In The Cards

Our Sire’s Voice can be tempting at times. So very tempting. It promises release, freedom, power, or whatever else you desire. And it knows you so well, it reaches into the bottom of your soul, twists everything around, uses your thoughts and dreams for its own purposes. Is it any wonder that so many of us have listened to it, been taken in by the lies and the false promises? I don’t think so.

Excerpt from 'Ruminations Of A Master Bard'

"What…did…you…SAY?!" The question began as a slow growl, which then increased in volume and power until it had become the roar of an enraged beast. Sailian Daan stared into a pair of burning golden eyes and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that death was only a heartbeat away.

"I…" Sailian tried to say, but the words came out only as a strangled choke. The mailed fist that was clutching his throat tightened just a little further and he could see multicolored spots dancing before his eyes. How could this all have gone so wrong so quickly? He asked himself this, but found no answer. When the bandit camp had fallen his first thought had been to run away as quickly as possible, find himself a new employer elsewhere. But then he had had his unfortunate idea. Though most of his fellow bandits believed themselves to be working for the Zhentarim, Sailian knew better than that. He was good at gathering information, always had been. A comment overheard here, a remark snatched there, it all added up to one thing. The Iron Throne. And one name stood out, the name he would have paid for with his life if Tazok had caught him spying on his private conversation with Ardenor Crush, one name that was at the heart of the matter. Sarevok.

And so, even as he watched his allies fall around him, Sailian Daan had made up his mind. He would seek out the Iron Throne in Baldur’s Gate, seek out this Sarevok, and make his report to him. He was sure to be rewarded for delivering such important information. Finding the Iron Throne had been no problem. Gaining an audience with Sarevok had been more difficult, but not impossible. What Sailian unfortunately hadn’t counted on was the fact that Sarevok would turn out to be homicidally insane. When he had met the man he had been rather disconcerted to find himself in the company of a huge warrior radiating power and arrogance the way the sun gives off heat and light. Why is he wearing full battle-armor indoors? Sailian had thought. Surely he cannot be expecting an attack here, in the Iron Throne building itself? And such a hideous thing too, decorated with foot-long spikes. Then there were those eyes, the only part of Sarevok’s face really visible, and the unearthly light that shone in them. They made Sailian feel like his spine had turned into a pillar of ice when he looked into them.

In retrospect, perhaps he should have presented his news a little more diplomatically. But at the point he’d been so anxious to get out of Sarevok’s presence that he’d simply blurted it all out, which was why he was currently pushed up against a wall with a very upset Sarevok slowly throttling him to death.

"Sarevok," another voice mildly interjected. "It is very hard for a man to explain himself if he is being strangled. Perhaps you might ease up on him a little?" That was Winski, the mage who apparently functioned as Sarevok’s advisor. A gaunt man wearing black, with lines of old pain and bitterness etched into his face, and with eyes that in their own way were just as frightening as Sarevok’s. They were the hollow eyes of a man who had a cause, and nothing else. At least Sarevok was emotional about his killing, Sailian thought. The wizard would likely swat him out of the way as if he were no more than an annoying fly, not even worth getting angry about.

Sarevok stiffened slightly. "Very well," he said and his voice lowered even further until it became a deep rumble somewhere within his armor-plated chest. The grip on Sailian’s throat eased a little. "You. Bandit. ‘Explain’ yourself."

Sailian fought to draw breath, heard the air wheeze into his burning lungs. Cold sweat was dripping off his face and throat onto the cold mailed fist that held him. Sarevok didn’t seem to notice. "It…it is as I…as I said before, Great Lord," he stammered, picking an honorific he hoped would help mollify the man in front of him. "The…the camp has fallen. I…I came as soon as I could, to let you know."

"How?" Winski asked, sounding curious. "How exactly did it fall? I would have thought such a thing impossible, unless the Fist mounted a full scale attack."

