Legends of Belariath
Mozenwrathe
Air Purification II
Count the ways I have been betrayed. One by one, they would add up to more than a dozen, and less than the price of a good sword in silver pieces. And although, my Liege Employer would never truly betray me, this time His commands have cut me to the quick. My heart aches for release, and my palms itch as if caked with ichor. For this time, I have been told to assist those whom would have my head - and save the life of an elven princess while doing so. Or should I place that in reverse? Either way, my meals have been noticeably lighter in recent days...
***
As you know, I am a human. What you do not know, however, is my chosen profession. For the sake of argument, call me a wizard. Why? For the simple fact most of my talents lie with the powers of incantation and magical manipulation. I do not, by any standard, mean the more subtle aspects of sorcery. My lack of fire-based spells is due to my personal gravitation to the colder works. I appreciate a good fire to warm up beside as much as any, but the weavings of such spells is lost to me, forever.
It suits me just fine. The ice remains my solace in times of stress. The frost clears the mind and purifies the body, much as any self-induced meditation can. The snow preserves and protects the land as a blanket, giving it chance to rest and resume life in the spring. And finally, where else can you find weapons that destroy themselves in moments when exposed to other elements other than in the icicles sculpted and honed? This I ask to all those whom fling fireballs about like kick balls for waist-high children. The damage inflicted by fire is greater than any I know for the wintry depths, and harder to control by far.
My aptitude for the enchanted arts was shown frighteningly early, when I had to steal for part of my living. Scrolls that were completely locked and barred with wizard traps were a snap for me to decipher and confiscate. None of the others could figure out why I was never slain my firebomb or frozen with paralysis, until one of the older "teachers" witnessed my READING THE INSTRUCTIONS. From that point on, my "lessons" included mental exercises to master the science of magic and sorcery. Whomever said youth is wasted on the young never knew me... and will be sorely pummeled if I ever hear them say it live.
Within months, I was casting spells at the same level of competency as those years ahead of me. I was eight winters old, and I was a master at reading of scrolls - all except those involving fire. From the first I had no fortune with anything involving heat, but the few spells from which the cold was summoned I used... and evolved. The basic snowball could become rock-hard ice-knuckles with a few extra words and some gestures. Blocks of ice could I wave into beautiful castles, much as those by the beach make dwellings of sand and water to impress themselves. Somehow, I think most of this stemmed from my being forced to drink the blood of a remorhaz, the blood and ground up scales of a white dragon, and the raw meat of a ivory winter wolf when I was six, while my "teachers" make sure I downed every last morsel of the three servings I was given. I was never the same after that, especially with the other things I was told to consume under pain of...
Well, that will have to wait.
My studies in the sorcerers arts were made to continue, as there were always more things to learn, new spells to acquire, and more objectives to reach. Within a few short years, I was one of the "favorites" to be sent on special missions. (In other words, I was the "undependable expendable" made to do the horrific and nastiest work for the least rewards, mainly due to my ability to survive and thrive under such conditions.) My evolving command of languages, coupled with my magical talents, were terrifying to some whom wielded me as their personal dagger and lock picks. My "principal" found me incorrigible and infernally invaluable. I was one of her best procurers and producers, so I received slightly better treatment than I had previous.
However, none of this assisted in my true goals, either back then in my past, or now with the Knights of Myth Drannor around me. Oh, for want of a big stick at times, would I give up all I know. (Well, not ALL of it.) There are days when the forces whom rally around the banner of Truth and Love need to be taken down a few pegs. Other times, they need to be kicked all the way off the ladder, and then beaten with it. Of course, I do know like them, so I am inclined to be biased towards corporal punishment.
