by Dan Zangari
White-blue light erupts beyond the stained-glass window draws both Balden and Regas’s attention; they see a beam of white-blue light racing toward the sky, brightly illuminating the area around it and beaming into the council chambers.
“By all that’s magical…” Regas gasps in awe.
Balden narrows his eyes, glancing out a window to the west. Across the horizon, the same blue magic rises and covers the sky. The half-elf hurries to the nearest window on the northern wall where another wave of magic rises from the northeast, moving toward the beam of light. He searches for the source of the magic, noticing the beam spires from an obelisk outside the council chambers.
Amid Balden’s observations, Regas demands with trepidation, “What’s happening?”
Dorith turns from the wall, sternly gazes at Regas and answers, “I’ve awakened a power that has slept for a millennia. The city is sealed, and Iltar will not be able to escape.”
“Barsion magic,” Balden mutters while looking out the window. “Just like Hemarsal’s golem…”
“Huh?” Regas asks, looking at Dorith.
The grandmaster of the Estate quickly moves around the table then commands, “Stay here, Regas. I’ll be back shortly.”
* * * * *
As the Agents of the Order return from Merda, Iltar and his three companions arrive at an alley between several buildings along the Inner City’s southeastern wall. One by one, they emerge from their magical veils of invisibility.
“I’ll lower the ropes,” Nemral says and moves toward a building beside them. He heads straightway for a door, picks its lock, then disappears inside.
“Are we going to wait for Tilthan?” Dendra asks, putting her hands on her hips.
“I’m not staying any longer than I need to,” Iltar replies, removes the magical lenses from his face, and tosses them to Nath.
Several minutes pass before a rope drops along the wall near the trio; it’s tied with knots spaced two phineals apart.
“I’ll go first,” Dendra says while tugging on the rope.
Satisfied with the rope’s stability, Dendra gracefully grabs it by the nearest knot and scales the wall.
Once she’s halfway up the wall, Tilthan’s sly voice echoes along the alley, “I can’t believe you were going to leave without me!” He sighs and asks, “Why didn’t you cast your magic on me when you passed by?”
Iltar looks toward Tilthan’s voice with annoyance, then snaps, “Because I didn’t want any prying eyes to see it!”
“Fair enough,” Tilthan grumbles, his words trailing toward the rope. “You know, two can climb at a time.”
With that said, the rope sways from the invisible thief swift ascension.
“I guess we’re last,” Nath sighs and directs the next to Tilthan. “Whistle when you get up top.”
After a minute, Dendra climbs over the inner battlement of the towering Inner City wall. Immediately thereafter, a soft whistle echoes from the battlement.
“After you,” Nath says, cordially gesturing to Iltar.
“Of course,” the necromancer snarls and grabs the rope.
Once at the top, Iltar grumbles while climbing over the battlement. He rolls onto a wide walkway atop the wall, eight phineals wide. Looking to his right, he sees the eastern gate half a grand phineal away. Its inverted dome-shaped covering rises above the wall.
“Go ahead and climb down the other side,” Nath says while pulling himself over the parapet. “I need to cut this rope.”
“Fine,” Iltar breathes deeply.
He turns to his right where another knotted rope is tied to the inner battlement’s rectangular crenels and hangs over the wall’s outer parapet.
Iltar adjusts his pack, resting it along his back, then grabs the rope. He steps on the outer parapet’s rounded edge while cautiously eyeing it; it shallowly slopes downward five phineals to a thick groove, horizontally lining the wall, spreading in each direction. Beyond the groove, the wall steepens dramatically.
After turning around to face the Inner City, Iltar steadies himself on the slope, slowly walking backwards; his pack swinging and bouncing as he moves.
“It’s done,” Nath says as he stands.
Ignoring Nath, Iltar looks over his shoulder, cautiously moving down the slope.
Pulsing blue light from the groove draws Iltar’s attention, and he inquisitively furrows his brow.