Sailian paused. How had the camp fallen anyway? "I…I am not certain," he admitted. "One minute…one minute everything was calm, and then…then there was fighting everywhere. The hobgoblins, they fought the Talons…and the gnolls…they fought everybody. And…and people got sick in the middle of everything. It…it was a slaughter I tell you." He paused. "Then...then when it was over I…I entered the command tent. To…to see if Tazok was there." Actually it had been to see if he could manage to steal something of value, but he really didn’t think Sarevok needed to know that.

"I see," Sarevok said, his grip tightening a little. "And was he?"

"N-N-No! No! There were corpses…corpses on the floor. That was all. That is all I know. Please, Great Lord, I only wanted to aid you, to please you!"

For a moment there was silence, except for Sailian’s labored breathing and the blood rushing in his head. And there was a terrible sound. Deep, throaty laughter, tinged with bloodlust and madness. "And so you shall, little man," Sarevok said, the fires of his eyes flaring up with even greater brilliance. "So you shall." The pain was excruciating, and it was accompanied by a nauseating, cracking sound as Sailian’s larynx broke. The last thing the bandit saw was a pair of burning, golden eyes, and the last thing he heard was that chilling laughter.

"A trifle unnecessary, don’t you think?" Winski asked as Sailian’s corpse dropped to the ground. "Not to mention messy."

"He provoked me," Sarevok snarled.

"By telling you the truth? It seems I ought to fear for my own safety as well then."

Sarevok slowly turned to face his mentor, and when next he spoke his voice was cold. "Do not push me too hard, Winski," he said. "My patience is not unlimited."

"Really?" the wizard snorted. "How odd. I never would have noticed." He gave the corpse a dismissive glance. "Just what was the purpose of that little exercise in futility, if I may be bold enough to ask?"

"He was one of those who failed me. He will never get the chance to do so again."

"I should think not. Nor will he get the chance to serve you. Really, Sarevok. Killing the messenger serves no purpose other than making the surviving messengers give you false information in order to keep you happy. You ought to know better by now."

"I am the New Lord of Murder!" Sarevok said, and there was a strange exhilaration to his voice. "I do as I please, and each death can only serve to bring me closer to my destiny." His eyes narrowed. "You can help me – or hinder me. It should be clear by now what I do to those who hinder me."

"I will always help you," Winski said, crossing the room to stare directly into the warrior’s face. "You know that, or at least you should. You used to know it." His voice became even dryer than before. "And you are not a god yet. You are merely the future Lord of Murder, and you have just left a rather messy corpse on my brand new Calimshite carpet. Please be kind enough to remove it on your way out. It’s hard enough finding new help these days, or so I hear. Getting servants skilled in corpse removal may well be an insurmountable challenge."

For a moment it seemed that Sarevok’s rage was about to flare up again. He stood quiet, motionless, as if listening to an inner debate. Then he laughed quietly. "Very well," he said. "I shall see to it. I do need you yet, after all. What did you make of this report?"

The wizard frowned. "It is puzzling," he said. "Why would the camp just fall apart like that? It makes no sense, and I can’t see it occurring naturally. It would be too much of a coincidence. No, there has been some outside influence as work here, that much is clear."

"My sister," Sarevok said, and that inhuman fury was seeping back into his voice once more. "My dear, sweet sister. It has to be her."

"Are you sure? She is young, inexperienced. Do you really think she could pull off a thing like that?"

"Who else could it be? No, this is her doing. I know it." A large fist swept out, sending an assortment of delicate porcelain figurines crashing to the floor from their place on the mantelpiece. "Damn her!" A heavy blow totally shattered the glass door to one of the many bookcases lining the walls of the room. "Curse her!" Yet another blow, and large cracks formed in the polished surface of Winski’s desk. "I WILL MAKE HER PAY FOR THIS!"