***
The journey back to the archwizard's domain was painfully long. What was worse, the announcement that I was the OFFICIAL and SWORN DEFENDER of the elven maiden we had just rescued was given to me in public, and to much fanfare. One of the cavaliers had a choice comment to make about what exactly I would be protecting of hers; I wonder if his jaw has healed yet from the branch I cracked him with. (As I said earlier, there are times when I would pray for a big stick. This time I was answered.) I was in no humor to be humored, so he should have known better. First, I face the Zhentarim with incompetent Harpers and "heroes" by my side, and now was I a glorified babysitter. (Admittedly, she was ten times my age, but still...) And to think all I expected from the duties was another simple extraction with a few chosen adventurers, to get paid, and then go on to other and brighter missions. Instead I was to be taught the meaning of humility, and how you can exact return humiliation on armed warriors without a single common weapon?
To insist on adding injury to insult, I was not allowed a single spellbook or scroll near me. Rendering me impotent in the sorceress arts, some of the arrogant slobs dared smile and joke about my predicament, despite the presence of my own allies there. (They found a few ways to "convince" the original rescue party their presence was required by fending off the first Zhentarim recovery troops sent after us by themselves... without injury.) One thing I did learn, however, is that the breastplate of a paladin may glow with holy light when they pray, but dents just fine with a heavy stone hurled at it. (She did not like that, but I did not like her - worked out fine as far as I was concerned.) Although the elven maiden was notably saddened by my actions. The paladin did try to reprimand me by slicing my body from top to bottom, but she was halted by three things: a dark elf bladesinger with marvelous reflexes, a priest who believed in principal over personality, and the elven maiden herself - who also was an accomplished orator... and a devout priestess of peace.
Great, my life was dependent on a pacifist I did then realize. I can assure you my hope for survival was burning in the last cooking fire. All I had to question now was what weapon was going to slay me: steel, wood, or my own embarrassment.
This elven maiden that we had taken from the clutches of the Zhentarim, was in fact a priestess, a few relatives removed from a elvish throne, and my sole purpose for remaining alive in the eyes of the allies of the archmage. Given those facts, I would have rather died on a stake, but such was not my lot in life yet. I was not only supposed to defend this woman with my life, I was indebted to her as far as many were concerned. (Have I mentioned how I despise elves with an unholy passion? I have? Good, I thought I forgot.) As my life was her shield, as payment for her defending my soul from eternal torment at the point of the paladin's blade (although my dark elf companion stopped the fatal blow first), she decided she would learn about this "brave and diabolic human" that had taken part in her rescue. (Let's just gloss over the fact I killed two guards just as they tried to rape her, shall we? None know that but her and I.. and now you.) She wanted to know all about me, so I gave her the abbreviated version - it took two days. And I did remove all the important parts, like saving children and helping farmers - staying the course a passenger believes the safest route is often more important than the trip itself. Starting with my first assassination at the age of five, I proceeded to escort her through my little hell in a cell. Her goddess must also teach serenity, for as my emotionless narration continued, she never gasped or looked away - but I did notice tears fall from her eyes as I told her about my youth. My face was a blank slate, but my mind raced to find explanation for this phenomenon. I have no god to fall back on when times are hard, and even my sigils of Amauntor on my contracts is more for formalization than any dedication to his memory. This elven priestess did have one though, and I am sure she called on her numerous times while in the "care" of the Zhentarim.
Most do not survive the experience unscathed, if at all.
I wanted to plunge a pillar of ice through her chest - she was still an elf. My feelings towards her kind had not changed any - no, wait, for that is a lie. My feelings had moved three breaths of a remorhaz to the left, and five spikes of a manticore's tail backwards. Aside from that, I was going to make sure she made it back to the archwizard's chosen meeting place - none were going to kill this damsel but I, I would make sure of it.
The second week of our journey brought our third assault by the Zhentarim upon us. Given our terribly slow rate of progress, I was not surprised. Neither were the others, as we had been keeping an eye out for them for days by that time. (Leaving dead bodies behind in full armor is never a great way to mask your path.) What did shock me out of my reverie, however, was the sheer amount of force they were bringing to bear for a few simple prisoners - or so they thought of them. Sure, we did scratch up their fortress as we were leaving, and at least one beholder is no longer, but this was almost heartbreaking. We were to be outnumbered at least five to one, maybe even six. Beyond that, we were not even fully rested and in proper form for a full scale assault.
