Chapter Text
Around him and within him, the battle roared, screams raging across war-torn fields painted red.
A single swing with the mace in his hand decapitated heads, sending them flying, their bodies crumbling, as he pushed forward, always forward, through the black mass. The song in his head was a storm of orders, his mind racing to catch them, his body acting in accord with them: To kill and throw down empires in her name. An arrow flew past his horned helmet as another skull was shattered beneath his might: This time, the one of a well-armored knight. A grunt escaped the warriors lips as he turned towards the marksman, desperate and small, a new quarry.
Charging forward the wailing coils of black and red around him turned into a singular blur, a foe to be decapitated, heaps of flesh to be crushed under his boot: Obliteration through well-practiced blows. His foes only ever saw a mountain of a man rushing across the field, clad in hardened obsidian from head to toe, flinging their allies aside like a dragon would a simple hare.
His ears still rang from the battle. They always did, echoes of slaughter haunting his mind. He breathed in, not as exhausted as he expected to be, and stilled his thoughts towards the song. Orders upon orders, praise and insults alike, none of them meant for him. Bane opened his eyes, exhaled, and glared at the man who had dared enter his tent without announcement. A large fellow, horned, ugly, and nose-missing, Tetsha was experienced and ruthless. His dark eyes met Bane's, and without warning, a sharp pain shot through the latter's skull. Tetsha smiled. Bane did not. He stiffened, senses strung so tight he thought they would snap, waiting and then relaxing as his mind was released.
“Lady Maram has new orders,” Tetsha said, voice smug; he eyed the battle-slave's body.
Bane bowed his head and bit back a sharp insult. He loathed the other one, but he also feared him. Once more the silent vow he had made so long ago beat in his soul in rhythm with his heart: To break the spine of Tetsha. To make him beg. A promise he had made himself on the day he lost everything.
“No respect for your betters, eh boy?” Pain, cold like a dagger, cleaved into his lungs. He gasped, bowed lower, and pressed forth an apology, the hate between his rips flaring up before being locked away again with this all-too-familiar sense of weakness.
“I beg your forgiveness, lord.” Every honorific title an insult upon his own pride. “I shall make haste and receive my orders at once, lord.” A pause. Then something caressed his mind, a lie of safety, before the iron trap snapped shut and sent a wave of agony through his entire being. Bane hissed and pressed his eyes shut, struggling to cling to the presence. He heard an all-too-pleased chuckle.
“My lord.” Tetsha almost laughed out loud. “Go on, say it.” The battle-slave gazed into the other man's eyes, detecting a spark of fear flashing behind them, but was forced to look away as the air lashed out at Tetsha's command and split open his bare flesh.
“My lord.” Bane quickly feigned an apology, fighting once more against the desire to swing at his general. Tetsha grinned, broken-toothed and half-tongued, before he left.
Taking a few moments to readjust himself, Bane eyed his mace in the corner of his tent. Remnants of a bone well shattered still clung to its black metal.
Tetsha. Oh, he loathed him. He hated him. He feared him. And it inspired a dreadful rage within him that bit at his flesh, forcing out ragged breaths whenever his mind wandered into fantasies of laceration. But he couldn't touch him. Couldn't hurt him. Undoubtedly, Maram would use his defiance as a suitable reason for punishment. Not that she needed one, not that she even cared to have one. Tetsha was not favored because he was stronger, more beautiful, or possessing of a higher intellect, because he did not. No. Maram preferred him because he was easier to handle. A fat lapdog with no teeth, barking whenever she required him to.
Bane sneered at the thought. He could do nothing, deny her nothing and as his hand found the collar around his neck, mithril-crafted, he almost broke his own fingers as they pressed against the metal. Even the power over the mind that his general wielded was not his own. Power it was, true, but borrowed power, gifted to him by their mutual god to ensure that he could play kennel master whenever he desired to.
At least I have strength that is my own. Strength that is real. The thought calmed him, as it always did, even if only a little. Bane stood up then, put on his chain-mail, the only thing he possessed that came close to casual clothes, and left his little pocket of almost-safety while cursing everything and everyone around him without uttering a single word.
She was waiting.
A-Ra-Bhal. Ara-Bhal. Arabhal. He grinned to himself, eyes two slits that hid silver moons as he turned to look at his employer, a flash of white teeth reminding the other that he was not a tamed thing.
“Master Abaro, are you even listening?” Was he? He didn't really know. But Lord Ruthla was always speaking. Of magic and lordship and leadership and the deaths that were and are yet to come.
“Shhh...” he almost giggled. “Why, Master Abaro? Why call me so? Hm? Do you not like my name? I plucked it from death's tongue and carved it into my spine. Yes, I did. From death itself.” Lord Ruthla eyed him, visibly annoyed.
