* * * * *
The triumphant necromancer walks the darkening streets of the city, still in his battle-torn robe with his cowl over his shoulders. He travels northward and makes several turns along streets to the east, zigzagging his way to the structure of the now Sorothian Magical Order.
Outside the Order’s buildings, a large crowd has gathered. Members of the City Watch stand outside the closed gate. Red cords have been strung across the gates, indicating a scene under quarantined investigation. There is a commotion within the crowd, and Iltar can discern that the people gathered are demanding to know what is happening at the magical compound.
As Iltar steps closer, several of the people turn and recognize him. One man points and shouts to the others, “Look! He’s a member of the council, maybe he knows!”
Still walking forward, Iltar grins but quickly regains a serious composure. He stops just beyond the questioning mob and addresses them.
“Citizens of Soroth, today marks the beginning of a rebirth. No longer will the corrupt necromancers shackle the students of this once great magical order. The Necrotic Order of Soroth died today!” Iltar takes a deep breath before continuing. “And tomorrow, as the sun rises in the west, so too will a new order, the Sorothian Magical Order!”
Many of the onlookers stare quietly as the necromancer in front of them lets the words sink into their minds. That name had not been mentioned in over three decades; most of the younger generation listening had no idea what the name meant.
“As the last surviving member of the former organization, I hereby publicly disband it, and I now announce the reformation of our ancient order. Soon,” Iltar points at the gates wrapped in red cords, “These gates will be opened to anyone who desires to be a student of any magical discipline. No longer will caste or creed dictate ones access to learn the magical arts, nor will necromancy prevail.”
Cheers erupt from the crowd, and others stand in amazement at Iltar’s declaration. Some speak amongst themselves of the possibilities of this new change.
Amid the cheers, Iltar looks directly at the gate with the two watchmen and pushes his way forward.
As the necromancer moves through the mass of bodies, several reach for him in a gesture of gratitude. Grateful cries penetrate his ears, along with other queries as to the nature of the change, and when they will allow new students into the order. Iltar ignores them and continues to move through the crowd.
“Where are the other men that were detained?” Iltar shouts over the crowd as he reaches the two watchmen.
“We released them not long before you arrived. I believe they went that way,” the watchman on the left points in an easterly direction.
Narrowing his eyes, and without any words of gratitude for the two watchmen, Iltar moves along the magical order’s gates to the wall of its northern border. However, the crowd shifts and follows, their questions still ringing in his ears.
Reluctantly, Iltar stops. Irritation shrouds his face, but slowly fades as he takes a step to turn and face the crowd. Exercising restraint was not something the necromancer was used to doing.
“Soon, all your questions will be answered. I’m sure the governor will make an address. As to when we will open our doors, it will be some time. We need to gather those that are able to teach their arts. Perhaps as little as a week or as long as months, but the faster knowledge of this change gets around, the sooner we will attract those needed to revitalize the Order.”
With that said Iltar turns and quickly leaves. The same frustration covers his face again, and he dons his cowl to hide his fury of emotions building within him.
After several minutes of walking, Iltar reaches Cornar’s city estate; the gates are closed, but from the archway Iltar can see movement from within the home.
Opening the metal gate, the necromancer steps in and closes it behind him. His pace is quick as he treads across the stone walkway to the estate’s covered porch.
As Iltar approaches the porch, the doors open from within and the necromancer steps through. Drunken chatter about the entire ordeal fills the two rooms and the connecting foyer as he enters.
With his emotions reaching a crescendo, Iltar grabs the door’s edge and slams it forcefully with the man on the other side still grasping the handle.
At the crashing sound, the chatter ceases and Iltar’s rotten mood fills the air.
“I was wondering when you would show up,” Cornar calls out from the hall in front and to the right of the main doorway, carrying a platter of tall glasses filled with a pale-blue alcoholic beverage.
“Care for one?” the warrior asks as he approaches his life-long friend.
Iltar reaches forward and grabs a glass, swallowing most of its contents.
“It was that bad?”
