Edwin: 28 Eleasias
Edwin sought, truly and honestly, to write it sensibly and circumspectly. Two drafts, before casting a necromancy spell upon a recently-killed bird to serve as the bearer.
(Cythandria, O She Who Has Perfect Complexion All The Way D... No.)
Dear Lady Cythandria.
(Not 'my dear' Cythandria. You don't care about my feelings at all, do you? You're very likely indulging in witchlike cackling at this very moment.) (Yes, 'my dear' Cythandria. Why not? We do not have nothing in common not least mutual lust for power and knowledge...)
By other sources of information you will have heard news of the war. We are still present in the ashes of Crimmor while the commanders seek to train the new slaves for our army. Numbers and discipline cannot be magically procured out of thin air... Well, the necromancers among us do have a certain number of less than hygienic zombies, but that cannot be said to be out of thin air.
(And they drape the damned undead things in curtains so the slaves don't throw fits at Great Aunt Enid's body used as a zombie servant. I don't quite see why, I always hated my great aunt Enid. She's Liss' grandmother, which perhaps explains it. You told me a little of your family, once—)
In any case, it is magic upon which I am uniquely qualified to inform you. In the course of several practical applications I have gained results deserving of your experiment log, and it is a shame I cannot discuss these more fully in the limitations of parchment. I know the praxis of the unexplored regions of theoretical experiments will be of great interest to you.
(Yes, magical experiments, Cythandria. See how I resort to bribing you with those, when I could also bribe you with my body? Speaking of unexplored regions, I think we should...)
In short, I could make myself useful in the city also. I have learned much: do you know by now that one of the Cyricist gang of four that you mentioned to me, an Amnian by birth, lived and helped to find a way through Crimmor? I'm sure the Grand Duke, the Deity, or however he would wish me to refer to him, will be rewarding her trustworthy behaviour accordingly even now.
(Actually, she knows things about me which would get me killed. There are other things that would get us both killed. You don't want the master of the erotic onslaught to die, obviously, Cythandria.)
Conjurations cannot divine, but they can help to bind many things of use to gods. I'm sure my circle-casting power has improved. We should work together to raise the Lord of Murder.
(He forgot to place in, 'do not seduce my mistresses' in that which makes me work for him. But he will ascend, and then... By the way, 'mistresses' is only plural in theory, my dear.)
The space of the parchment, alas, will not allow me to reveal magical secrets in full. Your influence in such matters is much deserved.
(And I ought to have gained ascension in it through said erotic onslaught.)
Sincerely,
(Yours, at least until the next concubine appeals to my loins, which may be far sooner than you might think if you fail to return my favours to you!)
Edwin Odesseiron of Thay.
(Please remove me from this place.)
—
He had no need to flaunt women, Cythandria thought, tired. She passed a hand over one of the expensive, enchanted rings on her fingers, rubbing the smooth cut of its bright ruby. Certainly more along the Tamoko line than her own, she uncharitably concluded, the thief-Cyricist tall and rangy and scarred, bony, her hair dry and elf-knotted in a simple tail behind her head, her leather-armoured and apparently weaponless shape no doubt calculated for the effect of causing a watcher's concern for concealed equipment. A failure and a traitor once no matter any achievement in Crimmor, and she had not needed Odesseiron's correspondence to tell her so. Maneira stood quietly by the throne, impassive as a honour guard. In additional insult Tamoko waited against the eastern wall, her flail hanging still and toward the ground. Perorate leaned by a pillar several feet away from her, his arms folded and an attempted expression of contemplation upon his face. Sarevok sat upon Bhaal's throne in a way that might have been described as slumping, or indeed sulking, for anyone who was not a demigod. His armoured chin rested upon a spiked gauntlet, and he glared across the space of Bhaal's temple with golden eyes.
"I have caused the death of a city," he said. "And yet, Winski, your full prophecies have not been fulfilled."
You are powerful enough, my lord, Cythandria considered saying. She had been among the first to notice his new, great powers: that neither mundane weapons nor her own fingernails could scrape his skin, his incredible endurance, the great sum of men he had killed. If only he paid sufficient attention that she would not have sought...diversion elsewhere. Perhaps she would arrange something of aid.
"You must conquer," Winski said simply. He stepped forward, and shook out his long, dark sleeves. "Shall I call for you the farseeing of the toasting of Athkatla port?"
