by Dan Zangari
“His eyes,” the same young man responds, motioning to his face with two fingers. “You’re an elf. Aren’t you familiar with the legends?”
“Oh,” Balden raises his brow, “So you can read minds? That means…” the half-elf looks Zanille up and down, “But h-how?”
Zanille groans a chuckle then Balden continues, “I would have expected you to be taller, as a–”
“It’s open,” Dorith interrupts.
Alnese and seven others dart from the imprisoned Iltar, quickly exiting the Inner City.
“We will keep you apprised,” Dorith shouts after Alnese and the others. He presses on the indentation to resume the barsion magic, then returns to Balden and the others.
“I’ll search for Nath,” Zanille says. “Or do you want any help with Iltar?”
“No,” the grandmaster shakes his head, “We can handle it.
“Saprin,” Dorith looks to the young man who mentioned Zanille’s eyes, “Conjure something that can carry Iltar.”
22
Cessation
Near evening, Almar, Grensil and Mathal solemnly stride through the hallway leading to the council’s enormous chambers; each is somber, reflecting on the tragedy of the day.
“Almar, wait!” Griffith cries from behind the mages.
The elder grand mage stops within the parlor adjoining the council room and studies Griffith as he hastily approaches.
“Griffith, we must convene as a council,” Mathal says while proceeding to the gigantic doors. “Whatever you have to say can wait.”
The lone Agent of the Order stops in front of Almar, gently placing his hand on his mentor’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. You did the best you could and acted promptly when we relayed news to you and the others.”
Weighed down by his dismal emotions, Almar sorrowfully averts his gaze; he sighs then groans, “But it wasn’t enough. How many people lost their lives today because we couldn’t see through Iltar’s lies?” He lets the question sink into Griffith’s mind before continuing with dismay, “How can we claim to be this Kingdom’s protectors if we cannot prevent atrocities like today?”
Griffith’s face twists with disgust and his eyes brim with tears.
Noticing the tears, Almar’s eye sadden, and he adds, “We’ve become too lax during these times of peace. Evil is brewing, and I fear this isn’t the last time we face such calamity.”
With that said, Almar pads Griffith on the shoulder and turns around, walking toward the council chamber, but Griffith stoically calls, “Send me. I want to apprehend Iltar’s accomplices!”
“You need to rest,” Almar remarks while striding through the opened doorway. Anger forms upon his face as he reflects the precarious situation, wondering, How could you have become so twisted, Iltar? What drove you to this destructive path?
While mulling over the possible answers, Almar shakes his head; he knew the face of evil all too well, and the divers paths vanquished tyrants had tread.
Within a moment, Almar, Mathal and Grensil reach the raised dais where Balden stands before the five other surviving council members: Callun, Fren, Nemmerin, Thranar and Dorith. Each sit tiredly, fatigued from the battle.
“What’s he doing here?” Mathal angrily demands, pointing to the half-elf as he walks to his chair.
Balden glances to Mathal while clasping his hands behind his back, but doesn’t answer.
Dorith looks at Mathal, braces his staff upright, then boldly replies, “He’s the Arch Magi of Merda, and he’s proven himself this day. Balden could have easily sided with Iltar, but he didn’t.”
Still leery of Balden’s presence, Mathal studies the half-elf while continuing to his seat.
Thranar breaks the tension and asks somberly, “How’s Bradeth?”
“He’s resting now,” Grensil responds while sitting. “But he lost his left leg to that dissolving magic.”
“He was lucky,” Mathal sighs, still wary of Balden. “But others are in worse shape than he. I fear Iltar’s rampage will leave a wake of devastation lasting for years to come in many of our citizens’ lives.”
“We were able to capture two more of those black specks after we destroyed the necromancer’s illusions,” Thranar reports. “Almar was able to contain them in magic and bring them back to the Estate.”
“Then that totals five,” Nemmerin observes.
“No,” Dorith shakes his head. “Six. I vanquished another before returning to the east gate.”