“The fool had the audacity to bind me and deliver me to the governor like some trophy,” Iltar snarls. “I swear, one day I will make him pay for that indenture!
“Now, is everyone here?”
“Yes, we all came back together… I figured you would want to talk to us.”
Still standing by the door, Iltar swallows hard before speaking, “All of you,” the necromancer snaps, “Listen up! The City Watch will be observing all of you closely. Be careful what you say, and how you say it, especially those of you who went ashore. If people ask for details, don’t give them any; reinforce that it was a nightmarish place you want to forget. From here on out, make yourselves available to Cornar and myself. You can all go, except for Hagen, Hex and Amendal.”
Cornar’s eyes narrow, anticipating that Iltar wants to talk to them in private. Knowing that some of the men won’t want to leave their host’s collection of liquor just yet, the warrior motions for Iltar to follow him. Cornar hands the drink platter to Shen, who is standing in the doorway next to the parlor by the stairs.
Each of the individual mages Iltar called for walk into the foyer, holding their drinks in hand.
“Let’s talk elsewhere,” Cornar says and leads the quartet of magic wielders to the upper levels of his home.
Atop the second floor a hallway runs the width of the home, and several doors line the wall opposite the stairs. The warrior moves to the one immediately to the right of the landing and opens it; beyond the door is an average bedroom suite, with a large window on the right that has seating along the sill.
One by one, Iltar and his coconspirators enter the bedroom.
Hagen is the last to enter, shutting the door behind him. The illusionist smiles drunkenly as he moves into the room and sits on the edge of the bed next to Amendal.
Standing at the window, Iltar folds his arms and holds the tall glass with his higher hand while addressing the others, “It seems the governor bought the story. He had me released on good intentions, but they will be watching my every step. We need to continue to whisper disaster about the island and Merda.”
“What do we do now?” Hex asks, standing next to Cornar along the exterior wall of the room.
“We rebuild the order. I want to gather more information about Merda and get Balden released. After things are in place here, we can slip away. How, I’m not sure yet, but we will use Kenard’s ship. Perhaps something will come up we can use to our advantage.”
“So,” Hagen squeaks out drunkenly. “Do I get to be on the council?”
“Of course not,” Iltar chuckles. “I need my most capable mages with me when we go to Merda. And making a council member of anyone that went with me to the island would look suspicious. We need to find six mages, each a master of the separate magical arts to fill the council seats. A wizard, illusionist, conjurer, transmuter, barsionist, and arpranist. For now, we’ll have them instruct the new students that will flood our doors, but eventually we will need to find others adept enough to teach our masses.”
“Where are you going to find masters of the last two schools?” Hagen asks with a hiccup. “I don’t know of any that have stayed here on Soroth.”<
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“Do you want us to go find them, Iltar?” Hex offers.
“Actually, yes,” the necromancer turns to the wizard. “That will help greatly. Once we receive demands for those schools of magic we can compile a list. We can use that to help motivate those men and women to return to Soroth.”
“Amendal,” Iltar turns to the old conjurer, “I want to speak with your brother, Arintil. I would like him to be the first member of the council.”
The old conjurer nods his head and responds, “Good, I’m glad you didn’t ask me…”
Iltar gives the old man a grim smile and continues laying out his plans to the others in the room. “I intend to ask Baekal to join the council as well. I hope she accepts,” Iltar sighs as he thinks about facing her. Igan’s death could distant her, but he would rather have someone he know that hates him rather than someone unknown.
“Good luck with that,” Hagen squeaks out, tucking his chin into his chest.
“Do you want me to do anything, Iltar?” Cornar asks. “Anything in particular, I mean.”
“Besides gathering more men, no. Menal will be coming to speak with you. Perhaps you can conscript him for the journey.”
Addressing the rest generally, Iltar continues, “I want the five of us to meet in private like this as we progress towards our next expedition. If anything surfaces among the tasks you’re undertaking, you will summon all of us together so we can meet here. The cue will be that Cornar plans on hosting drinks at his estate.
