* * * * *
The next morning, just an hour after sunrise, the crew of the Farling gathers at the south eastern most pier of Soroth’s docks. Dark clouds had gathered earlier that morning, and the port city was shrouded in a dull gray sky.
The crew had been gathered by Cornar from different parts of the island and the neighboring satellite landmasses; except for Kenard and the handful of seamen loyal to him. Those hired were a hard lot, eager for adventure. Cornar knows this, and although he gave no details, he hinted at the possibility. However, none of them truly comprehended the journey before them, and when the adventure becomes a reality they can easily be silenced with payment.
At the far end of the wharf, near the bottom of a gangway Captain Kenard stands, gazing upon the vessel with his blue eyes. He is of middling height, with shoulder-length blonde hair with a thick streak of gray. High cheek bones, and slender features highlight his face, though a thin beard appears to have been shaved only several days earlier. His loose gray and white clothing rustles in the breeze.
Joselin Kenard was a hard man, both inside and out. Throughout most of his life he had sailed the seas between Soroth and the mainland. At the time of this expedition he had no ship of his own, due to his own mistakes. Kenard was a smuggler and a pirate, but those were not the reasons his ship was taken from him. These vocations were quietly looked over, and for the right price, permitted within Soroth, along with other nefarious practices.
“Captain Kenard,” a shrouded figure, dressed in a black robe and cowl, calls out from farther up the walkway of the pier. “Does it meet with your approval?”
Turning to face the figure, the captain steals a glance under the cowl and recognizes his features. “Of course, Master Iltar! It’s a fine vessel. Are the armaments needed? Cornar didn’t tell me we would face anything at sea…”
“One never knows, especially where we are going,” Iltar responds as he reaches the captain’s side. “Uncharted waters… you can never be too careful.”
“Humph! Tor and Klis are not uncharted…” Kenard narrows his eyes at Iltar, but then relaxes. If nothing else, he trusted Iltar’s wit; if the necromancer thought they might need them then they should probably have them. “Well we had better be going. We don’t want to lose the morning breeze.” Captain Kenard turns and quickly boards the ship across the gangway.
“Tell me, Captain, what happened to your ship?” Iltar asks as he follows Kenard up the gangway and onto the deck of the Farling.
Laughing and shaking his head, Kenard responds, “Magistrate Rosten decided to up the fee for my last shipment,” he says disgustedly. “And since I had already paid most of my expenses with the commissions I had made I was short his additional tax.”
“So he had your ship impounded?”
“Exactly!” Kenard turns to Iltar and waggles his index finger.
“What a pity,” Iltar says with a total lack of sympathy.
“And to make matters worse, the fee continues to rise for every day I leave the ship in their care,” the captain spits on the deck. “I fear I shall never sail with her again.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Iltar says with a sly smile, and walks across the deck of the Farling to the stairwell leading to the lower reaches of the ship. Before he descends he gives a single order, “And, Captain, after everyone is aboard, sail around the island till we are out of sight of the city, then head northward.”
“As you wish,” Kenard calls out and continues to examine the ship.
The Farling measures eighty feet from stem to stern; it is comparable to one of the mid-sized ships of the Sorothian Navy. It houses four decks, two below and one above the main deck on the aft third of the vessel. Three masts line the center of the ship, each with three large sails. The armaments mentioned earlier by the captain were four cannons, two at the bow and two along the aft of the vessel.
Shortly after Iltar boards the ship, the mages of his company arrive at the wharf where the Farling is docked.
Amendal is the first to come aboard the Farling, shrouded in his typical black robes. The old conjurer had always sought to portray a deathly appearance. Fear was his greatest ally, but his appearance was not the only eerie aspect about him. He had been known within Iltar’s order for his impressive ability to summon the most monstrous of creatures. He keeps a battalion of the creatures at his home in the deep forests of the island.
Amendal’s two apprentices, who were grown men themselves and masters of the conjuration arts, are also dressed in charcoal robes. They walk behind their former master. The eldest, who was only a few years younger than Iltar, is a tall man named Lorith. He is heavy enough to create a stark contrast with the other, who is short and very thin. However both men have similar shades of auburn hair. The younger, Dith, has just finished his trials and is in his mid-twenties.
Igan and Hex, and their apprentices Tinal and Renal, respectively, and Hagen cheerfully arrive several minutes after Amendal.
Hagen had met up with the quartet earlier that morning, because he hated traveling by himself. Since Hagen was without the company of his former apprentice, Hem, who was off on an errand from the council that started several weeks prior, he was in need of company.
