Chapter I: Andrij
This land will be very green when all the bodies rot.
I remember old Razlek, before our journey, telling us of Tethyr, how beyond the forests cluttered with nature's fraught spirits and the mountains creeping with feral aberrations, the land was an endless plain of browning, dying grassland. How fascinating to contemplate that only war has given these prairies a little color.
A generation, and it will all be forgotten. The mounds will be flat once more, their inhabitatants having grown indistinguishable from the surrounding dirt. Farmers will gather the rusting weapons that killed their fathers and forge them for the fields, churning up the earth made rich and black by their father's blood. Their children will gather the stone markers, each thrown down hastily with no name or date, and build strong homes and walls from the blank headstones. The death of this past war will make this ancient country rich with commerce once again. It is as it should be. They will soon learn the lessons of my comrades: the conquest of gold is much sweeter than war.
But that is a future still far away for these sword shocked languishers. One does not have to lose life, limb, or loved one to feel the strain of war. Kings and coins can force a man's head onto the block as surely as if Tempus, that bloody old fart of a god, had lain into them himself. These are a broken people, learning to heal still malleable, still able to be bent.
I would have it no other way.
I remember keenly the day Razlek told us of our imminent excursion, and the overwhelming relief. My skills should not be wasted on the battlefields of Rasheman or Aglarond. There are many of my fellow Red Wizards who see their skills as little more than a device to transform them into an oversized ballista. These militants desire power from the rawest venue; that is why they lay entombed, felled by Aglarondan spears and Rashemi axes. For all their learning, they never understood that it is always more desirable, and more importantly, safer to make people bow to you while you clutch a merchant's scales, not a rod of doom. The finest conquered people in the world are those who bow willingly and low.
Living under an old kingdom's rule, these folk know well how to bow. I pass through the cities and the women, their dusky hair fluttering in the breeze-borne wind, stare at our caravans. Our ebony wagons, engraved with images of the great Zulkirs and laden with relics designed to quell the needs of these masses, lead a trail buyers both weary of and rich from the recent unpleasantries. The women even swoon over Fedir and Kostya; they tear at their bodices in these cities for my bodyguards, and yet approach me not. Perhaps my presence intimidates them in ways that these thin- blooded locals cannot. I must admit, until seeing the women here, I did not realize that a woman could be so beautiful without a shaved and tattooed head. One learns from all things, I suppose. Once I've established a fortune of my own, I'll have to buy a few.
"Almost there, boss."
Kostya's grunt brings me out of the finer contemplations. If a little of some subhuman monster's blood does not flow in his unrefined veins, I will drink my own urine. He and Fedir jump from the card, placing their hands on sword hilts. Our latest delivery is to one of the isolated communities that for whatever unreasoned reason choose to live away from what this kingdom considers culture. They stand, grouped together, outside their huts, cluttered around one of their priests. Mother of blood. Razlek didn't tell me he was sending me to a theocracy. Quite strange that these few dozen people rally around this priest, yet need the services of we, the loathed Red Wizards of Thay, to cure their sickness. Well, such is the nature of the business; it is time to make them bend.
This land will be very green when all the bodies rot.
I remember old Razlek, before our journey, telling us of Tethyr, how beyond the forests cluttered with nature's fraught spirits and the mountains creeping with feral aberrations, the land was an endless plain of browning, dying grassland. How fascinating to contemplate that only war has given these prairies a little color.
A generation, and it will all be forgotten. The mounds will be flat once more, their inhabitatants having grown indistinguishable from the surrounding dirt. Farmers will gather the rusting weapons that killed their fathers and forge them for the fields, churning up the earth made rich and black by their father's blood. Their children will gather the stone markers, each thrown down hastily with no name or date, and build strong homes and walls from the blank headstones. The death of this past war will make this ancient country rich with commerce once again. It is as it should be. They will soon learn the lessons of my comrades: the conquest of gold is much sweeter than war.
But that is a future still far away for these sword shocked languishers. One does not have to lose life, limb, or loved one to feel the strain of war. Kings and coins can force a man's head onto the block as surely as if Tempus, that bloody old fart of a god, had lain into them himself. These are a broken people, learning to heal still malleable, still able to be bent.
I would have it no other way.
I remember keenly the day Razlek told us of our imminent excursion, and the overwhelming relief. My skills should not be wasted on the battlefields of Rasheman or Aglarond. There are many of my fellow Red Wizards who see their skills as little more than a device to transform them into an oversized ballista. These militants desire power from the rawest venue; that is why they lay entombed, felled by Aglarondan spears and Rashemi axes. For all their learning, they never understood that it is always more desirable, and more importantly, safer to make people bow to you while you clutch a merchant's scales, not a rod of doom. The finest conquered people in the world are those who bow willingly and low.
Living under an old kingdom's rule, these folk know well how to bow. I pass through the cities and the women, their dusky hair fluttering in the breeze-borne wind, stare at our caravans. Our ebony wagons, engraved with images of the great Zulkirs and laden with relics designed to quell the needs of these masses, lead a trail buyers both weary of and rich from the recent unpleasantries. The women even swoon over Fedir and Kostya; they tear at their bodices in these cities for my bodyguards, and yet approach me not. Perhaps my presence intimidates them in ways that these thin- blooded locals cannot. I must admit, until seeing the women here, I did not realize that a woman could be so beautiful without a shaved and tattooed head. One learns from all things, I suppose. Once I've established a fortune of my own, I'll have to buy a few.
"Almost there, boss."
Kostya's grunt brings me out of the finer contemplations. If a little of some subhuman monster's blood does not flow in his unrefined veins, I will drink my own urine. He and Fedir jump from the card, placing their hands on sword hilts. Our latest delivery is to one of the isolated communities that for whatever unreasoned reason choose to live away from what this kingdom considers culture. They stand, grouped together, outside their huts, cluttered around one of their priests. Mother of blood. Razlek didn't tell me he was sending me to a theocracy. Quite strange that these few dozen people rally around this priest, yet need the services of we, the loathed Red Wizards of Thay, to cure their sickness. Well, such is the nature of the business; it is time to make them bend.