"You," Winski said, "will begin by stop demolishing my furniture. These are my chambers, in case you didn’t notice. I understand if you feel like breaking things, but please do so somewhere else." Ignoring the furious glare the warrior sent his way he hastily conjured a magic portal. "There," he said. "That leads to the Undercity. Go kill some ghouls, that will help you calm down. I’ll stop by later, when you’re ready to make some further plans." For a moment Sarevok simply stood there, breathing heavily, and the wizard feared that he might have gone to far. Then Sarevok gave him a final, baleful glance and darted through the portal. It winked out of existence behind him.

Winski leaned against the wall, wiping his brow. That had been close. Too close. The boy was getting more highly strung every day. Winski would not stop speaking the truth as he saw it, however. He owed it to Sarevok. It wasn’t as if anybody else did, except for Tamoko. How was Sarevok supposed to ascend to his appointed place if he kept striking out randomly like this, without proper control? And so I must provide that control for him, Winski thought. Whether he likes it or not, it is my duty. Then, once he comes into his own, he will be truly free to do as he wills with the world. The mage turned around, and then he sighed. "Typical," he said. "He forgot the corpse."

The wizard sighed again. He cared for Sarevok as for his own son, and cherished his unique strengths and potential, but sometimes the boy could be such a handful. Absolutely impossible, to tell the truth. So brilliant, but so…so erratic. I shouldn’t think there could be anybody on the face of Toril who ever had to deal with bringing up a child that gifted and that reckless. Pity though. If there were, I would certainly like to sit down for a long, long talk with them. Exchange trade secrets, as it were.

Sarevok raged through the dark tunnels and catacombs of the Undercity, far beneath the city of Baldur’s Gate. The undead scattered like frightened sheep before him as he stalked the gloomy passages, black blood dripping off the Sword of Chaos. The bloodshed helped some, but it was not enough to calm the furious storm in his mind. The undead were dead already, after all. It was not the same thing as taking human lives, not at all.

NO, MY SON, his Father’s voice spoke inside his mind. YOU ARE RIGHT IN THIS. IT IS TRUE MURDER THAT YOU CRAVE, TRUE MURDER THAT WILL MAKE YOU COME INTO YOUR HERITAGE. YOU KNOW THIS, IT IS A TRUTH BRED INTO YOUR VERY BONES. SPILLING THE LIVES OF THESE INSIGNIFICANT ANTS IS NOTHING. THE LIVES OF NATIONS, THE LIVES OF YOUR SIBLINGS – THAT IS WHAT WILL GRANT YOU LIFE EVERLASTING.

"My siblings…" Sarevok hissed between his teeth as he struck the head off yet another ghoul. "My sister."

YESSS… YOUR SISTER. THAT LITTLE ONE HAS PROVEN A NOT SO INSIGNIFICANT THORN IN YOUR SIDE, HASN’T SHE? PERHAPS SHE OUGHT TO BE MY CHAMPION…

"No! NOOOO!" Sarevok screamed, and the scream echoed through the Undercity to make the undead shiver in their deepest holes as they hid in fear. "She will not! She will not! She had it all, right from the start. Everything I didn’t. She…She took it all. She will not take this too. Never. NEVER!"

His Father’s voice chuckled quietly. VERY GOOD, MY SON. IT SEEMS YOU ARE WORTHY TO BE MY CHOSEN ONE AFTER ALL. TELL ME THEN, HOW DO YOU PREPARE TO DEAL WITH HER?

Sarevok thought for a moment, pausing in his track. The air was cold down here, but his blood was burning hot and he didn’t feel it, no more than he felt the slow dwindling of what had once made him human. "The mines…the mines in the Cloakwood. She is likely to go there next. I will make certain she is intercepted, and this time I will send only the best assassins available." He smiled, a smile reminiscent of the grin of a skull. "And if they too should fail – then I must make an exception from my original plans, despite the things I have to deal with here in the City. Then…I shall go after her myself. I so long to gaze upon my sister’s face once more. One…final time." He laughed, and he heard his Father laugh with him.

EXCELLENT, SON, spoke the voice of the dead god. TRULY, YOU ARE EVERYTHING I EVER HOPED YOU WOULD BE…

And Sarevok smiled at the approval of his Father.