Both Tinal and Renal were of the same age, taking up their training of the magical arts in their youth. Their parents, although not related, had known of their two wizardly masters and their exploits, many of which were undertaken with Iltar and Cornar. It was this fame that drove the two families to petition Igan and Hex to take their sons as apprentices. After all, powerful mages can bring affluence to a family.
The last mage to join them is Clodin, a necromancer in his early thirties, and Iltar’s first apprentice. To Iltar he was like a younger brother, something Iltar had never experienced. Clodin was an average man in appearance and in his magical abilities, but he could be trusted, and this trait would easily outbalance his weaknesses in the coming voyage.
After Clodin boards the vessel, a loud and rowdy commotion draws the crew and mages’ attention. Further down the pier, three men, apparently drunk, sing out of key as they stumble toward the ship’s gangway.
Hagen and Igan, who are standing on the vessel’s portside, notice the trio walking towards the Farling, and briefly look at each other with disappointment.
“Great,” Hagen sarcastically says in his typical high-pitched voice. “The thieves… This is going to be a long trip.” He pushes off the portside rail and walks toward the stairwell to the lower decks.
Focusing on the three men across the rail, Igan raises his brow as they stumbling onto the gangway. The thieving troupe established by Tilthan had expanded from him and his friend from youth, Nath, to a young woman named Sharon and this new individual which he didn’t recognize.
“It appears you already have your sea legs, Tilthan,” the wizard sarcastically remarks, frowning in annoyance.
“Igan!” Tilthan drunkenly cries from the center of the trio. The thief is dressed in a dark velvet tunic, and matching pants, a simple pack bounces at his side as he walks. He has short brown hair and dark brown eyes with a thin face. Under each of his arms are the shoulders of his thieving companions.
“It’s about time,” Tilthan continues. “We haven’t had an adventure together, in… well, forever! What has it been, four years?”
“I wish,” Igan responds with his arms folded. “Try two and a half.”
“Really?” Tilthan leaves the company of his compatriots and walks forward. “Either way, it’s good to see you.”
“I don’t know if I can say the same, Tilthan,” Igan responds matter-of-factly.
“C’mon,” Tilthan slaps the wizard on the arm, “You’ll warm back up to me. We’ll have so much fun doing… whatever we’re doing.”
Why are they here? Igan wonders. His mind race about the true nature of their expedition. If we’re to find apprentices why would we need thieves? Iltar only brings Tilthan
and his little band along for dire adventures. Something is amiss.
Shaking off the thoughts, Igan narrows his eyes at Tilthan. “You really don’t know?”
“Nah,” Tilthan waves his hand drunkenly. “You know Cornar, he rarely tells you what’s going on until you’re right in the heat of it! Wait… that’s Iltar, but you know what I mean.” Tilthan turns around and exaggeratedly walks toward his two friends trying to keep his balance.
Nath, the other thief Igan recognizes steps backward, letting Tilthan slip and fall on the wooden deck. He laughs at his friend, who struggles to get up. Nath is of a similar build as Tilthan but with lighter brown hair and hazel eyes. Both thieves are shorter than average but very agile. Each are strong for their size and have often come in handy during previous adventures.
The third thief chuckles at the scene and folds his arms. He is slightly taller than the other two and is of a thicker build. Thick black hair waves atop his head. Upon his face are brown freckles, light skin and a thin nose. Blue eyes flash amid his amusement.
After a short while, Nath helps his friend up from the deck. The three thieves stumble below deck to find their quarters, singing along the way.
Once the thieves leave, Igan leans back against the rail and lets his thoughts overtake him again. I suppose I will have to wait until Cor arrives to find out what is really going on.
Igan waits for half an hour, and watches as Cornar arrives with his men, twenty experienced warriors, all trained by Cornar himself.
Each of these men are fiercely loyal to Cornar; after all he often shared his wealth with them on excursions which they participated. Cornar is not greedy, and understood that to make progress he had to elevate those around him.
Many of Cornar’s men pull several carts, carrying food and other supplies for the long voyage. Cornar stands to the side of the gangway as his men unload the newly purchased goods, directing them where to place the supplies.
Once the supplies are emptied from the cart, Cornar ascends the gangway onto the Farling’s main deck.
“Everything is in order, Cor,” a middle-aged man greets the older as he steps onto the main deck. He is a little taller than Cornar, and of a sturdy muscular build. His short light brown hair, is neatly combed. His hazel eyes are sharp, with a thin jaw line and narrow chin accentuating his features.
“Thank you, Kalder,” Cornar responds, patting Kalder’s shoulder and walking toward the vessel’s aft.
