* * * * *
Several minutes later, Iltar steps out into the cool evening air. A storm is brewing to the west, and the necromancer grunts at the prospect of rain.
He mutters to himself, “It’s times like this I wish the road through the forest was paved, like the streets of the city.”
Amid his foul mood, Iltar quickly crosses the courtyard of the guild hall and down the path to the stables.
Once upon his steed, Iltar darts through the narrow path and the opened metal gateway.
The necromancer gallops his horse through the empty streets of the city, riding east toward the northernmost part of Soroth’s waterfront. With the coming storm, many of the citizens of the city have retired to their homes or other places of resort, much like Iltar is about to do himself.
Over half an hour later, Iltar’s steed gallops through the city’s northeastern square; it houses the northern most pier, a shipyard, and is home to one of the most notorious taverns on the island. This section of the city is on a small neck of land that protrudes out from the main part of the island.
Upon reaching the fabled tavern, Iltar abruptly stops his steed, causing him to rear upon his hind legs. Such theatrical entrances were something Iltar enjoyed. In a way, the attention he attracted made up for the lack of it as a child. Although he rarely acknowledged it, it was something he craved deeply.
After tying his horse to the metal posts outside the tavern, Iltar walks around to the left of the building. He passes a sign with its name, The Sea Vistonia. Beyond the sign is the entry way of the restaurant that overlooks the northern shore, splitting the view between the forest to the west and the sea to the east. He opens one of the thick double doors and nonchalantly walks inside the tavern.
The sounds of music and chatter rush at him as he steps forward into the waiting area. On busy nights patrons were often obliged to wait outside and enjoy the view while their tables were prepared; however, tonight is not one of those nights. Few people wait in the entry lounge, and only half of the tables are full in the large room beyond the entry.
After a moment of waiting, Iltar notices a young hostess approaching from the bar opposite the entry; she had been away from her duties and her embarrassment is apparent as she approaches. She knew better than to keep customers with Iltar’s appearance waiting.
“H-How many are with you?” the young woman asks, flustered as she looks at Iltar with slight trepidation.
“My friends are most likely seated as we speak, I’ll look for them myself,” the necromancer states coldly as he walks by the young girl.
“Yes… Yes sir,” the hostess stammers from behind him.
With that said, Iltar ambles through the center of the tavern, meticulously scanning the large room. He doesn’t recognize his friends’ faces, so he continues to the east of the building through a wide hall, passing a corridor leading to the kitchen and a set of stairs ascending to the establishment’s second floor.
Over the years the tavern has grown in its popularity, which warranted an expansion. Another room, much like the first but without a bar, is partially full. This room has become a favorite for many of the taverns patrons, due to the views from the windows and the sounds of the sea that can be heard from time to time.
A familiar face catches Iltar’s eye to his left, and he continues to the booth. The enclosure is large enough to seat several people on each side of the glossy wood table. Deep red fabric, with colorful designs of gold, dark green and brown threads adorn the crimson cushions.
Three man sit at the booth, each in their early fifties and show signs of wrinkles around their eyes and highlights of gray in their hair. They wear casual attire, much like Iltar. Their light chatter continuing as he approaches, and Iltar nonchalantly sits beside the man on the left bench. The other two sit across the table, one much shorter than the other.
“…I tell you. If it wasn’t for that crazy old man we wouldn’t be here today!” the short man squeaks out in a high-pitched voice, sitting in the corner opposite of Iltar. This short man has a slender jawline with light brown hair with a sharp nose that dots his face. His hazel eyes try to focus on the men around him but shift from side to side.
“Sure, Hagen,” the tall man across from Iltar responds. “But we all know it was Igan here who got us out of that mess.” He points to the man beside the necromancer.
“Okay Hex…” Hagen drunkenly admits. “Igan had the strategy but the old man was the one who executed the plan… and greetings Iltar,” the short man nods his head with a platonic smile for their new guest.
Iltar nods and relaxes. Although he doesn’t admit it, he relishes these times with Cornar and these men, his only true friends. The members of the council are mere acquaintances when compared to them.
