Treachery in the Kingdom

by Dan Zangari

  With that said, Almar returns his gaze to the familiar old woman. It can’t be her… Surely, she’d be long dead by now.

  While Almar studies the old woman, Griffith notices his former mentor’s thoughtful gaze and asks, “What do you see, Almar?”

  “I recognize someone from Tor; the woman who cared for Iltar and myself when we were children.”

  “Iltar wouldn’t be foolish to hide under an illusion like that,” Griffith remarks.

  “You’re assuming he’d know where I’d be,” Almar interjects. “Either way, her presence is disturbing…”

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, near the western gate, a tall hooded man approaches the guards ushering the Alathian citizens. His identifying features hide beneath his black cowl while his body is shrouded in a dark robe.

  As he approaches the guardsmen, the nearest demands, “Remove your cowl. The mages ahead will cast a dispel upon you.”

  Ignoring the guardsmen, the man walks past him, his face still shrouded.

  “Halt!” the guard shouts, reaching for the man. “I said, remove your cowl.”

  The hooded man abruptly turns, facing the guard, and his sapphire eyes glare sinisterly.

  “It’s him!” the guard shouts. “Iltar is here!”

  Amid the cry, Iltar’s face glows a black hue, and an orange magic violently erupts from his body, completely enveloping him. Dozens of vibrant orange tentacles burst from the eruption, entangling the five guards, two mages and several nearby citizens; they wail in agony as the magic consumes them, draining their life-giving-energies.

  The cries reach the ears of the guards and mages at the gate; each turn toward the deathly howls while readying themselves for battle.

  Those citizens dispelled by the now dead mages dart in a frenzy toward the barricades leading to the gate while many others not screened by the magic frantically follow them.

  Mathal worriedly looks toward the mob but is drawn to the agonizing screams; he sees the magic wildly flailing through the air, grasping everyone near it.

  “It’s happening,” Mathal grumbles. He glances to Bradeth and commands, “Sound the alarm.”

  Bradeth nods, while Grensil utters an incantation. Pale-green-blue magic surges around his hands, surrounding him and the two other council-mages; a continuous barrier of arpran magic; all the while, a high-pitched screech resonates from around the council-mages.

  While Grensil casts his spell, Mathal strides from the gate and down an aisle similar to what Almar had ordered construction of at the north gate. As he moves through the citizens frantically pushing toward the gate he shouts, “Go to the building on your left!”

  After passing the last citizen, Mathal swiftly utters an incantation, and a red-orange magic surrounds his body. The magic tightly encases him in a flaming barsion barrier, much like armor.

  Once protected, Mathal stops behind the guards at the head of the barricades, who struggle to hold back the panicked horde attempting to reach the gate.

  “Citizens of Alath!” Mathal shouts. “Turn back now! Seek refuge in your homes!”

  Some of the frenzied citizens quickly turn around, and race back toward the border highway while others continue pushing their way past the guards, who shout for the citizens to desist.

  Meanwhile, Bradeth reaches Mathal’s side and utters a dispelling incantation. White magic clusters in his hands then surrounds the panicked mob, but none change form.

  “Mathal?” Bradeth asks with concern, knowing that none are Iltar nor his illusions.

  “Let them pass!” Mathal shouts at the guards, and they comply, allowing the frenzied mob to funnel through the barricade. “Seek refuge with the others, to your left!”

  Once the area around the barricades is clear, Mathal notices another shrouded masculine figure turning the corner near the western fortress. Behind him, dozens of Kingdom Guardsmen coldly march in unison. Each glow a lavender hue, enthralled by necrotic magic while their weapons radiate black mist.

  “That must be him,” Grensil remarks, then utters another incantation.

  “Those must be our patrols,” Bradeth speculates.

  One of the guards woefully sighs, “He’s forcing us to fight against our own? What a monster!”

  “Guardsmen,” Mathal barks, “Fanisars ready!” He extends both hands and utters another incantation.

  Bursts of fiery magic race from his fingertips and surround the outstretched fanisars, bathing their bladed ends in magical flame.

