* * * * *
As Kallan was joining his brethren, each of the wooden and glass doors of Cornar’s home swing open.
Alarmed, the aged warrior rises from the step he’s resting on, hastily darting past Nilia who is standing to his right. Cornar swiftly draws his serrated dagger and quickly drops into a defensive stance. Throughout the home the sound of other metal grinds as weapons are unsheathed.
In the middle of the foyer, Nemral appears from his concealing cloak. Shocked, the thief looks at Cornar and the other men who have quickly surrounded him with their weapons.
“Nemral…” Cornar lets out the breath gathered in his lungs and shakes his head while sheathing his weapon. “When you come back like that you need to give us the signal.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot,” Nemral sighs and scratches his head. “This is my first job with all of you. I guess it’ll take me some time to get used to how you work. I thought you’d know it was me when I opened the door.”
Amid the thief’s explanation, Aron and Shen close the doors so that their conversation doesn’t reach the ears of those passing by in the street.
“Be glad we didn’t strike,” Nordal states frankly from the doorway of the large parlor.
“Listen,” Cornar beckons while in front of the thief then recites the signal. He whistles, rising in pitch at first then descending below and back up at a pitch between the two. “Don’t forget it,” he pats the thief on the shoulder and gives him a quick, tight grip to emphasize the point.
With that said, Cornar addresses the members of the expedition scattered between the rooms.
“The council is gathered in their chambers. Group up with the men you traveled with through the city. Once we get outside the council chambers, we will take up our positions. My men will be with me outside the chamber’s doors, as well as the three wizards and Hagen. Both of you thieves,” Cornar looks at Nemral and Nath, the latter standing near the large parlor’s doorway, “Will watch the two corridors leading to the western hall where we will stand. Nordal, you’ll be with Amendal, Dith, and Clodin.
“Nilia,” the leading warrior turns to face the young woman still leaning against the wall. “I want you to lead us out. Act like you heard something within the street, leaving the doors and the gates open. I will be the last one out, and I will tap on the stone wall twice, then you can go back inside the house. Don’t go anywhere until I’ve returned.”
The young woman silently nods her head nervously.
“Let’s move!”
At Cornar’s command, the warriors reassemble themselves around the mages. The words of the invisibility spells echo about the room from the six mages, and they all vanish from sight.
Swallowing hard, Nilia steps forward, edging her way through the magically concealed men. She opens the door and briskly walks down the path, focusing her attention on an imaginary noise to the north. Just as planned, she runs to the gate and opens it, then stands just beyond the path separating the street from the walls of Cornar’s estate.
After several seconds a small tap on the stone catches her ear, and she turns to face it. She takes a deep breath and closes the gate then rushes back inside Cornar’s home.
Meanwhile, the gates of the Necrotic Order are still opened as they were when Midar and Cordel escorted Iltar and his invisible companions. The street outside the guild hall has little traffic, making it easier for the clandestine siege to occur.
Still at their posts outside, Midar and Cordel stand at the doors of the main building of the magical complex; their familiar faces bring a smile to Cornar’s invisible face.
At the head of the invisible convoy a soft whistle, exactly like the one Cornar had demonstrated minutes before, bounces off the granite-like surface of the edifice’s exterior.
Midar grins at the sound and moves to open the door on the left, while Cordel opens the one on the right. Both warriors hold the doors open while the small army creeps inside the building.
The patter of the invisible expedition’s footfalls lightly sound through the vacant entry corridor and into the grand foyer.
After a moment, another whistle trails off down the corridor to the west, then Midar and Cordel close the doors and follow their invisible friends.
12
Conquest
Kallan warily saunters across the council room, his footsteps echo off the stone. He sits in his ornate, high-back chair across from Jalel and beside Iltar.
“We are all gathered,” Alacor says, directing his words to Iltar. “You are among friends, remove your cowl,” the last has a tone of command to it.
From beneath the cowl, Iltar’s sapphire eyes are bright and glisten with a strange light. The jeweled eyes stare deep into Alacor’s, who looks back with a growing impatience.
“Well?!” Alacor pounds his fist on the table. “Speak!”
A smile forms across Iltar’s shrouded face and he chuckles, “It is good to see all of you together…”
“Quit stalling Iltar!” Jalel demands as he stands from his seat
“Such impatience,” Iltar spits out. “You never would have become a member of this council if it wasn’t for your brother!” Iltar’s eyes narrow and his lips twist in hatred.