“So we’re just missing Amendal…” Hagen muses, looking around. Then with a smile he exclaims, “I love that old codger!”
“How much has he been drinking?” Iltar asks bemused.
“The usual,” Igan responds and glances at Iltar. “Just one drink.”
Igan is of average height, a thick build and light brown hair with eyes of the same color. His bare face is slightly rounded and currently shows no amusement for the conversation at hand.
“Yes, the illusionist can’t hold his liquor!” Hex quips. He is almost as tall as Iltar and has light blonde hair with dull blue-gray eyes. He is the most slender of the four men.
“That’s not true…” Hagen turns to Hex and gives him a sullied look. “Waiter!”
Hagen waves his hand in the air attempting to grab the young man’s attention from across the room, who is serving warm meals to a young couple. However, Hagen’s shout doesn’t carry over the chatter in the large room.
“Good luck,” Hex chuckles, then he and Igan jovially continue to berate their friend.
Amid the banter, Iltar notices Hagen’s demeanor changing; the short man swallows hard and crosses his eyes in an attempt to focus on the corridor Iltar had previously traversed.
Furrowing his brow, Iltar turns around and notices a shrouded figure who slowly enters the large space.
The hooded man, dressed in a black robe and a cowl made of the same material, saunters through the dining chamber. His face is hidden from view, and the light of the lanterns do not penetrate the shadows cast upon his face.
A smile spreads across Iltar’s face as he turns back to face the others and he chuckles softly. Out of the corner of his eyes, Iltar watches as the figure approaches him and his friends; the stranger’s facial features still blackened by the clothing.
A hand raises from the figures side and points at the table. “Is there room?” a deep voice bellows from beneath the cowl.
“Of course. Sit down Amendal,” Iltar says as he moves slightly closer to Igan.
The old man, nearly twenty years older than the necromancer, removes his cowl and sits down on the cushioned bench. Amendal has a neatly trimmed beard and short hair. His long face is wrinkled and shows his age. Yet his green eyes are alert and vibrant, still full of youth.
“We were just talking about you, old man,” Hex says from across the table.
“Oh, I hope it wasn’t anything…” the newcomer pauses while looking around the table, “Insulting.”
“I was just reminiscing of the time you saved us while we were exploring the ruins of Karthar,” Hagen remarks, slightly slurring his words.
The oldest of the friendly quintet looks at the drunken man in the corner with a raised brow, “When was that…?”
“See,” Hex looks at Hagen, “He doesn’t remember, just give the credit to Igan.”
With a blank stare Hagen looks around at the four others and says, “Maybe he’s going senile.”
Iltar attempts to hold back the laughter, but it bursts through his stern composure. Hex and Igan follow suit and the table erupts with the sounds of humor. Even Amendal chuckles.
“You better stop spreading that story
Hagen,” Amendal says through the others’ laughter. “It would be bad if people discovered I was soft in my younger years.”
Hearing the words, the others laugh even harder at Amendal’s remarks.
After the laughter settles, Hex speaks up, “This is great! If we only had Cornar here it’d be just like old times.”
“Where is Cornar?” Igan asks, “I would have thought he’d come. Didn’t you ask him, Iltar?”
“He’s busy tonight,” Iltar replies flatly.
“That’s a pity,” Hagen says, looking down at his empty mug.
“What? That mug or the lack of Cornar’s presence?” Hex jests and continues laughing.
“Both…”
Amid the exchange, Iltar looks around Amendal, searching for someone to wait on them.
Noticing the necromancer’s probing glance, Amendal shakes his head. “Just because it is a stormy night, it doesn’t mean you have to cut your staff.” He turns away from the table and waves his hands in the open space just beyond the fabric bench, softly uttering a magical incantation.
“Oh no…” Hagen trails off, noticing Amendal’s spell casting.
Yellow magic wisps together, forming a waist-high oval shape just in front of the old man. Amendal continues to wave his hands and finishes reciting the incantation.
Iltar sits back and folds his arms, patiently waiting for Amendal to finish.
“I hope you’re not conjuring something to eat,” Igan leans forward, looking at the opening golden portal.