“I am not here for games,” he warned. “Your last report, while detailed as always, proved worthless in the end.” Arabhal cocked his head, exposing his neck as if to goad the other into lunging at it, and wondered how detailed insights into one's enemies' movements could be named worthless. Yet he said naught, instead listening to the complaints. “We still have no knowledge of the generals and commanders of the rilmani armies, no information on their battle tactics. And Maram,” Ruthla quickly halted before talking himself into a fit of rage. (as he so often did in the privacy of his own chambers) and turned to look at the harlequin-attire-wearing man. “Maram,” he repeated, almost as if talking about a friend, “Is still not answering our offers. We have proposed gifts, power, and station, and still she mocks us with silence. Her armies remain willfully troublesome.” Arabhal almost laughed at that. Perhaps he should have, bark his amusement out loud at the sheer arrogance of his employer!
Why would a Primordial answer some crown-sorcerer? What could they offer her? Besides, the Netherese government had only itself to blame. What? Trying to become a nation of gods by stealing god-corpses from a divine graveyard? And they called him mad! Sweetness and Madness, he thought. Sweet Madness. This time, the harlequin-clothed man failed to hide his thoughts, face laying feelings bare.
Ruthla sighed. “Control yourself, Master Abaro. This behavior does not suit a man of your talents. Even less a man of your station.” With this Arabhal could agree. So he closed his eyes, a subtle hum trapped in his chest, lashing his racing thoughts and trapping them within an iron cage. He was calmer now, blood not boiling, the gravity of the situation his homeland had found itself in clear as a cloudless day. He opened his eyes, face relaxed, eyes and expression devoid of all emotion.
With a voice that no longer brimmed with hotblooded lunacy, he said: “You're, of course, right, my lord. As Chief Assassin and Spymaster, my failure at pleasing the crown-sorcerers of Rdiuz shames me.” A diplomatic pause. “No one could've foreseen the consequences of an ambition so high.” His stomach churned and twisted at this blatant lie, bitter anger welling inside of him as he continued. “After Jergal pulled his little stunt in the great Tower of Ascore, none could have foreseen that playing with divinity would beget such catastrophic failure.” The rage in his stomach almost caused Arabhal to lose his composure.
Jergal, he thought. Dear, twisted, cursed Jergal. Yet he managed to stay calm, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Of course no one could have. Of course not. Completely unthinkable, is it not?” If glares could kill, Arabhal would be a lacerated mess.
Ruthla was not pleased. His cheeks almost red with fury, jaw twitching at the reminder of the almost destruction of Ascore, he snarled. “This has nothing to do with the Lord of the End of Everything. Nothing at all.” The crown-sorcerer's breath had a slight shake to it. “Our plan was fool-proof. I know not what traitor thought himself clever, that breaking the ancient bindings was wise, but it is not the fault of the soon-to-be god-people of Netheril. Our people are far too evolved to be guided towards such... reckless action.”
Ah, yes. Because the Netherese Empire could have held back the entirety of the rilmani strength on its own, and they were only losing the war due to the fact that they also had to deal with the armies of an malignant ancient god from another world. And the pissed-off gods of their own pantheon. But yes. The plan had been absolutely foolproof. Arabhal sighed. He did believe that the rilmani would have broken themselves on their might. But he also knew that it was the fault of no traitor that Maram and her slave-army were now almost on their doorstep. Ambition was to blame, ambition and arrogance. Powerful were the wizards and sorcerers of Netheril, but they were no gods. Not yet, anyhow. He said nothing more on that matter.
The crown-sorcerer before him closed his eyes, and for a moment Arabhal was faced with a tired old man. An old man whose failures were finally catching up with him. He shook his head, gray hair falling over his shoulders, the golden circlet on his brow almost slipping from his frail head.
“It matters not.” Feigning strength he did not possess the sorcerer rose from his seat. “Another duty has presented itself.” His brown eyes found the silver ones of the younger man still seated in his chair. “The council has decided that you're to kill one of Maram's champions and, in so doing, ensure that she will give pause to her actions. The death of one of her favorites may yet gift us her respect.” Arabhal was intrigued now, listening with an intensity that almost shamed him. To slay a god's champion? A rare quarry, blood not easily found, ready for the spillage, flesh scarcely cut, soon to be eviscerated. “We want you to slay The Bane of the Ancients.”
The greatest city of Murghom, the black capital Murghyr, was a spot on the horizon. He missed neither home nor family, not even a friend. In but a few days, his horse would have brought him to Rauthil, and from then on, he would get a ship and sail the Alamber Sea. It was strange, coming to think of it. He could have teleported to Skuld without problem, either by snapping his fingers or by calling on royal favors. Yet he did not, for Myrkul, despite his rather detached nature regarding most things, did enjoy the sea.
The tundra fields of Ganath stretched on before him.
