It's quite hysterical, actually, when I think about it. To you, the reader of this morbid memoir, the humor may be lost; however, I find it quite amusing, in a sickening sort of way. In the course of several ill-gotten centuries of semi-life, I have done my utmost to distance myself from any sort of close, friendly relationships. To the casual observer, I succeeded rather well, with the exception of one individual. Throughout all my travels, by my side in all my perils, forever providing odd decorations for my dingy dungeons, Skully was my constant companion.
One could argue that Skully did not officially qualify as a friend, as he was forcibly ripped from the afterlife and his body succumbed to my commands. No, one would say that Skully was my slave, pure and simple.
This was simply not the case.
Perhaps it is only wishful thinking on my part, but I believe that a bond greater than one of master/servant had formed between us, a kinship of sorts.
Skully hunted for me and cooked for me (not good cooking, but one must take what one can get.) Skully cheerfully removed the cobwebs I had so painstakingly placed on all the chandeliers to make our mansion look more menacing. Skully took care of affairs that had simply slipped my mind.
Most importantly, perhaps, was that Skully always seemed to sense when I had reached the bottommost depths of my depression. On these frequent occasions, he would enter my room without permission and sit in a corner and look balefully upon my sadness. He would do this for hours, merely providing a friendly presence, an action that helped more than I had ever been able to fully admit until now.
And now he was gone. My last friend in the world, the one I didn't even realize I had. Waterdeep was going to pay.
Oh yes, there will be blood.
Chapter Twelve
Loss
I stared, slack jawed as Skully's skull bounced down the cobblestones to rest before my booted feet. Before my eyes, the enchantments I had placed upon my familiar dissipated, and the bones crumbled into a fine, powdery dust.
Piergeiron reared his horse haughtily, leveling his sword, the vile weapon that had destroyed Skully, at my head with nauseating smugness. "Necromancer!" he bellowed from inside his helmet, "you will call off your forces at once and surrender immediately. Do it or die!"
I barely heard it. My eyes were fixed on the quickly scattering dust that had once been my only friend. My ears were filled with a strange buzzing. My mouth was filled with a sharp, coppery taste; I had bitten my lip so hard that it was bleeding.
"Necromancer!" barked the insufferable paladin sharply, "last warning!"
My red eyes finally rose to meet his lordly ones. I suddenly wished for a knife; I wanted this to be personal. I wanted to bathe my hands in his bright lifeblood.
I vaguely remembered Piergeiron giving some sort of command, followed by the buzz of two dozen arrows being released.
I exploded into action. With a minimal drainage of power, the darts folded in on themselves into nothingness. I swept my hand in front of me in a tight arc with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, issuing forth a furious line of fire onto their front lines. The flames went out quickly, but not before hitting a good score of them, transforming their elegant suits of armor into very effective ovens. I actually heard fat pop and crackle as the courageous soldiers within were quite literally roasted.
I had hoped that I had caught Piergeiron in my flames, but was disappointed. A bright blue shield flared in a fierce orb around the paladin, and it was only then that I noticed the five very powerful mages standing behind the Open Lord, all focusing their energies into protecting themselves and their master.
Well, that simply wouldn't do.
Before I could turn my full attention to my fellow wizards, I was rather rudely interrupted by yet another trio of statue/golems, all waving massive stone weapons and seeming quite anxious to eviscerate me with them.
Having little desire to become a Necromancer Fillet, I naturally set to the arduous task of destroying these formidable foes.
I settled into a quick, super concentrated form of meditation, focusing all my power into a tight nimbus around my person. The air around me crackled with energy, and it was difficult to draw breath.
The first golem to reach me released a roar of fury as it swung down with a mighty claymore, which promptly shattered against the highly condensed ball of energy surrounding me. I politely responded with a wad of compressed air, which slammed into the unfortunate creation's chest with the force of a thousand trebuchet shots.
The other two golems, undoubtedly acting under Piergeiron's direct control, circled me warily, poking and prodding with massive spears and halberds at possible weak spots.
The paladin, foolishly thinking that I may have temporarily forgotten about him and his men, launched an attack on my flank.
