Chapter Text
I massage the thin flesh of the bridge of my nose as I try to endure Xilim’s endless ramblings about how unstoppable we will be as soon as the sorcerers come to an agreement with those savage primordials ravaging our lands, and all the good those damned daggers will bring us once they are finally crafted. He talks as if he possesses inside knowledge the crown-sorcerers wouldn't dare trust me—their own spymaster—with knowing. The guy lives and breathes to blow smoke up their asses, and they’re not even here to listen to him.
The Daggers of Rdiuz—weapons the crown-sorcerers have been obsessing over for ages. In pursuit of this, they opened Cat’s Gate seeking to conquer the Outlands. But leaving the gate open also means those outsiders can get in, so now the Rilmani have entered Netheril, invading our lands to protect the Balance between good and evil, law and chaos. In hopes of fixing this issue the crown-sorcerers caused, they messed with the Anchor of Chaos within the Monument of the Ancients. They wanted to allow damned primordials to walk our lands in hopes of having more forces to fight back against the invading armies from the Outlands.
A primordial named Maram of the Great Spear and his vicious slave army seemed to find great interest in our home. An army entirely uncontrollable, attacking everyone, turning the war into a catastrophic nightmare for all sides involved. They call it the Seven Sigils War... a war I never wanted to be a part of.
And if that’s not bad enough already, the Phaerimm living in the Underdark cast their life-drain spells to stop the disruption of their underground lairs caused by all the abuse of magic here on the surface. Many are fleeing this once-beautiful place, now forsaken. Though, for some reason, the crown-sorcerers don’t seem in any rush to leave. They're still working on their plan to craft those cursed daggers. The crown-sorcerer Jathiman didn’t disclose what exactly they are for, but I suspect they’re planning something. Something I also definitely don’t want to be a part of…
I am so incredibly sick of this…
Xilim grows silent. Probably just to take a deep breath to continue.
I knew this man was nothing but trouble the moment he stepped foot into this place. A red-haired troll of a man with a face practically begging for a fist. Oh, how I want to punch that smug smile clean off—and it looks as if someone already tried, though they clearly failed. Xilim is missing his two front teeth, forcing a whistle through his lips every time he tries to form sharp letters.
“What good have they brought so far, Xilim?” I ask, staring at his dumb face across the rustic, worn-down table.
“You’ll see. And when we join forces with those savages, nothing can stand in our way.” Xilim’s smile showing his missing ivories. How I long for making him miss even more…
“Do you listen to yourself?” I ask, dumbfounded by his naivety. “Maram doesn’t seem to be in need of an alliance with some mortal sorcerers.”
“The crown-sorcerers know what they’re doing and—”
“Oh, do they now? It’s hard to believe when all they’ve shown us thus far is their selfish, short-sighted arrogance!” I exhale sharply, pushing myself to my feet.
“Don’t be so pessimistic, Arabhal. Just wait and see,” Xilim says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“Whatever, cocksucker…” I mumble, turning to leave.
“Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you?”
The surrounding tables break out into whispers, making the hair on my neck stand straight.
I spin back, slamming my fist onto the wooden table, strands of my tied-back hair falling into my face. “Watch your damned mouth!” I hiss through gritted teeth, staring him down. “Brass-necked bastard!”
I’m technically his superior, but I never get the same respect as the others. I don’t know if it’s because of my young age, or the fact I just don't fit in. A misfit, they call me behind my back.
“Breakfast is over! Make yourself useful and sweep the damned floors instead of wasting air!” I bark, storming out of the hall.
When I step into the crown-sorcerer’s office, I halt right at the door. Usually, it’s just Jathiman waiting for me, but there’s currently someone else with him. His back is turned toward me, seemingly looking out of the big window facing our courtyard.
“Ahem…” I glance at Jathiman standing at his desk before my eyes jump back to the tall figure dressed in finely tailored black and red armour.
“Arabhal, there you are!” Jathiman says, smacking his palms together. The sound of the clap makes the stranger at the window jump before turning his head.
His skin is fair, as if it hasn't been touched by sunlight in quite some time. The sharp contrast to his rosy cheeks and lips makes him look even paler. He fully turns as he takes off the hood attached to the long, dark cape, which floats with his movement as if it’s made out of gravity-defying material. His hair is almost as fair as his skin... I’ve seen all sorts of beings before, but never quite anyone looking like this seemingly human man does.
His eyes jump between me and Jathiman, who steps closer. “This is your new partner,” he says, making my eyes jump between them for a moment.
“My—what now?”