When he arrived in Rauthil, he barely hid his disgust at the sight of beggars lining the city streets. If it were up to him, he would have them thrown into the Rauthenflow River, their lifeless bodies serving without complaints or pleas for alms. A joyless chuckle almost slipped past his lips. He could have done that. Could still do it. By now, his family will have noticed that their precious heir disappeared in the middle of the night. His father, the great Hesaklo, king of Murghom, by now must have busied himself asking every spirit in East Faerun for signs of his dear lost son. How fortuitous then that Myrkul had warded himself to pass undetected: No divination magic could manage to sniff him out.
He wandered the dark alleys unnoticed and watched the poor cling to whatever scraps they could find. When the night settled over the town, their spirits were sucked out by the necromancer prince, their souls trapped in a violet gem. When dawn broke, their bodies were found in the river. The inhabitants of this backwater village screamed as the investigation continued. He watched, for a time, amused as the guards stumbled cluelessly in the dark. On the third day, he sucked out the guard-captain's life essence, took a simple boat (most unfitting for a man of his station, yet for now it would have to do) and made his way towards the Rainbow Falls. The town was left in disarray as the dead rose from their short slumber and began to rampage its streets. A little treat, he thought to himself.
The rainbow Falls proved rather boring, the journey down its cliffs tedious, and Myrkul had to kill two men and raise their corpses to have them do the heavy lifting. His undead horse, the only thing he felt some distant attachment for, was carried by said corpses all the way down to the edge of the Alamber Sea. There he gazed at the water for but a few moments and set out. Sitting in a tiny boat with two humanoid undead and a rather large horse was most uncomfortable, and once more, he regretted not stealing one of his sisters' ships. Cora, his little sister, the youngest of the royal blood, could surely have spared one. Alas, she spoke to much for his taste and was ever vying for his attention. The ship would not have been worth the headache. A part of Myrkul, a very small part, longed for his soft silks and the dead quiet that haunted his home. The sea was loud, waves rushing and thundering, and he loathed to occupy his two unwilling companions with the task of making sure that the water would stay where it belonged: In the sea and not in his boat.
As then, on the second day, a rather large ship arrived on the horizon, and he fastened his journey across the sea. He did not attempt to hide himself from the eyes of whoever was on the vessel. As it turned out, they were pirates. The prince was not surprised, but the sheer rudeness of them did rather grate him. They had locked him away and thrown both corpses and his horse into the sea (he allowed himself a single spark of sorrow at the thought of his four-legged companion thrashing around in its second tomb) before losing themselves in drunken tirades.
It really was too easy. A few simple enchantments, a little illusion there, and a bit of evocation here, and crew and captain alike were being picked clean by the rats. But a ship this size needed a crew, and where in life they had served this large, uneducated brute of a tiefling, in death they would serve him. After all, he was a prince, and a single drop of his blood could buy the entirety of eastern Faerun. When Skuld appeared on the horizon, he summoned a mist that hid him, sent the ship below the surface, and teleported himself to the lighthouse on the city's outskirts. Gazing down, he observed the mass of fools working their little lives away.
To much chatter, he thought. A silence spell could make them quiet, but that would draw attention, and this was something the prince did not want. So he walked through the city and a few hours later espied his goal: A mansion, old, paint leaking, brimming with necromantic energies. They were well hidden, spells carefully woven to remain undetected, this much he admitted to himself, but Myrkul was rather experienced on the subject. He waited until nightfall before entering the house unseen.
The air was as still and cold as the embrace of death itself. Comforting, in a way, yet also unfamiliar. There was a resonance in the walls that spoke of many poor fools who had succumbed here. He cared little, pushing forward into the basement. Bones upon bones. Someone had arranged them with an intent, a tasteless portrait of art. They would be better used as fodder. Alas, he could not command them. The wannabe Lich that had once resided here, Old Skullfool Myrkul, called that particular undead, had departed quite some time ago. And he had also cut this place off from the weave. Myrkul sighed. The hard way it was then. Rather than scouring this place with arcane eyes, he was forced to use his mortal body.
He had come here hoping to snuff the life out of the wizard and claim its power for himself. Afterwards, he could proceed with his own ritual and pass into undeath himself. But first, he wanted the scepter. It was still missing; Glaros never managed to finish it after all. He didn't necessarily need the scepter. But he wanted it just the same. He could become a lich without it, but it would be harder to claim it once ascended. So: Scepter first, Lichdom afterwards.
If only Old Skullfool had not destroyed every writing upon it. He had been such a dutiful apprentice of the arcanist Glaeros Lhaerimm.
Myrkul left the mansion, set it on fire, and cast his gaze over the sea. What to do now? Find the Nether Scrolls? Read them and craft such an artifact himself? No, no. Too troublesome, the eyes of the gods would be upon him and their ire quick to follow. Especially little Mystryl and Azuth would not take kindly to it. As a wizard, Myrkul was not keen on drawing their attention so brazenly.
Netheril. He could go there. Rise quickly through their ranks, learn their secrets, master their greatest arts. Although... Myrkul laughed, maliciously and all too pleased with himself. He stood up, raised his ship back up from below the water, and set sail towards Rdiuz.