I had, more or less, sealed my fate that night after the destruction of all my master's works and the loss of my love. I concluded that the world was inherently evil, and although I could never gain enough strength to bring the world to its knees, I could, at least, become powerful enough to exact my revenge.
Time passed. I sought out fellow necromancers. It was difficult, at first, but I persevered. I would take on a new master, learn all he knew, and then kill him. I would suffer no rival. A succession of masters met this fate. I was no longer so foolish as to grow attached to my mentors, and suffered no heartache at their passing. My life was nothing but the dark hole of yearning for vengeance. Soon, my reputation spread, and necromancers would shun me away from their secret dwellings, often violently. It mattered not; I was already the most powerful necromancer for many hundreds of leagues around. None could contest my power.
Years passed, more so for me than the rest of the world. I spent much of my time in the underworld, where time is not relative to the world of the living. I delved into the secrets of the Dead. I spent centuries in the underworld, but it counted as only a few years in Faerûn. When I emerged from the Land of the Dead, I was more formidable than any necromancer I had ever heard of, and I was totally unrecognizable from the pale lad I had one been.
I was Morath, known to some as the Mentorbane, and I was still as angry over my loss as the day it had occurred. The world trembled at my name, and I laughed in its face.
Chapter Seven
Dark Alliance
I swept regally into the room, my flowing black cloak swirling behind me (I still loathed black, but I came to recognize it as a symbol of terror and domination, which I respected mightily.) Four necromancers marched in behind me, all very dark, all very esoteric, and all so very pathetic.
A horrible old hag looked up from the table, at which she was sitting, and screeched a bloodcurdling cry. My fellow necromancers fell to their knees, clawing at their ears while screaming in pain. The hag's keening dragged on, glass windows shattering, and drinking glasses disintegrating. Blood began to seep from the ears and out between the necromancers' fingers. I smiled, unaffected, and poured some chilled wine into a wooden goblet.
The lesser death wizards were writhing on the ground, their screams drowned out by the hag's. I sipped my wine delicately.
The hag's excruciating cry was suddenly cut off, and she exploded into a fit of coughing and gagging.
"Something wrong, Amelia?" I asked pleasantly.
She put a hand to her foul throat. "I think I swallowed a bug," she wheezed. I conjured a glass of cold water and handed it to her. She gulped it down greedily.
"Lord Morath, what is the meaning of this?" demanded Renthol, the greatest of the lesser necromancers that had followed me in. "You invite us freely into your home with talk of friendship, and the moment we step in you set a banshee on us!"
"My sincerest apologies," I said, raising him and the other three to their feet with a sweep of my hand. "I had forgotten about Amelia. She tidies up my home when I'm busy, and she is also kind enough to sing me a lullaby from time to time if I have trouble sleeping."
Astonishment was plastered on the other men's faces. None had ever heard of a wizard so powerful that even a banshee's keen did not harm him. I planned to show them a great many more things they had never imagined.
"Well," stammered Renthol uncertainly, "it would be more pleasant for all of us if you would take her into consideration next time."
"Absolutely," I assured him. "Now, you must be famished from your journey. May I offer refreshments?" The others murmured their assent. I snapped my fingers, and a dozen skeletons, specially cleaned and spelled to reduce (but not completely eradicate, never that) the smell of dead, filed into the room. I snapped my fingers again, this time whispering an arcane word. A great oak table appeared in the middle of the room, complete with chairs and china. Silver platters and steaming bowls materialized in the skeletal servants' arms, and they hurried to place the meal on the table.
"Shall we dine?" I said, taking my place at the head of the table, daintily folding a napkin, and tucking it under my collar.
A feast fit to feed a king's court was placed before us. Roast duck, pork, bacon, pheasant, venison, beef, turkey, chicken, potatoes, carrots, all manner of beans, all cooked in different ways. Soups steamed enticingly. Fruit dripped in dew and looked as if plucked straight off the branch or vine. Cakes gleamed in the candlelight, their sugary outsides hiding the sweet jams within.