  While Mathal enhances the guards’ weapons, Bradeth utters several spells, empowering the guards and mages around them, enhancing all their physical attributes.

  As Mathal and the others prepare near the western gate, the shrouded figure and his small army stop their march fifty phineals from the barricades.

  After enhancing the guards, Mathal steps past the furthest barricade, uttering another spell; red magic bursts from his left hand, forming a flaming sword, while dark blue particles surge along the flame, then erupt into ever-surging lightning contained within the weapon.

  “How quaint!” the hooded figure shouts then laughs mockingly. “A protector with a flaming sword.”

  Stalwartly standing at the head of the western forces, Mathal fervently shouts, “Iltar, surrender at once and relinquish what you’ve stolen!”

  “You’re mistaken,” the hooded figure chuckles, then removes his cowl. “I am Sinauc. Bow before me, or die… Well, how about both?”

  Sinauc laughs, raises his hands into the air, and thrusts them toward Mathal and the others.

  At their master’s gesture, the undead guards swiftly dash toward the gate, running at unnatural speed.

  While his minions charge, a black mist surrounds Sinauc, and he disappears.

  Mathal quickly scans the area, but jolts forward; struck from behind. As he tumbles against the road, he glances over his shoulder, noticing Sinauc hovering in the air behind him.

  The guards near Mathal swiftly turn to engage Sinauc, but Iltar’s illusionary being surrounds himself with his black mist and disappears once again.

  Rising to his feet, Mathal steadies himself as the undead guards reach him. They engage in a swift melee; the masterful elementalist elegantly parries and strikes while mustering fiery orbs which gather in his free hand; however, the undead relentlessly fight back, undaunted by the otherwise debilitating magic.

  Amid the melee, the mages and the Kingdom Guard bound from the barricades and clash with Sinauc’s forces.

  * * * * *

  A high-pitched screech echoes from the southwest, drawing both Almar and Griffith’s attention.

  The elder grand mage worriedly glances to the guards, who motion for the aforementioned old woman to step forward.

  “Griffith, dispel her now,” Almar whispers, then quietly utters an incantation. Blue barsion magic gathers in his palms.

  Griffith narrows his eyes, and casts the spell, finishing it as Almar utters the last of his incantation.

  The dispelling magic wraps around the old woman, whose visage contorts in anger. Her body vanishes, revealing a mass of orange magic.

  At that moment, Almar’s barsion magic wraps around him and Griffith while the orange mass erupts, flailing dozens of tentacles through the air; several lash at Almar and beat against his protective magic while others grasp the guards or slither toward the crowd of citizens.

  Without hesitation, both grand mages swiftly cast dispelling incantations. They fling the white magic toward the center of the life-draining mass, and it soon disappears, but not before it saps the life of those in its grasp.

  Agonizing screams resound from behind the two grand mages, and Griffith earnestly cries, “I’ll get the east branch!”

  With that said, the agent bursts from Almar’s barsion barrier, mustering his own protective spell while running.

  Still encased in his own spell, Almar strides toward the crowd, examining the dead. He searches the crowd and shouts, “Back away from anyone resembling Mas
ter Almar!”

  With that said, Almar utters another dispelling incantation, and flings the magic at the crowd; it washes through the citizens of Alath like a rippling tide.

  As the dispelling magic fades, a woman screams fifty phineals into the crowd, “Here–!”

  Many of the citizens turn in a panic toward the cry.

  Through the crowd, Almar notices the familiar face of his brother, crassly staring at him.

  While focusing on Iltar, Almar shouts, “Citizens of Alath, disperse to the southwest!”

  Amid Almar’s command, Iltar grabs a young boy near him while many citizens dart in both directions down the border highway. Many bolt toward Almar, weaving around him and his barsion barrier, while others obey the grand mage and retreat the direction opposite the gate.

  Horrified, the boy screams and struggles to break free of the necromancer’s clutches to no avail.

  “Let him go, Iltar!” Almar shouts, stretching out his hand; he utters an incantation, and deep purple magic gathers in his right palm.