“Hagen, I want you to help Hex in finding teachers and the last four council members. Deliver me a list of known persons that have left the islands within three days. Amendal, take a new apprentice, I –”
“No!” the old conjurer barks from the bed. “I will not take another apprentice!”
“You senile fool, quiet down!” Iltar barks through clenched teeth. “Remember, there are others down below. As the leader of our guild I order you to take a new apprentice. That young girl down there wants to be a conjurer, and you will teach her.”
“I don’t instruct women…” the old conjurer trails off as he looks to the ceiling and attempts to ignore Iltar in a childish way.
“She will be a good student, Amendal,” Cornar consoles. “Nilia is a dedicated woman.”
“I want you to teach her so she can help in rebuilding the Order,” Iltar states. “She could be the first of many new acolytes and training her in the magical arts will help further our recruitment. She will eagerly publish her ‘wonderful experiences’ throughout the city. In addition, I already told her she could become a conjurer, and I don’t want this new reputation I’ve created for myself to become tarnished.”
Grumbling, the old conjurer reluctantly concedes, “Fine! But I’m only teaching her within the walls of the Order.”
“You’re not going to take her home?” Hagen asks as he looks at his empty glass with disappointment, then to the old conjurer seated next to him.
“I don’t want to give her the wrong impression; after all, I am a handsome man,” Amendal states proudly, quickly changing his mood from annoyed to boastful.
Hex tries to holds back his laughter, but it’s not dammed for long. Soon, all the men are laughing at Amendal’s comment, helping break Iltar’s foul mood, and the necromancer places his glass on the sill.
Still chuckling, Cornar walks across the room and to the door, “I take it we’re done?”
Iltar nods and Cornar opens the door.
Outside the bedroom the warrior leans over the rail and shouts, “Nilia! Come up here.”
From the larger parlor, the young maid emerges with a similar serving platter to what Cornar had been carrying, “Yes?”
“You can leave that down there,” Cornar says and leans back. He stretches his arms and lets out a long exhale of breath.
A moment later, Nilia rushes up the stairs in a light jog. Her pale green eyes widen, not knowing what her employer will ask of her.
As she reaches the landing, she rounds the post and steps into the opened hall. Cornar motions for her to enter the doorway to her right. With some trepidation, she moves forward with the warrior behind her.
Once both are inside, Cornar closes the door. The senior mages stare at the young woman, with Amendal’s comments still lingering in their minds and their amusement still on their faces.
“Young woman,” Amendal says in a very stern and strict tone while he stands from the bed. He walks towards Nilia, and Cornar gently resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “By order of the Grandmaster of the Sorothian Magical Order, I take you as my apprentice in the conjuration arts.”
Shocked by the announcement, Nilia’s eyes widen even more and her jaw droops. She turns to Cornar behind her, who shares in her excitement; he nods, confirming the crazy old man’s words.
“You’re the first student of this new Order Nilia,” Iltar declares with a weighty tone. “Take it seriously, and be proud of this selection.”
As she recovers from the surprise, the young woman turns to Cornar and gives him a warm embrace. Tears brim the lids of her eyes as she looks up to Cornar with an elated smile.
“Now you can do what you’ve always wanted,” Cornar says as he looks down at the girl.
“Thank you!” Nilia gushes, she lets go of Cornar and reaches out to Amendal to hug him.
“Wait!” the old conjurer backs up, almost stumbling on the bed. “You must never touch your new master in such a way… it would not be appropriate.”
Slightly confused, Nilia looks to the others in the room.
“Don’t worry,” Iltar rises from his seat on the window sill, “He’s crazy. There is no rule for such things.”
“Oh,” the young woman looks down at the ground with a smile. “Thank you, Master Iltar… I mean, Grandmaster Iltar,” Nilia steps forward and gives Iltar a hug, resting her head against the necromancer’s chest.
With one arm, he hesitantly embraces her back; Iltar’s lack of sociability with the opposite sex had left him perplexedly at arm’s length for almost all interactions with them. This, coupled with gratitude, was very foreign to the necromancer.