My guests, used to meals fixed on the go from the cheapest of vendors (or perhaps from a zombie cook, knowing these idiots,) simply stared at the food. I elegantly speared a rib from a nearby platter and began slowly, tactfully, cutting it between my knife and fork. A short time later, I had a perfectly sized bit and slowly placed it in my mouth, chewing in exaggerated motions, closing my eyes in dramatic effect.
There was a sudden clattering as my guests dove for their silverware and food.
For a long while we ate in silence. I savored every bite, hardly conscious of Skully standing protectively to my right. Skully had become something of a superskeleton. He was decked out in full plate mail, shining in a golden hue. An enormous, two-bladed ax rose over his right shoulder. He sported a full-length, royal purple cape. He still grinned as amiably as he did the first night I we met, all those years ago.
Over the years, I had placed enchantment upon enchantment over my skeleton familiar. When I viewed him while seeing magic, I was almost blinded. Spells of extra strength were shadowed under dweomers of armor and protection. Enchantments of speed and agility shared space with spells of intelligence and cunning. Skully could easily take down a Frost Giant and hardly break a sweat, if he could sweat, that is.
Skully glared with empty eye sockets at my guests, as if disgusted at what he saw. I ventured a guess that my familiar could destroy the lot of them in a fair fight, perhaps even one with the odds tipped in their favor.
Finally, Renthol leaned back in his chair and belched. "So, Lord Morath," he said. "Let us hear what this is all about. It is not like us necromancers to gather in such numbers."
"No, it is not," I agreed. "Let me just tell you straight out. I want you as allies in the upcoming war."
"War?" asked one of the necromancers. Grevbeau, I believe his name was. "I have heard of no wars in this area. What do you know that we don't?"
I smiled maliciously at him. He, a wizard that dealt with horrendous zombies and other undead beings, shrank away in horror at my grin. "I plan to take Waterdeep," I said simply.
All four of my guests stood up at once. "Impossible!" they cried simultaneously. Skully unleashed a terrifying roar, fake spittle flying from between yellow fangs; a red glow appeared in the depths of his eye sockets; the table vibrated and the chandeliers shook. I silently applauded him. I had recorded the roar from a deep dragon I had come across in my travels and spelled it onto Skully to make him sound more terrifying. It worked better than I thought it would.
My guests sat down.
"My Lord Morath," quavered Renthol. "It is a fool's dream to take Waterdeep."
"Yes, what about Blackstaff?" piped up another necromancer.
"Mythals!" screeched another.
"Piergeiron!" offered yet another.
I placed my fingertips together in front of my face and glared at them with crimson eyes.
"This is folly, a fool's errand!" shouted Grevbeau, standing again, ignoring Skully's warning growl.
I raised an eyebrow.
"No necromancer, no matter how powerful, is going to take on Blackstaff with his mythals and Piergeiron with his golems, not to mention a city with high walls and able soldiers," huffed Grevbeau. "You are mad, Morath Mentorbane. I defy you."
With that, Grevbeau whirled around, knocking over his chair, and stormed for the doorway. I stood and pointed a solitary finger at his back.
Somehow, he sensed what was coming, and managed to throw up a defensive shield before I finished casting. It did not matter; my spell smashed through his as if it did not exist. I blinding flash of light ensued. When we were done blinking the spots out of our eyes, there was a little pile of dust where Grevbeau had been.
I went over to the necromancer's remains and conjured a broom out of nowhere. "Sorry you had to leave so soon, Grevbeau," I said. "Let me show you out the door." With that, I swept the dust out the threshold, and that was the last anyone saw or heard of Grevbeau the necromancer.
I turned to face my three remaining guests. "Any questions?" I asked pleasantly.
They dropped to their knees in servitude.
Author's Note: Now Morath has revealed his ultimate plan, and is gathering an army to set it in motion. I also hope that this chapter has given you an idea on how powerful our favorite necromancer has become. Kind of makes you wonder where the kid with the cute dark curls went, huh?