  “No,” Iltar waggles his finger. “Stay right there, you wouldn’t want me to kill him, would you? Deprive him of his mortality?” He shakes his head, while grinning, “And, I’m Julina. Get it right, human!”

  Confused, Almar narrows his brow, and Julina continues while dragging the boy backward. “Follow me if you dare. But, if you get too close, I’ll rip his head off!”

  Almar finishes his incantation, holding several dozen orbs of disintegrating magic; he briefly scans the area behind Julina, which is clear from the dispersing crowd.

  Suddenly, a narrow beam of purple light streaks through the air from above and to the right of Almar; magic shot by a mage with a long channeling staff atop the nearby buildings.

  The magic pierces Julina’s left shoulder, tearing his arm and loosening his grip around the boy.

  “Run!” Almar shouts.

  The boy breaks free of his captor’s grasp and runs toward Almar, while the grand mage hurls the disintegrating orbs toward Julina.

  Each orb swiftly flies toward the malevolent illusion, but he vanishes within a black mist, and the orbs speed past where he stood. However, Almar redirects them with finesse, and they circle in the air above the highway.

  Immediately thereafter, black mist gathers in front of Almar, and Julina appears. He glares furiously at the grand mage; magic weaves between the illusionary being’s hanging limb and his torso, rebinding his magically composed arm.

  “What are you?” Almar demands.

  “You’re demise,” Julina growls, and grips the grand mage’s barsion barrier.

  Black dissolving magic seeps from Julina’s body, pressing against Almar’s protective magic.

  As the barsion flickers, Almar’s deadly magic plummets, striking Julina’s back. The orbs pierce through the illusionary body and drop Julina to his knees; however, his magic continues eroding Almar’s barrier.

  Once the last orb strikes, black mist envelopes Julina and he vanishes.

  Almar quickly leaps backward and utters a spell to bolster his protective barsion. After a moment, the dissolving mist disappears.

  Slightly relieved, Almar studies the surrounding area, then dashes back toward the roadway leading to the Inner City’s northern gate.

  He pushes through the crowd gathered beyond the barricades and notices Griffith, who in turn sees him.

  The agent pushes his way to his mentor, then warily whispers, “Fifteen are dead. It was another spell encased in an illusion.”

  “Horrible,” Almar sighs. “But it wasn’t Iltar who attacked us.”

  “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know,” Almar sighs. “I fear Iltar is more powerful than he led us to believe.”

  “He’s definitely your brother,” Griffith sighs, partially out of adoration and fear.

  Amid Griffith’s remark, Almar watches the crowd file past the barricade toward Dorith, who stands near the gate, motioning for the citizens to hurry toward him.

  * * * * *

  Not long before the alarm sounds, Rinden and one of the Protectors of the Order dispel the citizens flowing toward the eastern gate.

  Amid his incantations, Rinden notices Anula and several others of her performing troupe in the nearby crowd.

  After a moment, Anula and another female member of her troupe approach Rinden. She worriedly asks, “What’s happening?”

  “I can’t go into it,” Rinden sighs. “But I’m glad you’re safe.”

  “I see,” Anula responds shakily, then quickly darts around Rinden with her partner following closely.

  “Wait!” shouts the Protector of the Order. “You two need to be dispelled.”

  “It’s fine,” Anula shrugs. “Rinden knows me. I was his student, and Heronia is part of my performing troupe.”

  Rinden furrows his brow, studies Anula for a moment then says sternly, “But this is something we must do. It’s required of everyone.”

  While backing toward the road leading to the gate, Anula asks in a perturbed manner, “Are you saying you don’t trust me?”

  “No,” Rinden answers while approaching her. “It’ll be brief.”

  “I can’t believe you won’t take my word,” Anula remarks sullenly.

  Stung by betrayal, Anula swiftly turns around and strides to the gate with Heronia.

  “Stop!” the Protector of the Order shouts, and utters a dispelling incantation.

  Rinden heavily sighs and narrows his eyes. Why would she act like–?

  The Protector of the Order finishes the spell and flings it at the women.

  Noticing the dispelling magic, Anula swiftly dodges it, but her companion is not so lucky.