“Like that time outside Durash!” Hagen exclaims.
“Exactly,” Igan grunts, disgust forming upon his face.
Amendal was one of the oldest conjurers on Soroth and well versed in the magical discipline. Much like Iltar, he spent most of his time in seclusion within his woodland estate, conjuring creatures and testing the limits of his concentration.
The others watch intently as the old man finishes his spell. They wait in anticipation for what is about to come forth. Amendal was known for his unstable mental state, and when he conjured creatures without prior planning it often resulted in unusual and disturbing twists.
After several moments, a creature emerges from the mystical vortex, about the height of an average man’s torso, covered in dark skin. It flutters in the air, flapping its spotted transparent wings. The creature turns around to face Amendal and the rest of the men at the booth.
Its bottom half is snake-like; a tail curls as the being dances in the air. Above the waist the creature is similar to a human, with a chest, arms and hands. The head of the twisted being is round, with a snout much like a sea horse and eyes that are small and black. At the end of the snout, the lips curl and the creature articulates with its long tongue.
“What is your bidding, Master?” the creature asks in a high pitch tone.
“Fench, I’m hungry! Get the chef to prepare our meals. I want my usual. And grab another drink for Hagen, whatever he was having, I’m sure you can smell it.”
“Yes, Master,” the creature bobs and buzzes off through the corridor adjoining the two rooms of the tavern.
“Have I ever conjured something to eat?” Amendal turns to the others in reply, annoyed by the previous question.
“No… but you’re crazy enough to try it,” Hex shoots back in a questioning tone.
“That is one ugly fairy…” Hagen says, looking at his empty mug.
“It’s not like you haven’t seen him before,” Hex laughs and elbows Hagen in the chest.
After several moments, Fench with another large mug, filled to the brim. The liquid contents spills over as the creature sets it on the glossy table in front of Hagen, and the conjuration smiles with his strange lips.
“I also brought these, Master, for your friends,” in the creature’s other hand he holds several stretched parchments on thin wooden planks, menus of the tavern’s services.
“Master Iltar,” Fench hands the menu to the necromancer, and Iltar returns a ungrateful gesture. The conjuration distributes the menus in quick succession, then hovers beside his master.
“Thank you, Fench,” Amendal states curtly.
A moment later, a hurried young man stumbles to the table, “I’m sorry, sirs, there are few of us today. I will take your orders to the kitchen if you’re ready.”
The men order their respective meals and resume their jovial conversation, recalling various exploits they undertook throughout the years.
Outside, the storm continues to brew. Iltar and his friends’ booth allows for a perfect view of the tempest. Iltar muses to himself, This is the ideal setting for my request tonight. And they’re already reminiscing about adventure…
A quarter of an hour later, the waiter promptly returns with their meals. The cuisine is masterfully prepared, well cooked and neatly organized in a fashion pleasant to the eye; this tavern was a favorite of theirs for a reason.
As they eat, the evening’s conversation shifts to the events which transpired in the city the last several days.
“It really is a tragedy,” Hagen says between swallows, “The revolt within the Order could cripple all of our livelihoods.”
“Speak for yourself, Hagen,” Igan responds. “Most of mine and Hex’s apprentices have come from people we know, or who have personally sought us out.”
“Still, it casts a bad shadow on us wizards,” Hex interjects. “The rebellion has the potential to ruin the Order.”
Iltar sits quietly and listens, waiting for just the right moment to spring his plot. He is pleased as it falls right into his lap.
“That’s what happens when a group of necromancers take over and rename your guild,” Amendal mumbles through his teeth, his mouth partially full of food. “Fifty years ago this incident wouldn’t have even occurred, let alone taken root.”
“Fifty years ago we were still sucking for our mothers’ milk,” Hagen spurts, laughing.
Raising his brow at the drunken mage, Amendal continues, “In those days each seat of the Sorothian Magical Order’s council occupied a head of each school of magic. No offense Iltar.” Amendal glances at his friend beside him, “But those in charge do not know how to maintain the Order.” The old man takes a deep swallow before continuing his rare logical speech.