“Some of the forces seem to have escaped Maram. They are now in desperate need of protection and guidance, both of which we can provide them plenty with,” Jathiman explains, pressing his hand to his chest.
Protection from what Jathiman and the rest of his deluded sorcerer friends have caused?
“Wouldn’t fostering escapees serve us up on a silver platter even more?” I ask, not letting my eyes leave this oddling, who stands tall and straight as a candle—almost confident, until you notice his inability to look you in the eyes for more than a second.
“Well, I feel it is the only right thing to do after—” Jathiman starts, interrupting himself to brush something off the sleeve of his robe. “You see, gaining inside knowledge through someone like this—an extraordinarily talented fighter—can be crucial in the pursuit of ending this war once and for all,” he continues.
“Well… last time you said—”
“What have I told you about dwelling on things that have already passed?” he interrupts me.
“It’s useless?” I remember, rolling my eyes.
Jathiman nods with a satisfied smile.
“You still haven’t told me who exactly this mute is. Do you expect me to just work with a stranger who slaughtered entire villages of our people?” I ask, my eyes flicking to the stranger, who stares back at me with wide, almond-shaped eyes that remind me of a frightened cat.
Jathiman throws me a look. It used to be followed by a sharp "Watch your mouth!" but at some point, he seemed to have given up. “Arabhal, this is Bane of the Ancients!”
“Bane of—what?!” I take another look at the man, whom I haven't heard utter a single sound yet.
“Bane of the Ancients. One of the high-ranking fighters of Maram’s army.”
“Alright… how can you be so sure he’s really an escapee seeking refuge? What if this is some sort of scheme to spy on us from the inside out?” I stare at the fighter, really not enjoying the idea of working with him. His people caused us a lot of pain in a very short time. They are utter savages, and definitely not to be trusted.
“He has proven himself. For now, Bane of the Ancients will serve us,” Jathiman says. Although he and his crown-sorcerer morons give me every reason to doubt their judgment, I have to accept his decision. Who knows? Maybe this time he’ll be right.
My eyes jump back to the fighter. His face has lacked much of any emotion throughout this whole back-and-forth, though his lips now seem thinner. “Alright… serve as what exactly?” I tilt my head, eyeing the new-arrival.
“Well, after you no longer want to work with Xilim, Bane will take his place,” the crown-sorcerer explains.
I'm blinking at him, unsure if I heard him right. A Maram fighter... This has to be a joke. “What?”
“We’re in the midst of a war, and the foreseeable future holds some challenging times. Bane will be your mentee. You will teach him everything he needs to know, in order to accompany you in your search for the Outlanders. Now, get acquainted with each other. There are some urgent matters I have to attend to,” Jathiman says, taking a seat at the big wooden desk.
I walk out of the office and the fighter follows me, always a couple of steps behind like a lost duckling. I briefly consider walking in circles to see how long it takes him to realize we’ve passed the same damned door, but I'm worried he'll just keep following me forever.
“So, Bane of the Ancients, huh? Who gave you that title?” I ask, but I’m met with nothing but silence. “Speak, damn it!”
“My master,” he answers, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.
I'll be damned… He actually speaks.
I halt for a moment to look at him. “How come you speak netherese?” I ask as my eyes wander over the intricate details of his dark armoured chest. The red symbolism engraved in the leather. Wild swirls, some with sharp edges… a bright stone in the middle of his chest.
“I had to learn it,” the fighter explains, briefly looking down at himself as if to see what I’ve been looking at.
Impressive.
“Is there anything in particular you’d like to see first?” I ask him, about to continue walking. Better to show him something he might actually be interested in seeing before I have to show him all the boring parts of this ‘Quadrangle,’ as Jathiman calls it. Whatever that means… then again, I don't really have a better word for this place either. When I called it a cloister before, Jathiman just laughed and said, “Someday it might be.”
This large, rectangular complex houses everyone working for the crown-sorcerer. There’s a dormitory, a dining hall with a large kitchen attached to it, a treasury that not many have access to, an archive everyone dreads working in, and a massive library. All of these enclose the courtyard this stranger was looking at through Jathiman’s office window earlier. There is also a large garden in front of the building, with a path leading to the bathhouse—my favorite place. Some lucky idiot discovered a hot spring here, turning it into a thermal bath we can now enjoy.
“Would you mind showing me that… place from behind the glass?” the escapee rips me out of my thoughts before I am able to daydream about taking a nice bath.
“What?” I stare at him until it clicks. “Oh, you mean the courtyard? Sure.”