What’s that–
A rapid eruption of white-blue magic vertically bursts from all along the groove and races along Iltar’s back; the magic forming a transparent wall.
“Ah!” Iltar yells and stumbles on the slope, struggling to pull himself back toward the walkway. “Nath!”
The thief immediately runs to the rope, and with all his might helps pull Iltar across the sloping parapet.
Flustered, Iltar leaps and stumbles onto the walkway.
“Oh no,” Nath gasps. “The rope… just like the grapples on Kenard’s ship…”
Iltar steadies himself and looks at the rope in his hands: its end cleanly cut by the white-blue magic. Surprised, he mutters, “What kind of barsion is this–?”
Overwhelming dread smears across Iltar’s face and he drops the rope while reaching for his pack, but doesn’t feel it; the pack’s strap falls off his shoulder and lands on the walkway.
“Where did it go?!” Iltar shouts frantically. “Where’s my pack?”
“The magic must have cut it…” Nath mutters.
“No!” Iltar stares ghastly at the thief then looks over the outer edge of the towering wall.
At that same moment, the streaming wall of white-blue magic angles toward Iltar and Nath, but stops once it’s aligned with the outer parapet’s slope.
“Now what?” Nath asks with fear and anxiety. “Are we trapped?”
Ignoring the thief, Iltar looks along the magic covering the sky. His eyes are drawn toward the center of Alath’s Inner City where a towering beam of white-blue magic races into the air, several grand phineals high. From the southwest, northwest and northeast, magic rises like a wall toward the beam. Within a moment, every particle of the white-blue energy converges over the beaming magic.
“It looks like a gigantic pyramid,” Nath groans.
“They must have returned…” Iltar growls. “What a cruel turn of fate.”
“What does this mean?”
Iltar furrows his brow as he gazes across the Alathian vista toward the glowing pillar of magical light.
“You fools can’t contain me!” Iltar snarls and turns around.
The necromancer throws his arms toward the barsion wall and a black mist seethes from the pores of his hands and wrists. The dark magic swirls, funneling just beyond his finger tips. From beneath his clothes, more of the demonic mist flows toward his hands, coalescing an ever increasing pitch-black funnel.
Almost a minute passes when Iltar angrily shouts, thrusting the dissolving magic toward the barsion barrier in a focused eruption of veiling blackness.
As the dark magic dissipates, the white-blue wall remains unscathed by the necromancer’s devastating magical assault.
“No!” Iltar gasps and stumbles backward. “That’s impossible!”
“We need to take cover and figure out how to escape,” Nath interjects warily.
“I need to get to my pack!” the necromancer barks at the thief.
“I’m sure the others have already picked it up,” Nath says then sighs. “But I shouldn’t have cut that rope.”
Frustrated by his futile actions, Iltar turns around and leans upon the inner battlement. Discouraged, he sighs and wonders how he’ll escape the Inner City.
Amid the thought, Iltar hears a faint voice in his mind, Unleash them.
Iltar’s eyes widen with enlightenment, then he turns to Nath and says with intrigue, “Let’s go back to Dendra’s place.”
* * * * *
While Iltar and the others arrive at the Inner City’s walls, a lone man darts at magically enhanced speed from an alle
y onto the northern highway of Alath’s outer city. He’s dressed in a black garb, with a mask covering his lower face that connects to his tunic. Upon his back, a curved sheathed sword bounces, its hilt over his right shoulder while a similar weapon hangs at his waist. Both weapons rest in identical charcoal scabbards, but their hilts are different with intricate and unique scaled patterns.
His brown eyes intently focus on the Inner City’s northern gate, several grand phineals away.
I hope I’m not too late–
Sharp words reach his ears, and the man darts a glance over his shoulder.
Two burly men in tanned formfitting formal garbs dash onto the northern highway, the source of the sharp sounds. They wield identical ornate swords, their hilts elaborately crafted with golden sharp designs.
