to Griffith then darts his gaze back to Shem’rinal.

  “So, this really isn’t an intrusion. In fact, I like the company.”

  “Why don’t you sleep?” Regas asks.

  Shem’rinal extends an opened hand toward the mages, and the sound of sliding doors
catches Griffith and Regas’s attention; they turn around, seeing two elves walking from the transportation shaft.

  “Nehon, Balden. Welcome,” Shem’rinal beckons cheerily. “These are Mages of Alath, Griffith and Regas.”

  Once in the room, Nehon tiredly gazes at the mages then says with a nod, “Greetings.” He moves around the table and takes the seat to Shem’rinal’s left.

  “Greetings,” Griffith and Regas say in unison.

  In contrast to the old elf, Balden silently studies the mages. His blue eyes quickly dart back and forth between Griffith and Regas’s faces. Without a word, the half-elf moves to the right of the table and takes the other seat beside Shem’rinal.

  “I don’t sleep, Regas, because I am not an elf. I just look like one. I am what you would call in your common tongue, a magical essence.”

  Intrigued, both mages study Shem’rinal, and the magical essence continues speaking.

  “Others will be joining us, please sit. I’m sure you are weary from your journey.”

  Nearly half an hour later, an old elf enters the room; he is the last of eight and takes his seat near his brethren on Shem’rinal’s left.

  “Now that this city’s council has joined us, I will introduce them,” Shem’rinal says and motions to his right. “This is the Arch Magi of Merda, Balden. Beside him sits Ilvantis, Aserin and Benidyl.”

  Shem’rinal motions to his left and adds, “And this is Arch Warder Nehon. To his left sits Hedron, Sulin and Nestari.

  “Please mages, state why you have come to us.”

  Each of the elves sit silently, intently awaiting the agents’ answer.

  Griffith tiredly nods and stands. “We’ve been sent by the Mages of Alath in response to our council learning of a sinister plot that involved Merda. My mentor’s brother alerted us to a necromancer from Soroth who is seeking an ancient power secreted somewhere in this city. The leaders of our Order were unsure of how and when he would strike, and we were sent to spy out his plans. But, it seems we are late.”

  “You say that as if you were disappointed,” Nehon observes.

  “Would you rather our brethren still be slaves to the lycanthropes and the Abalimyr?” Aserin demands with a cold stare.