This was going to hurt. A lot. Did I mention I hadn't a spell to my name because of the "wisdom" of the heroes and allies of the archmage? I did? Excellent, for I know I was not the only one thinking about that as we saw the squadron of close to 150 soldiers, sorcerers, and priests to dark gods kicking up dust in our direction. All I wanted was one scroll, ANY scroll at that point and time. Just something to delay the inevitable piercing of my chest with a well-honed Zhentarim blade. For some reason, I did not relish the concept of dying by their hands. (More like I did not wish to die, period.) They did not seem to be giving us any options, however, other than to be run down, slain, enslaved, or worse - if there was a worse.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the wizards of our not-so-merry band open up his bag, and a scroll got loose. In her haste, she let it slide in my general direction, the others preparing for what could be their last battle on Faerun. Diving for the scroll, I watched as the first 20 or so forerunners engaged my personal allies and the heroes in deadly combat. Despite the fact my best friend is a dark elf, he too was there, fighting alongside with us to the death - preferably the death of the Zhentarim. His dying for my cause would NEVER do. As I opened up the scroll and stood up with one motion, my eyes fell upon the most beautiful thing I had seen in my short human life.
With a roar overheard by the many combatants, AND stunning the Zhentarim troops, a dragon of fuschia hue dropped from the blind spot of the sky, letting fall a bundle of huge sticks and branches, completely ruining the potential barrage of arcane energies the mages of the Zhentarim were about to launch. I could have kissed her, if she didn't hate me. It was the dark elf familiar - a deep dragon almost as old as he. (Then again, he's pretty young for a dark elf to begin with; about 175 autumns I think he is.) With that opportunity, I used the scroll to my advantage, reading from it in the original language it was meant to be from as I improvised a few alterations to it.
To be a little more in depth, the average scroll is a one-shot deal, with no room for mistakes or alterations. My experience with this particular spell, as well as the mutated adeptness of which I control frost elements, gave me some room. Not much, but more than I had any right to. With a few more words, three hand gestures, and a promise to give the spell half of my remaining strength, I turned a basic ice storm into a hail of icy death and despairing blood mist. And yes, it did hurt - extensively. I fell with my own life's blood pouring from my mouth, my eyes coated in ice and snow, and my body wracked in agonizing spasms. Then I fell unconscious, fully expecting to find myself in hell.
When I came to, we were miles away from the battle, and I was in a wagon with a number of people surrounding me. Asking if I had finally found my just reward, I heard a curse familiar to me in a voice I could not abide by. Apparently I had found hell, by surviving and being stuck with the paladin to guard me, along with my ally the cleric. She did not like the idea of keeping me alive the past four days, but it was not her decision.
I smiled. She left cursing more. That could not have been good for her paladin's oath. So much the better. The cleric told me that the spell I had wrought had, along with the appearance of the dragon, turned the tides of the battle. My sorcery itself slew none of the foes, but it was more than enough to make things more than even. A sole Zhentarim mage got away - until one of the sylvan elf archers brought him down with a arrow that soared clear across the horizon. (He is prone to exaggeration, this cleric. This time, however, I believed him. I had seen the elf shoot once - at me. He missed, because I tripped by accident when I was running. I still have to get him back for that.) Their armor had been collected, and their weapons and scrolls taken off their dead and partially frozen bodies. We were on our way back to the archmage's meeting place.
I asked him then if it was alright for me to die now. He chuckled. Then he mentioned my continued oath to my Liege Employer to keep the elven maiden safe as long as I was alive. My eyes rolled into the back of my head at this point, the irony of this situation not completely lost on me. Here I was, weak as a kitten, still required to carry out my duties to my Liege Employer.
Some days, I guess, it just does not pay to be the winner.