“First of all, they allowed themselves to be captured. I heard that several of them were napping when the incident occurred! And the acolytes with their mercenaries burst right into their chambers and bound them. Does no one keep their doors trapped anymore?!” Amendal shakes his head at the thought.
“If that were fifty years ago, the council members would have posted guards in and outside their rooms, plus have their doors magically locked. And even if they could get in, it would prove fatal. In those days the masters of magic kept many spells actively in motion about them, even as they slept!”
“Amendal has a point,” Iltar says, “And things will change.”
“What do you mean?” Hex asks, looking toward the man who has said little all night. “What has the council decided?”
Iltar can’t help but smile and chuckle. “They’ve put me in charge of leading an expedition to seek out new acolytes. It was my idea of course, so naturally I was given the charge.
“I have been thinking of the details as we’ve sat here, and as Amendal was speaking,” he gestures to the eldest mage, “It dawned on me! If we are to rebuild the Order, and I don’t mean recapture its former glory, not yet at least, we need to diversify our teachings.”
The four other men nod their heads, catching Iltar’s point.
The necromancer looks carefully at each of them, feeling an uncharacteristic spike of nerves. Was he really going to con his oldest friends into his own designs? Yes, he knew he would. He needed them.
“I need the four of you to come with me, to help me rebuild our Order–”
“An adventure!” Hagen gasps with drunken excitement.
Iltar smirks a smile, stares at Hagen for a moment
then continues, “And find new apprentices, not just those suitable for necromancy.
“I can use an arcanist,” Iltar looks to Igan then to Hex, “And an elementalist. You both represent the wizarding arts and are quite expert in your disciplines. And another illusionist,” Iltar adds, looking to Hagen. “New apprentices will need to see someone such as yourself, Hagen. And of course,” the necromancer glances to Amendal, “We must show off our best conjurer.”
“In one week I will appear before the council with the details of the journey. If you need, I will authorize a share of the expenses of the trip to go to you,” Iltar remains solemn, and the others seriously contemplate his offer.
“I don’t need a new apprentice,” Amendal raises his voice, as if the thought of a new student angers him.
Turning to his friend, Iltar attempts to pacify him, “You don’t have to have an apprentice Amendal, just help us find new students.”
“I have had two apprentices for forty years! Even though they are masters of conjuration, they are still my apprentices, and I will not take anymore!” the old man stubbornly folds his arms and furrows his brow.
Slightly annoyed at his friend’s instability Iltar replies, “That’s fine, but will you come with us?”
“I might…” Amendal’s green emeralds stare almost distraught into Iltar’s sapphire eyes, “Scare them.”
“Then you scare them. Consider it a way of filtering out the weak.” Iltar mollifies the old man and looks to his other three friends. “What about the rest of y–”
“More brandleberry wine?” the waiter interrupts.
Iltar looks at the boy, feeling disgust, but makes an effort to remain calm and extends his glass past Amendal.
Hagen, Hex, and Igan ponder on Iltar’s request as the boy pours the wine for them. After he leaves, they continue contemplating. They hesitate to answer, but the thoughts of traveling with Iltar again are enough to push them to answer positively. For many years, from their youth to just a decade ago, each of them had the privilege of exploring some part of the world with Iltar. The necromancer had left a legacy behind him, and it was this memory that stirred their answers.
“Yes,” Hex replies, looking at Iltar with a sense of loyalty.
“Count me in,” Igan states, putting his hand on Iltar’s shoulder.
“I guess so,” Hagen says with a smile.
Iltar turns to Amendal, who is still folding his arms. Sometimes Amendal’s condition made him childlike, stubborn, rude, sporadic, impatient, and full of surprises.
“Well?” the necromancer asks slowly, nudging the old conjurer with his elbow.
“Fine, I’ll go.”
“Then it’s settled,” Iltar says with a smile. “I don’t know when we will leave, I will probably give that task to Cornar. He–”
“Cornar’s coming?” Hagen interrupts excitedly, “Aw, this is going to be great!”
“Yes, he is coming, as well as several of his men; and I intend for it to be better than great,” Iltar remarks with a smile.
The Dragons' Legacy Page 7