Divinational fallacies of fools, Cythandria thought, with her usual scorn of the false art.
"Show to me what my ships have wrought," Sarevok said. From one of the hidden trap-points of the temple, there arose a wide bowl of water; no doubt Perorate had planned it deliberately. Cythandria knew she must watch, learn; Amn's naval power was weak in its own right, its ports providing trading services for foreign merchant fleets and producing grain and metals to sell. If Sarevok was defeated in war, then he would no longer be Grand Duke, no matter the deaths he had caused; when Sarevok ascended, then he would be no longer Grand Duke for a more impressive reason. It would be becoming if Perorate at last expedited the latter.
Perorate pronounced the divinatory words, reaching into the Weave, stirring the water. Cythandria watched the Art herself with indifference; only the results of it should matter, if indeed were they reliable. Tamoko appeared to show indifference to the thing entire, though her eyes were wide as if she wished to weep. A moping fool.
The clear water changed, first to a gleaming pearl-white in colour, and then the salt blue of seawater. Ships sailed like black dots upon the waves; the hum of men's voices sounded, confused and jangling. Loose the sails—hard to port—tighten jib—prepare hooks—
These were the ships of Baldur's Gate: some commandeered from the estates of the former Dukes and merchants, others the property of the city itself. Under military law Sarevok had stripped trade. They flowed within the summoned vision, and for a moment Cythandria smelt salt, felt wind against her face and whipping loose her golden hair, and forgot to question whether it was merely an imagined divination or true event of attack.
In the harbour depicted—to the right, in the temple's cold reality; to the east, in true geography—rose buildings of Amn, some glorious and others dirty. She had never travelled further south than Beregost. It was as what she had witnessed from a distance in the harbour, but mirrored: the sailors were Baldurian, and the defenders Amnian.
More numbers of Cowled Wizards rose against the invaders than had been recorded to come to the city. And there were clerical and arcane forces aboard Sarevok's fleet to compete. Cythandria could see the flashes of red and green and golden powers striking each other, like small fireflies in the distance of the divination; partial views of the magical combat in place.
Sarevok showed more interest in the battles between men. It was not an invasion: simple destruction. Grappling-hooks brought vessels into collision; if larger against smaller then sometimes the latter splintered, and its men left to drown like ants in a puddle. Rough, jagged lines of swords formed between two opposed decks, close-quarter battling. Large crossbows were hitched to the bulwarks, aiming repeated bolts into Athkatla itself, and some burst into flames upon impact. Cythandria noticed a Cowled Wizard casting a spell intended to be the grave wilting of Abi-Dalzim, one of Semaj's spells; the aim was off, a ships'-caster counteracting by a wind-wall that sent the spell's focus plunging to the water below. The ship shook as the spell visibly took water from the sea itself.
From the leading ship and the cleric Sarevok had ordered in command came the golden, thorn-surrounded skull to rise and glow in the sky. It ought to spread some fear; Cythandria could not measure its effect from the perspective, though she thought that something in the set of Sarevok's lips had turned to a grim satisfaction. A Cowled Wizard was felled by a strike of lightning.
"Turn it faster," Sarevok commanded. "Show me how they met their deaths."
Amnians swarmed one of his ships, spilling almost more guardsmen than a vessel could be expected to hold, fixing it in grapple; Amn was famed for its ridiculous population. The Baldurians of that had clearly perished, the ship itself seized. And from the port Amnian ballistics bit hold in the sides of the ships. Below explosions of magic, below frantic waves, lay human screaming. It accelerated. Their own ships fought against the defenders.
There was a pattern to the invasion, Cythandria noticed; perhaps the leader of it ought to be congratulated. There was a smoke-blackened hemicycled perimeter within the Amnian port marked by oversized ballistics and the remains of spells. It covered several buildings within its lines. The fleet reformed itself into a ragged chain on the waters, and then two of their largest ships dared to land. Men rushed forward; ships and the men aboard them did, after all, require to capture simple food. They investigated the Amnian circumstances, coordinated aiming from the ships giving them cover. An adjunct to the scene that involved less direct slaughter; she was sure that if she were there, she would smell blood and smell of it and far less pleasant substances.
