I just finished writing the backstory for my new Dungeons & Dragons character, and I thought some might get a charge out of it.
The Tale of Marukhos
Part One: Midsummer Meeting
The crowd in the pub was exactly the way Marukhos liked it: big enough to blend into, yet not so thick that privacy couldn’t be had. And, in a city as cosmopolitan as Waterdeep, it was wide and varied enough that nobody would notice a thin, bald man in ash-grey robes among the more flamboyant specimens on display. Still, the half-elven woman was doing far more than notice him.
She had seated herself at his booth a little more than half-an-hour ago, wishing him a Happy Midsummer and offering to buy him a drink. In Marukhos’s experience, it was generally the man who made such offers to the woman, but he expected that the City of Splendors had enough disparate cultures represented that one man’s ironbound tradition was merely another’s polite suggestion. He accepted her offer nonetheless, reflecting that it was a holiday after all, and her face was far more enjoyable to look at for the rest of the night than the raucous orcs playing darts a few yards away.
Mirith, as she had introduced herself, exchanged trivial pleasantries with him about the day’s festivities, about the weather, about the latest local news, about the bard that had played here the night before, and then questions began to get uncomfortably personal.
“You’re a long way from home, I can see,” Mirith remarked casually.
Marukhos regarded her for a moment, searching for any hint in her ice-blue eyes or body language that her inquiry might be anything less than innocent. “What makes you say that?”
“Your clothes. They’re Mulhorandi, if I’m not mistaken,” she replied, taking another sip from her flagon.
“True enough. You’ve traveled to the Old Empires, have you?” he answered with a question of his own.
“No,” she said, “but this is Waterdeep. Everyone comes to the City of Splendors eventually. Are you from Mulhorand?”
“I can’t say I would call it home, exactly, but I spent many years there, yes.”
“So,” Mirith asked, “what are you, exactly?”
“Merely a wandering scribe and calligrapher. I write letters, announcements, contracts, that sort of thing. I suppose you’d find the details excruciatingly boring…” Marukhos tried to deflect further inquiry.
“No, I don’t mean what do you do. I mean, what are you?”
He chuckled as he lifted the mug to his lips again. “Ah, pub philosophy. I believe there was a sage once who said something about a man being more than his name, his title, his possessions…”
“I know you’re not human. What are you?” she asked. Her eyes glittered back at him, diamond-hard and demanding answers.
“You know, I really must complain to the innkeeper. I ordered spiced tea, but there has to be something stronger in this mug, because it almost sounded just now like you were accusing me of not being human…” He tried to laugh off the question and began planning an expeditious retreat.
“I’ve seen your wings,” she stated plainly. “I’ve watched you flying.”
Marukhos froze, and his smile faded. He cursed himself inwardly for being such a fool as to go out on Midsummer’s Eve. He normally tried to wait for the New Moon to take his little constitutionals, when there would less light for witnesses to see him by, but he just couldn’t hold back the need to be free last night. With an entire city celebrating, he couldn’t tolerate being among them all on the ground any longer. If he had to be alone, he would do it in the sky, where he wouldn’t have to look at the multitudes rejoicing in not being alone.
“I saw you, sitting on a rooftop near the Sea Wards last night,” she continued, “At first, I thought you were just another carved gargoyle, but then you leapt into the sky and flew over the shoreline for almost an hour.” A trace of awe had crept into her voice. “It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
He studied her warily. “It is… an incomparable feeling from my perspective as well. All right then, you know my little secret. It’s my turn for the probing questions: What do you want of me?” he asked, his voice steady and serious.
“I just want to know more about you. I’ve never seen a being like you before,” she replied.
Marukhos hesitated, uncertain about trusting this strange woman.
“Don’t be frightened,” Mirith said quietly. “I know what it’s like to be different.” She brushed aside her short platinum-blonde hair to expose the pointed ear-tips that marked her elven heritage. “I know what it’s like not to be at home anywhere, to be seen as neither one thing nor the other by both sides of my family. Remember, I was the only person in the city not gazing into a lover’s eyes long enough to see you in the air. I know what it is to be alone.”
Marukhos looked down for a moment, and then lifted his eyes to meet her gaze. “Very well. I’ll tell you.”
“Are you a Tiefling?” Mirith asked.
“No, there was some speculation that I might be one, but I don’t seem to have any of the other typical traits. My mother had wings as well, but not these.” Marukhos rolled up the sleeve of his robe to expose his forearm. Just barely visible against his pale skin were a faint pattern of white marks.
Mirith studied his arm intently. As the shadow of the orcish dart players passed briefly over their table, she noted with amazement that the intricate shapes glimmered softly with their own pearly light. “They look almost like… magical writing.”
“They are. A Divination spell, to be precise. I can read magic as plainly as the Common Tongue.”
“You were born with these?”
“As far as I can tell, yes. I think it may be a sign of my father’s bloodline, but I don’t know for sure. He died when I was but an infant, so I never knew him. “
Marukhos covered his arm once more and met Mirith’s gaze. “You ask me what I am, when I ask myself that question every day. I wish I could tell you, that I could point to some other being and say ‘that is what I am,’ but I can’t. To the best of my knowledge, there isn’t another being like me in all of Faerun, and maybe not in Kara-Tur or Zakhara either. I honestly don’t know anything more than that. I’m some kind of half-breed, but I can’t even guess what those halves might be.”