“Iltar’s power was immense to have created such illusions,” Mathal shakes his head. “They seemed to think for themselves. Do any of you know what they were?”
All the mages shake their heads, beside Dorith; the grandmaster furrows his brow and relaxes his staff against his shoulder.
“What are we going to do with them? Those black specks?” Fren asks looking to others for an answer.
“They seemed inert after we destroyed their illusionary bodies,” Thranar remarks. “But to be safe, we should lock them within the Inner Depths.”
“Is that where Iltar is now?” Mathal asks.
“Yes,” Callun responds. “Within the vault. Dorith’s magic turned him into some kind of transparent stone.”
“Is he dead?” Almar queries in a distant tone.
“No,” Dorith responds, glancing at the grand mage. “He’s merely suspended by the magic, frozen in the moment of his rage. In fact, the wound he received will be healed.”
“What was that spell you cast, Dorith?” Nemmerin asks and narrows his brow.
“An ancient incantation, used ages ago against a tyrant,” Dorith answers, then points to the small rogulin crystal found on Iltar. “But, now, we must deal with this.”
Almar looks to the grandmaster of the Estate in a probing manner, but is jarred by Mathal’s speculation.
“So, Iltar did not have an army waiting to besiege Alath,” Mathal sits back and rubs his chin. “Thranar what is the range of a crystal that size?”
“It depends on the conjurer and his concentration. But, if it’s bound to that artifact Balden mentioned, it’s probably the same as our rogulin rings.”
“Indefinite, then,” Mathal grunts.
“I don’t think there’s a limit to the distance one can travel,” Balden interjects. “When I was young, Iltar appeared at his tower in Soroth at the end of an expedition to the continent northeast of the Mainland.”
“His accomplices could be anywhere,” Fren sighs with disappointment.
Nemmerin furrows his brow and suggests, “We must send someone to investigate where this stone is bound.”
“I’m sure it’ll be guarded,” Balden says. “Cornar takes every precaution when adventuring. Then add the threat of the Navy… I’m sure it will be fatal for anyone who uses that crystal.”
“That name sounds familiar,” Fren remarks. “Wasn’t he mentioned by Iltar?”
“Yes,” Almar nods his head. “His friend who was supposedly killed.”
Intrigued by Balden’s cooperation, Mathal asks, “How many are with this Cornar? We can send a large group to apprehend them–”
“No,” Dorith interrupts. “We will send a single plainclothes-mage.”
“I agree with Dorith,” Thranar speaks up. “We’ve lost too many this day. A single mage has a higher chance of covertly assessing the situation. Besides, we only need to know where they are. Once our agent discovers their location he can return. Then, we attack.”
“I move for a motion,” Callun suggests and stands.
Thranar tiredly rises to his feet, followed by the other council members, except Mathal.
“So, it shall be,” Dorith says as he sits back down. “I will inform one of our agents concerning the matter and escort him beyond the walls of the city.”
“But the city is sealed,” Thranar remarks. “We couldn’t open the gates after the alarm sounded.”
“He can,” Balden points to Dorith.
The council-mages look to Dorith, each awaiting an answer; however, Nem
merin voices his own speculation. “I think denying your true identity is becoming harder and harder. There’s no doubt that you are Dorin.”
Thranar nods his head while the others intently focus on Dorith, but Balden clears his throat, drawing their attention.
The half-elf steps closer to the dais, interjecting, “I doubt that. There’s someone else… the lone man who helped us stop Iltar must be your Mage-King. He spoke draconic and placed some strange magical objects upon the magic Dorith cast. That’s what turned Iltar to stone.”
Confused but intrigued, Thranar raises his brow at the half-elf and says, “Balden, you’re implying our kings are dragons.”
“No!” Mathal blurts and furrows his brow. “I refuse to believe that.”
“Just because he speaks draconic doesn’t make him a dragon,” Balden shrugs.
Fren glances to Dorith then to Balden and asks, “Where is this man now? He was there one moment then gone the next.”
Balden looks to Dorith, seeking approval but the grandmaster slowly shakes his head.