Envisioning Skully's morbid, everlasting grin, I threw my palms out wide to either side of me and knelt down to the cracked pavement, thumping my knee painfully on the road. The ground beneath me abruptly thundered and lurched like an earthquake. Statues (real ones) crumbled to the ground. Buildings and structures within a mile radius were shaken to their foundations, and they imploded with deafening crashes and toppled to the ground, shaking the entire city. All the soldiers, including Piergeiron, were thrown down, unable to keep balance. They were immediately showered with debris from the fallen towers and fiery hail from my magic. Those who were still in command of their motor functions raised their shields above their heads in dismay, some only to be crushed under a particularly large chunk of wardrobe or something like that.
When I tired of raining fire and ice down upon them, I decided to get more creative. Why not? I was indescribably angry about Skully's "death." These soldiers, along with all of Waterdeep, deserved to burn, innocents or no innocents. I splattered them with acidic goo, melting the flesh off their bones. I commanded the blood to leave their bodies by any means necessary, which it did. It looked rather like those artistic fountains where the water spews out of a statue's mouth, except considerably more macabre.
I hurled bolts of lightning into their midst, stopping their hearts without a thought. Just when I was running out of men to kill, more would run around the corner, weapons drawn and leveled.
Fine by me.
Have you forgotten about the golems? I didn't. The second one was crushed underneath a falling building; it didn't get up. I nonchalantly transformed the third one into a pillar of salt. The citizens of Waterdeep will not be without seasoning for their meals for quite some time, I think.
I caused some soldiers' armor to shrink considerably, mashing their innards into paste. I sprayed pestilence into the faces of others, making their bowels loosen and guts wrench themselves to pieces.
I killed a hundred different ways, some humane, some…not.
I was having the time of my life.
Finally, with the bodies of close to a thousand brave men strewn about me, all that remained was the cowardly paladin and his wizard lackeys.
I gathered my power. They gathered theirs. I knew who was going to win this battle of the Art, and, judging by the grim set of their faces, they knew it too.
I reared back and let loose an old-fashioned fireball. A big one. I mean, this was a real humdinger. After it left my fingers, I could practically see the six people getting incinerated.
My beautiful fireball vanished.
My jaw dropped in shock.
"I believe that will do, necromancer," said a man appearing out of nowhere, stroking his long, black beard disapprovingly. In his hand he carried an ominous black staff. The man, obviously seeing my eyes flicker to the object, chuckled and said, "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Khelben, commonly known as Blackstaff, and this is my city you are destroying."
Knowing I was in trouble, I immediately unleashed a maelstrom of destruction, releasing enough power to decimate a small forest. Bolts of lightning, waves of fire, freezing air, poisonous gas, and a hundred other incarnations of death raced at the archmage and paladin, only to be deflected by a curious silver shield surrounding the final defenders of Waterdeep.
"As I said, Morath Mentorbane," whispered Blackstaff pityingly, "that will do."
"What are you!" I shouted, feeling my victory slipping through my cold fingers. "You are no man! What false god do you serve?"
Blackstaff only shook his head. "I have heard about you, Mentorbane," he said sadly. "You never did understand that there were other people out there who felt just as much pain as you have. You could have been a fine wizard, a very fine wizard. Such potential…It is enough to make me weep for the loss."
"Shut up," I snarled. I might have lost, but I would not endure a lecture on morality. "You may have caught me, but you cannot justify all the suffering you have advocated, Blackstaff. You cannot forever escape judgment for what has happened under your very nose. At least it shall be said that I tried."
He looked at me as if I had just babbled something about raindrops plotting to vanquish a colony of fish by drowning them. "What twisted dreams have you dreamed, and what vile books have you read to accept such an ideology as a purifying fire?"
My lips curled into a sneer, and I resolved to kill the hypocrite before I was taken. I raised my hand to cast a massive, final spell at the archmage, whispering a prayer under my breath to a god that I had stopped believing in centuries ago.
I never got close. It turns out that the old fart is much faster than he looks. Silver fire spewed from his fingers, and my world dissipated into a silver whirlpool of pain.
And then I blacked out.
Author's Note: Yes, I know it's been a very long time between chapters; I apologize. To those of you who noticed, yes I did quote Saw II. I LOVE the Saw movies! One more chapter to go…Stay tuned for the final installment of the Legend of Morath Mentorbane and the last words in his Diary of a Necromancer.