Amid the embrace, Iltar looks across the room to Cornar, who bursts into comical laughter; his emerald eyes flash, amused by Iltar’s awkwardness.
Iltar pulls away from Nilia and grumbles, “Well, that’s enough of that. We have much work to do.”
14
Reformation
Later that evening, Iltar rides across the moonlit dirt road within Soroth’s vast forest with one of Cornar’s brown horses. His trunk containing the copies of the scrolls and his most valuable possessions is strapped to the back of the horse’s saddle; it bounces as the necromancer speeds through the woodland at magically enhanced speeds.
“Finally,” Iltar sighs as his borrowed horse gallops through the woodland’s edge surrounding his estate.
A grim smile forms upon Iltar’s face as his family’s old home and his tower come into view; without decreasing speed, Iltar bolts toward the section of stone roadway between the home and the stables.
The necromancer abruptly stops the horse, and it lets out a loud nicker and neigh that pierces the air.
As Iltar dismounts from Cornar’s brown beauty, his servants hurriedly come out from the side entrance of the home; his groomsman and his maid.
“Master Iltar, you’re home?!” the groomsman cries out in surprise as he grabs the reigns of the horse, “We didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“Do I ever tell you when I will return?” Iltar says irritably, exhausted from the day’s ordeals.
“No, of course not sir,” the groomsman mutters as he grabs the horse by the reigns. “I will deliver the chest to your study promptly.”
Iltar sighs tiredly and watches as the groomsman guides the horse to the stables, gently talking to the horse and calling him by name.
“Master Iltar,” the maid beckons.
Turning toward the doorway o
f the estate, Iltar tiredly glances to the maid who is stepping toward her employer; she is a woman of plain features with dull brown hair that is pulled back.
Once at his side, she asks, “Do you need anything?”
“Yes, clean clothes and some food,” Iltar grumbles as he walks toward the gates of his tower.
The maid hurriedly follows Iltar to the metal gates and rushes to push them open before he reaches them. She eyes her employer with a look of uncertainty as she walks side-by-side with Iltar into the tower and they ascend the three flights of stairs together.
Once in the anteroom atop the third floor, the necromancer removes a key from his robe; he unlocks the doorway in front of the top stair adjacent to his study, the same where he and Cornar plotted.
Upon entering the room, Iltar moves immediately to the far circular wall where a stairwell curves along it, leading to the fourth floor of the tower. The room they cross takes up over one fourth of the third floor; it is a sitting room with a fireplace on the wall next to the doorway. Throughout the space are luxurious pieces of furniture, akin to those found in Cornar’s city estate.
The stairs to the fourth floor open into a semi-circular bedchamber. It takes up nearly half of the floor and houses a large, lavish bed situated against the straight wall of the space. Opposite of the bed and near the only window in the room is a deep high-back chair and end table. On either side of the bed are two doors, evenly positioned between the corners where the curving wall meets the bed’s edge.
As Iltar reaches the fourth floor, he removes his battle-worn robe and tosses it on the ground.
“You can get rid of that,” he says while crossing the room, moving around the bed and toward the far doorway.
“I can mend it–”
“No!” Iltar snarls. “Just get rid of it!”
“As you wish,” the maid reluctantly states then says, “I’ll have your fresh clothes on your bed.”
As the maid says the last, Iltar reaches the far doorway and passes through it, entering a room covered mostly in gray stone.
Once inside, the necromancer removes his clothes and walks naked toward a stone alcove tucked into the far corner of the room. Standing at the niche’s entrance, Iltar touches a stone that protrudes from a wall in the alcove and turns it. As he does so, water drips from small holes recessed into the ceiling and Iltar steps into the stone enclosure.
When he built the tower, Iltar had constructed a means to pull water from the well of his estate and store it within the fifth floor of the structure. By magical means, from devices he had found in previous adventures, the water is pumped through metal pipes. This method of moving water was common among Kalda, but not so much by magic.
After cleaning himself, Iltar quietly retires to his bed chamber within his tower and struggles to fall asleep. Despite his success that day, it is a restless night, full of nightmares and vivid life-like dreams.