Cowled Wizards in a circle aimed some particularly effective group-casting. A veritable: giant red thing, its body alight with fire, away from them and upon one of the strongest Baldurian ships. She had an obligation to admire anyone who found an exception to the three infallible rules of winning a battle through demon summoning—
(one; allow your opponent to summon a demon; two, strip them of all their magical protections one by one; three, relax and enjoy an alcoholic drink with a little umbrella in it whilst the demon brutally dismembers your opponent and swallows their soul whole. The optional fourth rule is to run ironically like the Nine Hells while you still can.)
Whips of flame scourged the deck; weapons only of steel could not injure the thing summoned. Divine and arcane magic rained upon it with little effect. Some jumped into the seas simply to be free of it. Then the ship went down like a child's toy drowned in a bathtub, the fiery creature with it: doused, vulnerable to dismissal. A lesser one, apparently. Sarevok looked to approve of the deaths.
Chaotic fire and a battering of projectiles burst in reprisal against the circle of cowled ones, Cythandria saw; they split apart, distracted. The plunderers had done their work, hastening back to their ships. She saw another small-scale ship with Amnian markings lost to the sea. And there she could feel tendrils, hear the soft susurrus of chanters devoted to Sarevok, a faint golden sense of lives lost to murder. But it was not as strong as she would imagine. The spawn of the Beast are fated to seize their inheritance through bloodshed; the strongest is to inherit the legacy of the father. And who could that be other than the instigator of such messy chaos? She drew in a breath, straining the tight fastenings of her gown and the bones of the corset that dug into her skin, against her will edging slightly away from Sarevok's golden eyes fixed to the battle.
The raid sailed from the devastated port; bodies of men still tossed and turned in the waves. Smaller coast towns they would have more power over; strike fear into Athkatla and pursue piracy, and then the skyships should turn the tide in their favour. Perorate lowered his hands, lines of exhaustion written upon his old, haggard face. The water was simple and ordinary once more.
Sarevok stepped back. "Relay orders for them to do once more what was done in Crimmor," he said, "completely and utterly."
"Upon the town of Ghoshan, perhaps, would be advisable," Perorate advised dryly. "For Athkatla itself, await the skyships..."
The logic was fairly ineluctable, Cythandria could not help but think. Success was not his goal for the war, simply ascension, for divine power would change all; and if the former became impossible and they were those held accountable...
She was shocked from it by the smash of stone. Sarevok's fist had met the pillar above the diviner's head; she had barely seen his movement, so unnaturally fast. The stone cracked. Perorate had not shifted in his place at all, Cythandria noted, envying his calmness if not circumstances. The blow would have as easily pierced his skull.
Then the Lord of Murder raised his hand again; gold passed along the pillar of Bhaal's temple, and it was as if nothing had been disturbed. "I lose patience in you, Winski. You never encouraged that virtue within me."
"There are other Children to the east," Perorate said. "None who have caused so much murder as you."
"Then I will hunt them," Sarevok said. He strode back to his seat of honour, watching them all. Cythandria felt the power and force of such an inhuman gaze, and still tried to keep her composure. Her lord spoke again: "I have summoned Angelo here."
Dosan of the Flaming Fist came forward; never quite with the spit-and-polish stiff poise of other guard captains Cythandria had seen, always something of wild cunning about him. A mage not untalented, clever enough to be moderately entertaining in company. Something of an occasional poor reputation with low courtesans. He made his regular salute before the figure of the demigod upon the throne, his face stoic.
"Angelo," Sarevok said, softly for him, almost calmly. As if a sword slowly tested the surface of a tower of glass, to be pulled back and reduce it to shards by the single, following blow. "Do you know the charges I have called you here to answer?"
—What mad fool would Angelo be if he has done something to anger Sarevok? Cythandria thought, still watching and waiting. Her hands were pressed against the smooth folds of her skirts. —Perhaps simply a test of him—
"I suspect that'd be my lie concerning the execution, your grace," Angelo replied. In the silence a single basilisk scale could have been heard to drop.
"You allowed my sister to live in this city," Sarevok said. Cythandria wondered distantly if the blood would stain her expensive robes, and if her lazy servants would be capable of removing it this time. Angelo was but an acquaintance; she could feel no more than faint disgust for him and his evident stupidity. Would that she was once more within her mage's study. "Permit me a curiosity as to why." The explosion was still, as yet, to fall.