Kallan and Velkor lean back, shocked by Iltar’s accusation. Everyone knew of Iltar’s displeasure when Jalel joined the Order’s council, but no one thought he would accuse Alacor of nepotism outright.
“Enough!” Alacor shouts, attempting to restore order. “Sit down Jalel! Iltar,” he demands in a tone devoid of sympathy. “You will explain your plight!”
“Oh, it is not my plight,” Iltar chuckles and glances to Alacor then looks around at the others as he continues to speak. “A little over two weeks ago we set sail. Instead of sailing to Tor, we traveled northward. Kenard took us almost as far as Merath, to an uncharted island. The waters surrounding the island were extremely turbulent; with an inexperienced captain and crew it would have surely torn the ship apart. After half a day of slow traveling, Kenard piloted us to a small beach, a bay that looked like paradise.
“The day after we reached the bay, twenty of us, including myself, went ashore. We traveled for a day into the interior of the island, where we encountered creatures of legend.” Iltar pauses, then says the next with a tone of sarcasm, “The great platinum dragons.”
The necromancers around the table are full of mixed emotion at this revelation: some gasp, other look intrigued, but Jalel and Alacor face twist in frustration and confusion.
Iltar grins while looking at his fellow council members, then continues retelling the tale.
“But that isn’t the best part. Three weeks prior to today I was delivered a set of scrolls and books by a man who is very loyal to me. In fact they were found on the so called ‘Isle of the Ancient Ones.’ It was within those texts I uncovered the island’s location we journeyed to, the Dragon’s Isle. The scrolls chronicled how the dragon’s won that ancient civil war between themselves as well as describing two artifacts that were the principle sources of their victory: An amulet that has the power to control chromatic dragons, a stone that can tether worlds together, called by the dragons, ‘shiz’nak.’ According to the scrolls, the amulet was scattered and remains hidden… but not for long.”
“You are insane!” Toroth interrupts Iltar vehemently, throwing his hands in the air. “Why are we listening to this?”
Ignoring the outburst, Iltar continues, “We captured a dragon, and he revealed the amulet’s location. Soon I will overthrow worlds with an army of the most powerful creatures at my beck and whim.
“However, six obstacles are still in my way,” Iltar looks around at the others.
“You.”
Enraged, Alacor violently rises from his chair and slams both of his open hands on the table, “Iltar! I hereby stricken you from our council! We will have you imprisoned and tortured the remainder of your days!”
Still sitting and shrouded by
his cowl, Iltar turns to face Alacor, “Stricken from the council?” The necromancer bursts into laughter, “I am the council!”
Laughter cackles from underneath the necromancer’s cowl as the others hurriedly get up from their chairs and back away, readying themselves for battle.
In anger, Jalel lifts his hand into the air and utters an incantation. A ball of green magic swirls in his palm. The magical mass inside thickens, creating a sphere of acid that attempts to ooze out but is contained by the necromancer’s magic. Once it forms, Jalel hurls it at Iltar’s head.
Iltar laughs louder as the acidic magic races toward his face, but instead of erupting against his skin it flies through him, colliding against the chair and eroding the fabric.
Unscathed from the magical assault, the image of Iltar continues laughing, his humorous uproar only heightened by Jalel’s failure.
“You all are fools,” Iltar’s voice echoes through the small circular room in the tower of Cornar’s estate, and then within the council chambers where his perfect magical duplication of himself is sitting. “Have you forgotten I was trained as an illusionist?
“This is why you are not fit to lead. You are weak, stupid, and cowardly! After today the Order will be mine. I will restore it to its former glory. No longer will necromancy be the only magical art taught here. For having too many necromancers in one place together will only prove chaos! That is not what I need in order to accomplish my designs,” Iltar’s voice echoes in two places at once.
As Iltar’s illusion speaks to the council, several of them try to open the doors into the hallway. Kallan and Velkor both grasp for the metal knobs but quickly snatch their hands away.
“It’s frozen!” Kallan shouts and looks back to Alacor.
Each of the six council members briefly look to each other, then quickly move toward the rear of the room, heading for the secret door and the hidden passageway. Amid their dash, Iltar continues to goad his former brethren.
“Imbeciles, I can’t believe it!” Iltar’s illusion laughs as the six necromancers reach the hidden door and struggle to open it. “You were captured twice in a month’s time. I will make sure your failures are recorded in history. ‘The six leading necromancers of the Necrotic Order of Soroth that were captured by acolytes, and then by one of their own members.’ Truly pathetic!”