  Heronia’s feminine form twists and contorts, then breaks into white-gray magic; it falls to the ground and reveals Nath. He dashes toward the gate while latching his cloak and disappears from sight.

  “Ashulbah, Vestrua—the gate!” Anula shouts. She steadies herself while glowing a black hue.

  “Iltar!” Rinden gasps. “Sound the alarm!”

  Amid the illusionist’s cry, Phendal and Rildan reach for protrusions near the gateway, the mechanisms for the alarm mentioned by Dorith; however, black mists surround both council-mages, and each jolt backward.

  Phendal and Rildan tumble upon the road, then rise to their feet and see Ashulbah and Vestrua hovering in the air; Ashulbah folds his arms, coldly staring at them while Vestrua splays his hands wide. He yells with rage as crimson magic forms around his hands.

  Both council-mages swiftly utter incantations; barsion magic gathers around both of them, completely shrouding them.

  “Pathetic,” Ashulbah grunts, and bolts forward, poised to strike with his fists.

  Vestrua unleashes his magic, and both malevolent beings clash with their foes.

  While Iltar’s minions engage the council-mages, a necrotic sphere of protection erupts around Anula, and she grins sinisterly at Rinden.

  “What did you do to her?” Rinden demands. “Did you kill her, like Tilana?”

  Deep laughter resounds from Anula’s lips, then Iltar’s voice bellows, “Why would I waste such talent?”

  Agonizing cries resound from the crowd near Rinden, and he turns around; illusionary magic sheds from many of the citizens, revealing Anula’s troupe and a host of Kingdom Guardsmen enthralled by Iltar’s minions. They mercilessly attack the surrounding citizens, swiftly cutting them down; akin to those under Sinauc’s control, they glow purple hues while the guards’ weapons radiate the necromancer’s dissolving black mist.

  “This is madness!” cries the Protector beside Rinden, then casts a barsion spell around himself.

  Rinden casts a similar spell and turns around where Iltar has since dismissed his concealing illusion.

  “You’re a fool, Rinden,” Iltar gloats. “Just open the gate.”

  “Never!” the illusionist shouts, and utters another spell. Pink-red magic gathers around his hands, forming destructive arcane orbs.


  As Rinden’s magic coalesces, Iltar opens his palms and seethes his dissolving magic, forming tiny spears like those he used aboard the Ilssilis.

  Both magics coalesce in unison, and their wielders hurl the deadly energies at each other; all the while, a high-pitched screech echoes from the west.

  Amid the debilitating sound, the destructive magics erupt against the dueling mages’ protective barriers, but fail to penetrate them.

  Elsewhere around the eastern gate, the guards controlled by Iltar and his minions cut through the citizens and engage the Alathian forces; the battle turns bloody.

  * * * * *

  Soon after, only the mages and guardsmen remain near the northern gate; Dorith touches the nearest small glowing indentations, and the barsion magic encloses the gateway.

  From beside the grandmaster, Fren remarks, “It seems the citizens have dispersed.”

  Dorith nods, noticing Almar and Griffith beyond the barricades, and sees Regas and Balden jogging toward them.

  The grandmaster narrows his brow in thought, then hurries down the aisle toward the gathering mages.

  “… well,” Balden sighs, “I didn’t know he could do that.”

  “Do what?” Dorith asks.

  “Vanish in a black mist,” the half-elf answers. “Like the Abalimyrs.”

  Troubled, Dorith sighs and folds his arms, staring at the road.

  “I think it was a distraction,” Griffith says. “We haven’t seen anyone else beside those two illusions that erupted, and whatever fought Almar.”

  “That sounds like something Iltar would do,” Balden interjects. “He’s probably trying to get through one of the other gates.”

  “Or lure us away from this one,” Fren speculates.

  “It did taunt me to follow him,” Almar thoughtfully observes, looking down either side of the road. “We should pull back to the barricades and constantly dispel the area. Iltar might sneak up on us invisibly.”

  Fren nods while Regas asks, “But what about the west gate? Iltar could be there.”