The half-elf looks to Fren and shrugs, feigning ignorance.
“The origin of our kings is not the issue at hand,” Almar says with angered agitation. “The activating scroll was not on Iltar, and I assume it is still missing. We need to find it.”
“There was an eyewitness,” Dorith speaks up tiredly. “He claimed to see several people climbing the southeastern wall just before I erected the barrier. The activating scroll and the other text Iltar stole were most likely carried over the wall by one of his companions.”
“We must gather a party to search for Iltar’s accomplices,” Thranar speaks up, “I will lead–”
“It’s already taken care of,” Dorith interrupts. “I let my niece and several others through the eastern gate. They’re tracking them now.”
“If they escaped, we should take down the barsion surrounding the city,” Fren suggests.
The council members deliberate about Fren’s suggestion while Balden earnestly stares at Dorith. Both look at each other, but after a moment the grandmaster of the Estate closes his eyes and sighs.
“We know there’s one of Iltar’s accomplices still in the city,” Dorith says reluctantly, opening his eyes.
“And, how do you know that?” Nemmerin asks with surprise.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dorith states sternly. “Please, just trust me. I won’t lower the barsion until he’s captured, and it won’t be long.”
“Dorith, what’s so secretive that you can’t tell us, your brethren?” Thranar asks.
“There are some things that even this council does not and should not know,” Dorith replies, his features contorting, showing his internal struggle. “Secrets buried deep in our past. Let’s leave it at that.”
Each of the council-mages study Dorith, disappointed by what they deem his lack of trust in them; however, Dorith continues, “I propose we reconvene once Iltar’s accomplice is apprehended. In the mean time, I will escort our agent beyond the walls of the Inner City.”
Silence hangs over the enormous chambers as the council-mages study Dorith; their faces express doubt and confusion with their grandmaster’s cryptic behavior. Then, one-by-one, they rise to their feet and walk from their table toward the enormous doors, leaving Balden and Dorith alone.
Balden slowly paces back and forth, and once he and Dorith are alone he asks, “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell them about the Mage-King?”
Dorith chuckles, then asks, “Zanille? They don’t need to know about him. No one does.”
“But he is the true Mage-King, isn’t he?”
Sighing, Dorith rises from his seat and steadies himself against his staff before answering, “You’ve not been Arch Magi long enough, my friend. But, soon, you’ll share a burden which I’ve borne my entire life. When you return to Merda, ask Shem’rinal about the Usa’zin’sha.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
Dorith shakes his head while walking around the table, and says, “I could, but this is not the place to discuss such things. Which brings me to my next point: I would like for you to stay at my home.
“Your presence will only draw suspicion concerning this massacre. The citizens of Alath must never know about the Au’misha’k, nor that Iltar retrieved the Ka’nakar. When the time comes, I will help you return to Merdan. But, for now, you must wait in the shadows.”
“And your family?” Balden asks as Dorith nears him. “Won’t I arouse suspicion from them?”
Chuckling with a smile, Dorith responds, “They also bear my burden. All of my children do. You’ll understand. I’m sure they’ll tell you. Come,” Dorith motions toward the doors of the enormous council chambers.
As Dorith and Balden walk across the gigantic room, the half-elf wonders aloud, “What of Iltar? What will happen to him?”
“Like I said earlier, the truth must never surface. When Iltar came to us it was under the guise that a necromancer from Soroth was planning to wage war throughout Kalda, by using the Au’misha’k; the latter a particular detail not mentioned outside the council.
“What he did today validates his lie. A necromancer did come to Alath intending to incite war. Iltar will be tried for mass murder and espionage, to say the least.”
“Will he be killed?” Balden asks as they near the doors to the council chamber.
“I doubt it,” Dorith shakes his head, and they enter the parlor adjoining the council chambers.
They pass through it and Dorith continues his surmise of Iltar’s fate. “It will depend on the voice of the people. But he’ll most likely be sentenced to the Mage-Block of Ahzeald. It’s the only place which could contain a powerful mage, the likes of him.”