“You will not get away with this Iltar,” Jalel shouts from the rear of the necromancers gathered at the door. “We will find you wherever you are!”
“Oh but I will,” the illusion mocks as Alacor and Toroth crack open the secret door. “And, fair warning, you don’t want to go that way! Besides, I’m coming to you.”
Once the door opens, the light from the council room spills into the hidden passageway. To the fleeing necromancers’ surprise, it’s blocked by a large and dark humanoid creature crouched in the short tunnel. As the creature moves forward, a strong putrid stench fills the room.
Toroth catches the brunt of the fumes, and he quickly runs away from the uncovered threshold. The afflicted council member stumbles to the ground, violently convulsing and expunging his bowels.
Amid Toroth’s vomiting, each of the other five necromancers hurriedly back up from the blocked doorway, as two large, gray finger-like prongs reach from the shadows and grab the edge of the hidden door frame. Bracing itself against the frame, the creature pulls itself through the opening.
Emerging into the light, the necromancers see the creature’s arms, covered in gray skin that glistens from a film of moisture. Rows of large pores contract and expand line it limbs, making a slopping sound as they pulse.
As it moves forward, a large foot-like appendage stomps on the stone floor. It has two similar prong-shaped phalanges connected to a large trunk-like foot, and a retracting heel that helps the creature balance.
The creature’s gray silky head emerges into the light; it is slightly oval with a jaw that’s longer than a typical human’s, and has a strange mouth that opens at five points rather than two. Besides the strange gray lips that line the mouth, the rest of the creature’s face is devoid of features; where the nose and eyes would be expected is only a semi-flat surface that shallowly curves as it runs to either side of the face. Two sharp grooves on either side of its head run to the back of the cranium, starting from where the temples of a typical human skull would be. Two small holes, slightly different from the others are positioned on either side of its head; each have a ridge that lines the rear side of the holes and assist in capturing sound.
Once in the room, the creature stands erect, almost a phineal and a half above the necromancers. It is of a thick, muscular build with strong limbs. Large pores line each of the creature’s appendages, inside and out. Several rows of similar pores wrap around its torso, placed along its ribcage.
Upon its inner thighs and on its chest near its shoulders are four large slits in the skin that are pulled shut; the skin around the slits is wrinkled and shows signs of stretching. The slits violently open and the odor in the corridor spills into the room.
Still moving away, the remaining members of the council cover their noses and utter the words to cast protective magics about themselves.
With the necromancer’s retreating, the creature opens its five-pointed mouth and a large forked gray-pink tongue slithers out. This tentacle-like appendage also has the same pores as its skin. The tissue of the organ is moist and warm, giving off heat as it moves out of the creature’s throat; it reaches over two phineals in length from the creature’s lips.
Ambling into the room in a wide stance, the creature leans forward with its arms outstretched. Its tongue flails every which way as it searches for the necromancers. Its hands angrily squeeze and expand its three prong like fingers, which are much like its feet but with a third phalange on the lower part of its palm, acting as a thumb. In the center of the palm is another slit just like the ones on its chest and legs.
“Oh, come now!” Iltar’s illusion taunts the others. “You can’t be afraid of a mage’s parasite; you’re the governors of the Necrotic Order! Strike it down!” The illusion laughs at his estranged brothers of magic.
Amid Iltar’s goading remarks, several more figures move in the darkness of the secret passage, and two more magical devourers enter the room. These creatures are known among students of the magical arts as mage’s parasites; because of their ability to absorb magic. Even deadly energies from magic wielders can be reconstituted back into another form of destructive power.
Seeing the additional mage’s parasites, Alacor cries out, “Summon something!”
In response, Melnor and Kallan quickly dash back across the room. Once near the doors they utter incantations that musters forth golden light, opening mystical portals to summon minions. Not only had the two been adept in necromancy, but they were well versed conjurers.
“The two of you are no match for Amendal Aramein,” Iltar’s illusion grins at the necromancers who are busy casting spells to defend themselves. “That’s right not all of my men died on the Dragon’s Isle… I still have twenty one left of the twenty eight that went with me, and they’re all here.”
Jalel angrily shouts a magical incantation, quickly gathering a white cluster of magic together in his hands. After a moment, he hurls it at Iltar’s illusion, dispelling the magical image.
The Dragons' Legacy Page 27