Chapter Text
-441 DR: eight month
Irrila was dead. That was fine; he had already reanimated her and given her mindless body back to Zinobia, puppeteering it himself to make the bard believe that her lover was whole once more.
But Gahlan's treachery against the crown-sorcerers had been discovered by the Harlequin. And now he was dead. That was not what he had intended to happen.
He mused over Jathiman's writings once more. They read more like a madman's diary than a scholar's studies. Now that the Red Lord had been named the official leader of Rdiuz, Myrkul's plans were thrown into disarray. He had hoped to make a slave out of the sorcerer. Alas, he would adapt. Ruthla had been named too weak to lead; Ashar to easily lead by chaos; Farbe'zhul, who had been counted among the crown-sorcerers longer than any of the others, had little desire to lead; and Tahkca was too emotional. So Jathiman it was. Two new mages were named crown-sorcerers as well.
Fortunately for Myrkul, Jathiman sought to one-up Gahlan and prove that he could do the same. By now, he would be studying the divine boneshards retrieved by Lord Ashar and, from them, deducing how to craft divine-slaying weapons. Myrkul had urged him towards fashioning daggers: Easily wielded, and if correctly balanced, they could be used like a needle that passes through the essence of immortality itself and rewrites it to its master's desires.
The necromancer's original plan could no longer be performed with his ally's untimely demise, but he was cunning. There were fail-safes he had prepared. The corpse of one of Maram's generals groaned behind him. The wizard would have preferred a living subject to learn more about how to mimic divinity. Should Lord Jathiman prove as foolish as Gahlan, he would craft the weapons himself. But this was a dangerous undertaking, and he loathed to risk his own life.
-440 DR: first month
Jathiman's experiments bore fruit. Myrkul was more than happy to stand at his side and watch the Red Lord succeed at last: He had learned how to craft god-slaying weapons. Bone and faith would be needed. A lot of it.
“Anubis shall die!” Jathiman declared, and those who followed him, his cult, cheered. “Anubis shall deny us no longer!” Roars of applause. “The gods will make way for us!” The Netherese were truly mad.
In the growing month, a hundred more people joined his side, vying for the crown-sorcerer's attention. The necromancer prince was more than happy to stay in the shadows and watch the Red Lord forget that he still strolled through his halls.
More boneshards were retrieved by the Harlequin and the Mercenary and brought to the crown-sorcerer's as tribute. Myrkul had only caught a glimpse of both of them when he himself had wandered the divine graveyard. He had considered asking Jathiman about them, but that would reveal that he and Gahlan had worked together to begin with.
On the dawn of the fourth week of the sixth month, Jathiman announced that his colleagues should join him, that they should be worshiped as gods. The nascent worship would power their works.
Myrkul leaned back and watched them toil away. Sometimes he would leave Undrentide and wander towards Lathery and enjoy the company of Lord Veridon's arcanists.
When Jathiman returned one night, angry, he cursed the other crown-sorcerers, calling them “helpless fisherwives”, because they had questioned his methods. Myrkul listened patiently and told him that he needed not use bones: Blood, as he well knew, was so much stronger a focus. Especially if infused with sheer hatred.
Jathiman listened and dismissed him. Yet when the necromancer left, he knew that the seed was planted.
His patience would pay.
-439 DR: The Year of Chilling Laughter
Eileanar was a grand sight. He had expected no less. Karsus was a mage of unrivaled power. Yet Myrkul found not what he was looking for and left.
When he arrived in Illusk and laid his eyes upon the Host Tower of the Arcane, he was glad. He studied Melathlar's magic for a time and was able to figure out how the phaerimm's life-drain spell was warded off. Other towers had been constructed within each name-worthy city and enclave of Netheril, all in the image of the Host Tower. Myrkul made his notes and returned to Jathiman. The Red Lord appreciated his efforts and promised to include his findings in his ritual.
When the seventh month came to pass, the necromancer got word that the rilmani had clashed with the armies of the primordial Maram, tricked into battling each other by the Harlequin and Mercenary. Or so Jathiman claimed. “When might I speak to them?” he had asked and received only laughter. Patience, he told himself.
At the beginning of the eleventh month, it was time.
The crown-sorcerers assembled and cast their spell: Seven daggers were crafted from the remains of the divine boneshards, one for each crown-sorcerer. But Jathiman had heeded Myrkul's words and betrayed the others. In secret, he had assembled his own cult, and through the violent self-destruction of thirty-nine of his worshipers, he crafted a dagger more powerful than the others: The Jathiman Dagger, born from blood willingly given, hatred freely felt, and violence gladly conducted it brimmed with unholy power.
But when Myrkul made his move and tried to claim the dagger for himself, he felt a terrible presence, unyielding and unending, and fled Undrentide.
Whatever Jergal's business was, he would not be made a puppet. It was a shame that the wards of Melathlar had been dismissed by Jathiman in the last minute of the ritual.