Igan watches the elder warrior and whistles in a pattern used as a signal by Cornar and the others.
Hearing the signal, Cornar turns with a smile and walks toward the wizard shouting, “Igan, my friend!”
“Cor,” the wizard grins and steps forward to give his friend a quick embrace.
“It looks as if we’re prepared for war,” Igan remarks pointedly. “What with your warriors and the thieves down below. I was under the impression that this expedition was a simple recruitment procedure.”
“Well, you can never be too cautious,” Cornar responds vaguely, “We don’t know who we might encounter while Iltar and the rest of you work your magic.”
“But the thieves… Iltar has never brought them along for a mission like this.”
“Maybe Iltar wants to steal some babies,” Cornar laughs. “I have other things to take care of before we leave, but let’s talk later.”
Nodding his head, Igan returns to the rail, deep in thought. He had known Iltar for many years and knew he was up to something, especially since no one had had a chance to discuss the details of the trip. It must be much bigger than rebuilding the Order, the wizard thinks to himself. Iltar surely can’t care that much about helping the council, especially with all that’s transpired over the years. Could this be–
“Prepare to depart!” Kenard yells from the helm, located to the aft and above Igan, jarring the wizard from his thoughts.
With the captain’s orders, the crew raises the ship’s anchors, and unfurls the sails.
Amid their actions, Igan holds the rail, enjoying the view of the shipyard and the city. The pier is empty, with no other activity in the area besides the creaking ship gliding into the sea.
* * * * *
Later that day, a light wrapping at the door to the captain’s quarters calls Captain Kenard’s attention. He looks up from his desk, having been studying the sea charts of the region.
“Com–”
The door opens and Iltar slips in before the captain can finish his word. The old necromancer, still dressed in his dark robes, walks toward Kenard, and pulls a chair up to the captain’s side. Kenard was used to Iltar’s behavior, and the necromancer’s forwardness was often expected.
“How much has Cornar told you of our voyage?”
“Not much,” the captain leans back in his chair.
“Good, I will give you more details later; but we are to sail to this island,” Iltar pulls a scroll from his robes, the same that he copied the night before the rebellion.
“I cannot tell you much, but prior to our little incident within the Order a discovery came to our attention.”
The words pique the captain’s interest, and he leans in closer to see the scroll.
“Cornar is the only other man that knows the details, so keep your mouth shut, and you’ll be greatly rewarded.” Iltar’s eyes narrow at the captain.
Kenard can tell this is a very serious matter by Iltar’s expression, his veiled threat and promise. Rarely did the necromancer employ each means to motivate his hired help.
“This is a duplicate of a map that was delivered to the leader of my Order. From what I can tell it was drawn to scale. The last several days I’ve been comparing it with charts much like those.” He points to the ones sprawled across the polished wooden table. “If I am right, it will take us five days to reach it. This is our true destination,” Iltar states emphatically.
Kenard takes the parchment from Iltar’s hands and examines it. He glance to the necromancer and quips, “If it’s five days, it can’t be uncharted waters, can it?”
Iltar grins in amusement, the only reply he gives to Kenard’s jab at his remark before they boarded the Farling.
Kenard turns to the table, clearing the magnified charts to reveal a larger map of Kalda. He sets Iltar’s redrawn map next to the artistic portrait of the world, comparing the two.
“By Heleron’s name!” Kenard gasps, “It looks to be the same latitude as Merath… But there’s nothing there!”
The captain’s blue eyes stare at Iltar’s cold ones. There is a deathly determination about the necromancer.
“I believe the island slightly west of Soroth,” Iltar says. “There’s a strong current that flows northward; I’ve sailed it once while going to the Desolate lands.”
After several seconds of silence the necromancer asks, “Can you calculate the coordinates?”
“It might take me a moment, but sure.”
Amid the captain’s calculations, Iltar clasps his hands together, watching as the captain hastily measures the map. Kenard’s large hands tower over the parchment, creating shadows like massive storms.
The captain’s expertise shows through his quick calculations and steady hands. This reaffirms to Iltar that he made the right choice when placing Kenard in charge of the vessel.
“All right, I think I have it, they are–”
Iltar interrupts the captain by handing him a small sheet of crisp parchment, two numbers are all that rest upon its face. With the waxy sheet in the captain’s hand, Iltar rises from his chair and walks to the door.
Captain Kenard looks at the small sheet and laughs, “Typical.”
“Well?” Iltar asks before opening the door.
“They’re about right. Almost spot on, actually,” the captain replies, still leaning over the maps from his chair.
Iltar partially chuckles and with an arrogant smile quickly opens the door and strides out of the quarters.