Balden solemnly nods, and Dorith suggests, “Wait for me within the Main Hall, perhaps go to Almar’s office. It’s across from mine. Then we’ll go to my home.”
* * * * *
Nearly half an hour later, Dorith and the aforementioned plainclothes-mage reach the Inner City’s southern gate, both riding magically composed steeds.
The plainclothes-mage is dressed in a casual garb of a tunic and pants, with a cloak wrapped around him. He’s of a muscular build, sitting taller than Dorith. Long wavy blonde hair bobs as he dismounts his steed. Pale gray-lavender eyes sternly study Dorith while the grandmaster meticulously examines the gateway.
“Grandmaster?”
Turning the his saddle, Dorith dismounts and replies, “My apologies, Credal.”
“What else can you tell me about this Cornar?” Credal asks.
“I’ve told you all I know,” Dorith says and strides toward the gate.
He presses on the indentation along the archway while Credal sighs, “A dagger with a serrated edge is not much to go on.”
At that moment, the blue magic quickly retreats into the curving stonework, unbarring the Inner City’s southern gate.
“I know,” Dorith nods then says, “Be safe.”
“I will,” Credal says, and steps through the gate and into the inverted dome structure heralding the entrance to Alath’s heart.
Dorith presses on the indentation, and the blue veil lashes from the archway, covering the opening once again. He watches Credal stride through the inverted dome’s arches and into the open air.
The plainclothes-mage utters a spell, and orange light gathers in his left hand, forming several small orbs of fiery magic.
Immediately thereafter, Credal extends his right hand, holding Iltar’s rogulin crystal and utters another incantation.
Golden light erupts from the crystal, engulfing the plainclothes-mage and he vanishes through a conjuration portal.
Soon after, Dorith speedily turns from the gate, striding toward the steeds. He waves his hand in a dismissing motion and both transmuted horses crumble into their raw earthen materials.
The grandmaster utters a sharp incantation, then says, “Eradas, come forth.”
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Almar, Griffith, R
egas, and Balden rest in the elder grand mage’s office within the Estate’s Main Hall.
The mages sit around Almar’s rectangular desk, squarely positioned at the room’s rear, while Balden leans against the room’s left corner. Almar sits in a high-back chair behind the desk while the Agents of the Order slump in half-back chairs in front of it.
The half-elf and the agents converse about the battle, while Almar silently stares at a detailed portrait of his father, Adrin, across the room. It depicts his father during middle-age, with features identical to both his sons, with light brown hair, vibrant blue eyes and smooth skin.
Father, what would you have done?
Amid Almar’s thoughtful stare, Balden remarks, “The three of you look the same.”
Sighing, Almar turns toward the half-elf and sadly says, “I wish our similarities were more than that.”
“I still think you should help us,” Griffith shakes his head, looking at Balden. “I’d have you fight by my side any day.”
“There are other things I must attend to in Merda,” the half-elf shrugs. “After all, I am the Arch Magi. There’s still much to do to repair the city.”
“Dorith wants you to go back,” Almar observes. “Doesn’t he?”
Balden darts a glance to Almar, struggling to hide his unwillingness to answer his question.
“No. I understand,” Almar says reassuringly. “Your presence will provoke too many questions. After all, it is only the council and these agents that know the truth about why Iltar was here, and did what he did.”
“Why would it matter?” Regas speaks up. “We didn’t harbor any resentment or felt disillusioned by learning the truth. Surely, the people of Alath will feel the same.”
“It’s meant to be a secret for a reason,” Almar sternly looks at Regas. “The Amulet was one of the most powerful objects ever created; to wield it would grant its possessor the ability to shape ours and other worlds to their will. It brought freedom, once. But, it could bring death and destruction on a colossal level.
“Besides, it’s not right to burden our people with that knowledge. Many would not know what to think of it. The very awareness of its existence could drive some into devastating paranoia. And when knowledge of it spreads to other nations, it could incite war. It is best kept secret–”