"Because your sister travelled with my daughter, your grace," Angelo said, with notable simplicity and equanimity.
Sarevok's anger did not yet burst into its final thunder. He leaned forward upon the throne, staring at his captain.
"You had sons when last I heard. Two—or was it three?—all dead, now. One sacrificed to me in Nashkel," Sarevok said.
"Bherel, indeed. The risks of a soldier," Angelo said. "It was three, once."
"I see," Sarevok said, thin-lipped. "And how did you regard your daughter, Angelo?"
"We've been strongly estranged these past fourteen years, your grace. I'm much against women fighting wars. Infinitely more trouble than they're worth. Deserve to be executed for it, really."
Not one of the present company responded to that comment; Cythandria's hands slid slightly down her skirt. Not all women ought to be obliged to fight personally.
"And yet you should choose to betray me above her?" Sarevok said. The softer, bass-toned voice reverberated with no effort at all across wall and pillar, as if a single shake from it could trigger an earthquake.
"She is family, your grace."
And to that both men barked a laugh of irony.
"Amuse me," Sarevok rumbled. "Is your daughter the same kind of treacherous weasel as yourself?"
"Sadly," Angelo replied, "no. I failed to bring her up right and I'm afraid she turned out more like you, your grace." He continued, shockingly. "An affection for oversized swords. An addiction for brutality. An unfortunate tendency to keep her word and kill you honestly."
"Is there a reason why I should not kill you...honestly?" It was coming, Cythandria thought; suspense dragged out. Tamoko did not try to plead for Sarevok not to give in to his impulses to murder a traitor.
"Simply that I'm your man until death, your grace. Stayed here in your city, didn't I? It seems my daughter's lost her tastes for killing after all, and that miscalculation's mine to own. I held her daughter, and hoped that should stop her group from messing with you. Kill me, and think that I held my neck out for it," Angelo said.
The Lord of Murder chuckled. "You're a brave man, Angelo. Brazen-faced for betraying me."
"...Could your sister even now stop you in any way?" Tamoko spoke, suddenly, hesitantly, her accent strong. It was a suspicious question, and perhaps Sarevok too recognised that.
"Could she cause even a tenth of the slaughter I have caused?" he asked rhetorically, his mighty arm sweeping through the air. "Her essence is weak. Yet it is the principle. A rival must die; I am a god.
"I am a god," he repeated. "Do you know why I brought the hero by my side?" he asked, another magnificent gesture pointing to the silent Maneira. "This woman all but conquered Crimmor in my name. She betrayed the city; she led a small group within the walls; she captured Lord Aldon herself. For she understood how powerful I am."
A small, and slightly relieved, smile crept over the thief's face. Cythandria folded her arms.
"Yet she also failed me," Sarevok said; the smile was instantly lost. He rose, slowly, from his throne. "People have failed me. I have lost Tazok; Diyab; Sakul; assorted doppelgangers.
"Gods have servants other than mortal," he continued, and then the gauntleted hand reached out to seize the thief by the shoulder. His spikes made her bleed, and she tried at the last to escape him. "This one failed the first time to slay the girl. I wonder, would a different kind of servant fail?"
He was killing the woman slowly, from loss of blood, Cythandria thought. She might have expected that Sarevok would not truly forgive betrayal. The woman still struggled faintly.
"You told me of three, once, Winski," Sarevok said. It was impossible to take one's eyes from him, no matter what next he should do. "The Slayer; the Ravager; and Kazgoroth the deceased. Three avatars of the god.
"I am not greedy. One will do for now," he said. "Bring forth your mage's spells and your books. Turn this raw material into something far more...faithful."
Angelo was the first to quickly nod. His reprieve; Winski's direction of their magery. There was the form of a failed servant of Sarevok within the circle of the golden skull, between complex runes; there was the alteration and transformation of power. Cythandria saw the warped giant grow from the woman's pained, living body, a thing stretched to inhumanity. It was glorious and powerful and horned, and stretched to the height of the temple; sinews snapped and tensed across its form, and red blood pulsed to flush its skin and pump visibly down the giant flesh. It was part Fire Giant, part orc by shards of vague resemblance, part divine, part unholy. Its eyes were a vast scarlet red, and within them lurked a golden glow in echo of its master's power. The Ravager stood raised by its master, grown from the body of the traitor Maneira, and waited upon its orders to fight.
—