The following passages are exceprts from the Journal of the Red Wizard Mordoun, wizard of the Host Tower of Thay…
1345 DR (Dale Reckoning)
Master Yarduk allowed me free reign of his library today. I suspect the old man is getting senile—that or is beginning to trust me. Either way, it bodes well for my future aspirations, but that is not for what I have picked up the quill today. Without my master's watchful eyes over my shoulders, I started to investigate some of the reaches of his library that I had not previously dared to enter. For the most part, the tomes were an uninteresting lot. I have found that many of our kind become somewhat eccentric in their old age, collecting merely for the sake of amassing more possessions, and Master Yarduk is no exception. I wonder if he even knows a tenth of the titles that fill his shelves. All he knows is that his library is one of the grandest in Thay, and he is happy for it. Let him wallow in his self-satisfaction. It will be his sole companion in the grave.
In my exploration of his library, I stumbled upon a thin volume that for some reason caught my eye. It detailed a small, little known monastic order called the Ebon Hand. At any one time, there are only three individuals in the order—a grand master, a master, and an apprentice. The book went into detail about various techniques the order employed—gaining complete control of the monk's individual physiology, inward meditation, and other useless trinkets of eastern lore upon which these monks insist on squandering their efforts. This brand of monk also concentrates on arcane prowess as well. They seem to select their members based on their innate and untapped abilities to manipulate the streams of magic in the world—in other words, they are sorcerers too.
But what truly intrigued me was the purpose for which this order has been created. The book was vague—for reasons understandable—but it relates the general purpose of their lineage. The Ebon Fist was originally formed to protect a fell secret that had to be kept away from the rest of civilization. To this end, it was spirited away to some near-inaccessible vault in the region known as Narfell. The tome did not say precisely what this secret was, but it hinted that the power it granted was immense. And the entire purpose of this order was to train the eventual Grand Master that will guard the Narfell vault. The Master trains the Apprentice to replace him as he himself prepares to take the place of the Grand Master. This cycle, the book says, has continued unbroken for some 500 years.
Today I make this promise—I will make it my life's work to break that cycle, and in turn claim that precious secret they have squirreled away in the cold reaches of Narfell.
1350 DR
Today is the day. I have finally rid myself of that bed-wetting old man. It was amazingly simple to sneak into his bed chamber last night—I expected more wards, but he had become complacent in his old age. He thought me weak—thought that I would be content to simply wait for him to die—HA! He has spent enough time in Thay to know that ambition festers here like gangrene in a surgical tent. I took his ceremonial dagger from its spot at the bed post and slit him from stem to sternum, then watched his innards spill out of his chest like a solstice hog.
Now I have claimed my rightful seat in the host tower. Woe to all who dare oppose me—the great read wizard Mordoun!
1361 DR
In the years after assuming my old mentor's position, I have worked diligently at maintaining his contacts abroad. Several years ago I instructed my network to be vigilant for any matters dealing with a monastic order known as the Ebon Hand. I had not forgotten my promise of sixteen years ago—the desire for their secret treasure still burns within my soul, but over years of study, I have learned restraint. Waiting and biding my time no longer irks me as it did before, and today my patience has finally borne fruit.
One of my informants in Cormyr has informed me of a legal adoption that has recently taken place. It is not that I actually care for such philanthropic fallacies—and nor does my contact—but the name of the man applying for this adoption caught the good man's eye, and he forwarded it on to me. And his name? Ha'ash Ebonhand.
He adopted an eight-year old street urchin by the name of Brice. He looks to be a native of Chult, but I have no idea how he ended up on the streets of Cormyr. Nor do I care, really. But it seems that this Ha'ash has selected this young man as his ward and apprentice. No doubt he has some talent for the arcane arts, which would explain why Ha'ash chose him. The name Ebonhand cannot be a simple coincidence, but I will bide my time and watch to make sure. I have waited this long, and so I shall observe from a distance and watch as the rest of this story unfolds.
1369
Over the years I have kept a close eye upon Master Ha'ash and his young pupil, Brice. Master Ha'ash has revealed many secrets of bodily manipulation to the young boy, as well as teaching him to unlock the some of the arcane abilities hidden within him. The young one is not of superior ability in the arcane field, but he does exhibit some talent. What truly excites me is that Ha'ash has finally agreed to it. He has decided that his pupil has now advanced far enough in the training to be introduced to the Grand Master. I am unsure when this meeting will take place, but soon the pair will travel to Narfell to meet with the head of the order.
I plan to watch and follow them on their journey. I am certain that the actual location of the vault is guarded by powerful wards—the spirits know I have tried enough times to locate it through magical means. So in order to reach my goal, I will have to extract the information from the good Master. Soon I will travel to Narfell and lie in wait. Then, finally, I will have my prize.