In their free hands, purple magic gathers, and then bursts toward the lone man.
With agile grace, the lone man avoids the deadly magic and continues his southbound dash along the Alathian highway. He utters a sharp incantation, and he flings white magic toward the purple beams now ahead of him, dispelling the deadly energies.
Both pursuers continue flinging more deadly magic, but the lone man swiftly dodges their assaults; all the while, they speed toward Alath’s Inner City.
Amid the dueling sprint, a beam of white-blue magic erupts in the distance to the south, aligned with the gate.
They glance at the beam, but continue running toward the Inner City.
Vibrant lavender and red magic bursts from the palm of the left pursuer, and streaks toward the lone man.
Hearing the magic, the lone man narrowly dodges it; however, the lavender beam grazes his face, dissolving the mask and revealing his short dark-brown beard. Lingering purple particles spread across the cloth, gradually dissolving the fabric.
As the lingering purple particles spread, he rips the mask from his tunic, throwing it aside; all the while, darting past four guards stationed at the northern gate’s center archways.
“You there!” one of the guards shouts. “Stop!”
A light hum resonates from the inverted dome structure’s walls as the lone man darts into the Inner City. As he clears the threshold, white-blue light races from all directions of the opening, sealing it shut with a transparent wall of magic.
Both pursuers abruptly stop, the barsion magic barring their entrance into the Inner City. They angrily step back and stare at their prey.
The lone man abruptly stops and turns to face his assailants; a wide grin smears across his face and his brown eyes glisten with confidence. He chuckles and turns, walking from the gate.
While angrily eyeing the lone man, both pursuers sheath their weapons. They look at each other, and one opens his mouth to speak but stops as the guards shout from behind them.
“You two, stay where you are!”
The pursuers arrogantly cock their heads toward the guards, who surround them with fanisars drawn.
“Slowly take your weapons off your backs and place them on the ground,” the same guard commands authoritatively.
Both pursuers defiantly glare at the guard then utter a single word in unison, “Sium!” They instantly vanish, covered by a veil of magic.
“Stop them!” the guard shouts.
The four guards rush toward the invisible men and turn their fanisars sideways, touching each end together to halt the pursuers.
“Drop your invisibility!” the same guard shouts.
“You fools are too clumsy,” an arrogant voice bellows from the archways of the inverted dome structure. “Forget about us and resume your sentinel poses.”
The guards look toward the voice, their faces contorting with perplexity. They scan the covered area with their eyes, but one guard turns to the Inner City’s entrance and wonders aloud, “What’s this light?”
“I don’t know…” another responds. “It looks like some kind of barsion magic. But I don’t see a barsionist anywhere nearby.”
* * * * *
“Now what?” Nath asks as he and Iltar enter the living room of Dendra’s third story apartment. “How are we going to get out?”
“I need some help to breech the city’s barring magic,” Iltar says as he moves toward the nearest chair and sits down. “But there must be a weak spot, perhaps the gates. It’s there we will make our escape.”
“Uh?” Nath sighs as he moves across the room to the other free chair next to Iltar. “How? Who is going to help us?”
Chuckling softly, Iltar replies while shaking his head, “Not who, Nath. What. I will create our help. Now be quiet and let me concentrate.”
Iltar straightens up in his chair, resting his hands palm-up on his knees. The necromancer closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, meditating deeply.
A quarter of an hour later, a speck of blackness breaks the skin of Iltar’s left hand and rises into the air, followed by a second speck from his other palm.
The two tiny particles of blackness glide through the air and hover just in front of the necromancer.
Iltar slowly opens his eyes and utters the words to an illusionary spell; white magic flows from both his hands toward the hovering specks of blackness, wrapping around them. The necromancer continues reciting the incantation until the white magic takes the general form of a man, then quickly shifts to reflect Iltar.