He tosses and turns as countless battles are fought in his mind. Their combatants are the dragons of legend, both breeds of platinum and red. Iltar watches from a detached view as the battles culminate, and sees himself riding atop a red dragon, leading his vast army into battle through the sky.
His view shifts from spectator to participant as a new scene plays out in his dream: In the distance in front of him, a platinum dragon appears, flying through the air at great speed. It abruptly stops by spreading its wings, filling Iltar’s vision.
In response, the crimson-scaled steed upon which Iltar is riding slows his flight and the two creatures collide.
As the majestic dragons grapple each other, the platinum dragon wraps its head around the neck of its opponent, nearing Iltar at the base of the crimson behemoth’s neck.
The platinum dragon’s nearest eye fixates on Iltar, blinking once. Within the dragon’s gray iris, flecks of red and black twist in a swirling pattern as the dragon’s pupil expands.
Caught by the dragon’s eye, Iltar no longer feels anything; the gaze of the gigantic dragon strips him of his freedom, both mentally and physically, and he helplessly watches the horrific scene.
Particles of magical energy cluster into the aperture of the gigantic eye, stretching and expanding the iris’ swirls. The pupil shrinks into almost nothingness and then, in an instant, it violently expands; rays of magical energy erupt, racing to the necromancer and blinding Iltar’s vision in a brilliant display of white light.
The platinum dragon fervently shouts with virtuous zeal, “Your reign of terror ends now!”
Violently awaking, Iltar’s sapphire eyes flash, and he abruptly sits up within his bed, gasping heavily. He clutches his chest and leans forward, bracing himself with his other free hand.
“Too real…” Iltar mutters and groans. “That eye, i-it’s like that beast’s from the island. Although this one’s gaze was full of malice… This one, though.”
Iltar shakes off the thought, taking a deep breath. He warily examines himself: His body is covered in sweat, and beads of the liquid drip down his extended arm. It is already well past sunrise and the Kaldean sun beams through the closed glass panes of the window of Iltar’s bedroom.
After several moments of deep breathing, Iltar gathers his wits and tosses the covers of his bed aside, muttering to himself, “It was just a dream. What have I to fear from a night’s vision?”
Damp garments stick to Iltar’s skin as he moves himself off the bed.
Soft gray fur slippers await the necromancer’s feet, and Iltar gently slides into them. He steps toward the chair and the small end table where a tray containing warm but cooling pastries and some orange fruit native to the isle of Soroth await him; the fruit resembles an apple but with a lightly fuzz-covered skin, called a furnapel.
Iltar eagerly grabs a pastry. His brow relaxing as he chews on the baked food; however, the sweet taste of the delicately prepared bread does not distract his mind from the lingering nightmare.
A moment later, Iltar takes the last pastry and one of the fruits in hand then heads for his study on the third story of his tower.
Once inside, a smile spreads across Iltar’s face; the spotless room is a welcomed sight. Stepping forward, Iltar sets his food on the table, then continues forward to the closed window and opens it. Fresh fall air fills the room as the two panes of glass swing outward.
“Belsina!” Iltar calls out from the window and waits.
He soon hears a door opening from the estate. His maid quickly dashes to the gate, opens it and hurries along the stone path toward the tower.
“Yes, Master Iltar?” Belsina replies promptly once near the tower, stopping almost directly beneath the window. Iltar had never been one to yell orders across the grassy expanse to the estate.
“Send Delrin into the city and go with him. Tell him to take Cornar’s horse back and to seek out two men at the Order of Histories, Kilan and Midal. I want them here now, tell them to drop everything.”
With only a nod of the head, the plain maid runs back across the stone path leading to the gate and disappears into the stables.
Turning away from the window, Iltar sighs and moves to the chair on the right of the table; he slumps into the seat and grabs the pastry. The flakes break apart as he bites down and some linger on his goatee.
Through the window, the sounds of horses galloping away reach Iltar’s ears, and he smiles and nods in satisfaction.
The Dragons' Legacy Page 31