1369
The expedition was a failure! I cannot believe my misfortune, but as much as it pains me to admit, the fault is all my own. I underestimated this Ha'ash and his precious order. I had thought he was just another bleeding heart. Obviously I did not give him enough credit.
I traveled to intercept them on their way to Narfell. While they had stopped over in a small township, I instructed my agents to abduct Ha'ash's ward, then deliver a missive to him—that if he wanted to see his precious apprentice again, he would come to me. I was counting on his philanthropic nature and over-confidence in is own abilities to see him into my camp. But as I said before, I under-estimated him. The old man saw through my scheme, and instead of trying to rescue his pupil, he went the way of the four winds and simply disappeared. I believe he secured some kind of protection against scrying, because since then I have been unable to locate him with even the most powerful of my divination spells.
And now I am left with this little sniveling whelp. I tortured him for days, keeping him on the verge of death before bringing him back and starting all over again. At first he wouldn't talk, and then gradually his lips loosened and he told me everything—even things that I knew were not true, all for the hope that the pain would stop. But in the end, he could not tell me what I wanted to know, because that was only thing that the old man had not told him—the location of the Ebon Hand's vault.
I want so badly to light him on fire and watch as he flails about and slowly expires. It would bring me such satisfaction to crush that little bug under my thumb, but in the end, it would not bring me any closer to fulfilling my aspirations. So instead I have brought him back to Thay. As I have recorded before, I have recently embarked upon an enterprise to create a stable of warriors for the pit fighting circuit in the city. This Brice should make a good addition—and if not, he'll at least die entertainingly. But hopefully his unique skills will give Zaaruth, my long time rival, a run for his money.
1375
It appears Zaaruth is on the move, mustering his resources in what will ultimately be his final play in our little game. It will take time—perhaps years, even—but I have seen the beginnings of his gambit. I will continue to watch and make preparations as well, so that when Zaaruth makes his final move, it is I who will come up on top.
In other matters, I continue to be surprised by the displaced Chultian, Brice Ebonhand. He has excelled in the pits, using the meager skills Ha'ash had bestowed upon him and adapting it to fit his needs, however crude. He has become a far better warrior than I ever expected. When he first came into my possession, he was full of rage—at me, no doubt, but at his teacher as well, I am sure.. Since then I have not broken his will, but mastered it. I would not say he is even fond of me, but he respects me, and any Red Wizard would rather be respected and feared than liked. Now he directs his anger toward his opponents in the pits, using the fury in his soul to fuel his fists and his arcane powers, meager though they may be. He fights with such a savage intensity that it is plain to see that causing pain is the only joy he truly has in life any more. So much the better. He is putty in my hands.
To further that goal, I have given him several gifts—a pair of enchanted spiked gauntlets and boots to enhance his speed in the pits. All of them are minor trinkets, but they have somewhat endeared him to me. I even took the time to tutor him in the arcane arts, trying to bolster the fledgling powers Ha'ash awakened in him. It was all to no avail, however. For whatever reason, he seemed unable to grasp the more intricate dealings in magic. All he could manage was the crafting of scrolls, and that only barely. He traces the runes from memory, but does not possess understanding of the power they involve. All this special treatment has endeared him to me further. He truly thinks I favor him above all the fighters in my stable. Ha! As if I care what a mere slave thinks of me! But soon my plans will come into fruition, and Brice will play his part, whether he wants to or not.
1377
So it has finally happened. Zaaruth has slain me—or so he thinks. I saw his blunt machinations two years ago, and finally he has gotten around to putting the gears into motion. But woe to him, for the gears of my intricate machine have been grinding along for years.
Everyone in Thay believes Zaaruth's conquest to be complete, even the servants of my own household. Brice is one of the more intelligent of the vermin, and he saw the opportunity when it came knocking. Instead of waiting around to be claimed by another wizard, he convinced one of his warrior compatriots to escape with him. They looted some of the unguarded trinkets in my tower and escaped through the underground tunnels. If they had not traveled that way, I am sure that they would have been captured—if not by Zaaruth, then by some other enterprising soul with a sharp eye for profit.
And how did he know of these tunnels? Why, I told him, of course. I used my craft to plant the idea in his mind and waited as he put two and two together. I also nursed his hatred into a bright flame until it was the sole all-consuming desire in his life. So that when he was unfettered from the chains of slavery, the only thought that entered his mind was revenge. But he can't avenge himself on someone who is already dead, so that only leaves one man: his old mentor who turned his back on him long ago.
By now he is halfway to Narfell. When he arrives, he will start searching for the man who allowed him to fall into my hands all those years ago. And when he does, I will be there. Then I will destroy their precious little order, take the treasure of their vault for myself, and come back here to crush that insolent Zaaruth with its power. And then the rest of the host tower shall tremble at my might.
But for now I wait, crouching like a cat at the mouse hole. When the time is right, I will pounce.