Once Iltar finishes the incantation, each illusion briefly glows a black hue, then moves with unique self-awareness; they each gaze around the room, then at each other. After a moment of silence, they both look directly at Iltar with intrigue.
“Finally… it has been an eternity,” the illusion on Iltar’s left remarks and arrogantly cocks his head.
“This body is strange,” the other illusion observes while splaying his hands wide, slowly wiggling his magically composed fingers.
Pleased at his success, Iltar smiles and leans back in his chair while studying the illusions.
“Whoa!” Nath blurts in surprise. “How can you make them talk independently?”
“I’m not,” the necromancer answers with a cackle. “They’re doing that themselves.”
“Uh, what are they?”
“Some people have called them Hemolins,” Iltar says. “But legends about those creatures pale compared to what they actually are; truly independent intelligence, neither physical nor magical.”
A moment of silence passes when the illusion on the right demands with disgust, “They speak our tongue, how?”
“More importantly, how does he know of our natures?” the illusion on the left demands in a condescending tone.
“You could say, I am a visionary man. I have learned how to create you, and by so doing, you’ve become my subjects.”
“We are not created nor made,” the same illusion sternly affirms. “We are everlasting!”
“No one controls us!” the illusion on the right retorts sardonically.
“I do,” Iltar grins, swiftly motioning his hand to the floor and forcing the illusions to kneel.
“Ashulbah…” the illusion on the right mutters while struggling to turn his head and asks, “How-How can man control this power?”
“I know not, Sebul…”
Nath glances at the illusions then to Iltar and asks, “Do you think that’s their names? They sound strange.”
“Perhaps,” Iltar strokes his goatee then commands sadistically, “You will do my bidding. I need to escape this city. And, you’re going to make that possible for me.”
Still kneeling, both illusions contemptuously gaze at Iltar.
“They don’t seem pleased,” Nath remarks.
“We are not,” Sebul states. “We do not serve flesh and blood such as yourself–”
“Silence, Sebul,” Ashulbah coldly commands. “We will do his will. After all, he has given us these crude bodies. And, obviously, we are no longer in the realm of our exile. No man could muster this power there.
“We serve thee, and as my new master I will give you my name; for, I am Ashulbah. In another time,
I was chief among many of my kind.”
“Arise,” Iltar cackles and smiles. “Tell me, can you wield magic?”
Sebul quizzically examines Iltar while Ashulbah methodically narrows his eyes.
After a moment, Ashulbah answers, “If what you created our bodies is this magic you speak of, then, yes. We can, and far more.”
“Good…” the word oozes from Iltar’s lips. “There are people in this city that are looking for me. There will most likely be patrols searching the city. I want you to kill them and reanimate their bodies with your magic. Once that is done, conceal yourselves and await my further commands.
“Now go.”
“As you wish,” Ashulbah rises from the floor and bows before Iltar while Sebul arrogantly stands, then follows Ashulbah to the door.
While exiting the apartment, both illusionary being suddenly vanish within a concealing veil of magic.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Nath remarks and shakes his head with a loud yawn. “What’s next?”
“I need to make more of those creatures,” Iltar sternly states. “And while I do, you are going to go locate someone.”
“Uh, now?” Nath shakily asks while leaning forward in his chair.
“Yes, now!” Iltar glowers at the thief. “There’s an inn called the Round Wellspring. Do you know of it?”
“Uh,” Nath sighs. “I’m not sure. Who am I looking for?”
“A performing mage troupe. They were intending to leave later today, and they’ll assist us in our escape.”
“It could be near the Mages’ Park,” Nath speculates and shakes off his tiredness. “But I doubt they’ll help willingly…”
“Leave that to me,” Iltar grins. “All you need to do is find them. But first, let me create another one of those beings to follow you.”
“I just hope this one’s more cooperative,” the thief folds his arms and adds with trepidation, “Or he might turn on me.”
Iltar chuckles and closes his eyes, resuming the meditative posture he had taken to unleash Ashulbah and Sebul.