Mirith sat back in her seat, stunned by this admission. “But… surely, you must know a little, your mother must have said something about where you came from?”
“To be honest, I don’t think she knew much more than I do,” Marukhos muttered pessimistically. “She often spoke a language with me unheard anywhere else on Toril, and the word she used for our kind was ‘niomus’. In years of study and searching, I have yet to find a single mention of that name. Sometimes, she would speak of growing up in mountaintop cities and cliffside aeries, but there’s nowhere like that in the Realms. The way she spoke of it, I think she knew she could never go back there. I was born in Unther. That whole region of the Old Empires has a history of gates between worlds, and nobody knows when or why they open. I suppose it’s likely that my parents might have fallen through one of them and found themselves here on Toril.”
“There are sages who study the Planes, maybe one of them could help you and your mother find her home world…” Mirith’s voice trailed off as she saw Marukhos stiffen at the mention of his mother in the present tense. “She’s gone, isn’t she? I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up…”
“No, it’s all right,” he reassured her, not entirely convincingly. “They say it’s helpful to talk about these things. You’ve heard so much, you might as well know the rest.” He took a deep breath and began to tell his tale. “Her name was Beylyssa.”
Part Two: Recounting the Past
I have said that I was born in Unther, and that I spent many years in Mulhorand. What I did not say was that my mother and I spent those years as slaves. When I was still but a few months old, my village was raided by slavers from Thay. My mother and I were taken prisoner, and sold to the Temple of Anhur in Skuld. My father must have been killed trying to defend us, but my mother always refused to speak of what happened to him.
We were presented as a gift to the Grand Vizier, a wizard named Aten-Hotep, and a highly placed advisor to the Pharaoh. Beylyssa was a beautiful woman, with hair like strands of dawn sunlight, and she was presented to Aten-Hotep as an exotic concubine. However, Aten-Hotep was an old man, and had little interest and less need for a trophy wife. Even more fortunately for us, he was a kindly man. He saw not a gift of slaves, to do with as he pleased, but a frightened young woman, her tears smearing the rouge and kohl that the temple acolytes had applied to her face, with an equally frightened child held tightly to her breast. I’m not sure if she or the priests who delivered her were more surprised when the Vizier led Beylyssa to the kitchen instead of his bedchambers, and then fixed her a hot meal by himself.
Having devoted his long life to the study of magic and to the service of his Pharaoh, Aten-Hotep had no family of his own. He accepted us as slaves, since to refuse us or to set us free upon receiving us would have been seen as an insult, causing strife between the Temple and the Palace; yet we were slaves in name only. Aten-Hotep treated us as if we were his children, and he provided well for us. When I was very small, I even used to call him ‘Grandfather’ for a time. We were happy in his home for many years, as I grew towards manhood. But outside that home…
We learned fairly quickly that not everyone in Mulhorand was as accepting as Aten-Hotep. Our wings set us apart, and the protection of the Grand Vizier’s household could not extend to silencing the gossiping tongues which whispered that he dallied with a succubus, or to turning away the contemptuous stares of those who feared and envied us for our gift of flight. Beylyssa soon taught me that we must fly only in secret, and that we must keep our wings folded and hidden beneath our clothes when in the presence of others. I would later know that they resented our prosperity in Aten-Hotep’s home while they lived little better than slaves beneath harsh laws and suffocating taxes; but young as I was, I came to understand that I was different, and that I would be hated for it.
And yet, I learned that I was also different in a way that would serve me well. Aten-Hotep noticed very early that I had a natural talent for magic, my father’s legacy. He trained me by himself for a time, and then he sponsored my admission to the Great University and Wizard College in Gheldaneth. I studied there until my eighteenth year, when I returned to Skuld. The circumstances of my return were anything but happy, I regret to say.
Arriving at the house of Aten-Hotep, which now bore the mark of another above its door, I quickly became aware of the change that had been wrought in my absence. The housekeeper greeted me, but the cheer I remembered from youth had long vanished from her round face, replaced by worry and dread. She led me upstairs to my mother’s chambers with the silence that comes from fear of attracting attention.
I found Beylyssa hastily donning a veil before she rose at my entrance. Before I could say anything, she rushed forward to embrace me, the catch of tears in her voice as she welcomed me home. This was not merely a mother’s relief at seeing her son safely returned, more than simple mourning for Aten-Hotep’s passing, there was a desperation to her actions that I did not yet understand. But I would learn the reason soon enough.
Aten-Hotep was an old man, and he knew his last days were approaching. He had planned that upon his death, my mother and I would be set free, and we would inherit any portions of his estate not bound to the office of Grand Vizier. Unfortunately, the Temple would not approve of this arrangement, and he died before he could convince them. This meant that, without any heirs, all of his property went to his successor… including us.
Ehtar-Re assumed the title of Grand Vizier upon Aten-Hotep’s passing, and he displayed a remarkably different attitude towards our relationship. The law of Mulhorand states that slaves are to be treated with respect, and that harming a slave was considered the same as defiling Temple property and bore the same heavy penalty; but in all kingdoms there are always those who believe that their positions of power place them above such laws. Ehtar-Re was such a man. Officially, Beylyssa was concubine to the Grand Vizier, and he was determined that she would serve him in that capacity, not as surrogate daughter.
My mother had just finished relating these events when a heavy tread could be heard upon the stairs. She froze at the sound, like a fox hearing the hounds crashing through the underbrush. Without so much as a knock to announce his presence, an imposing figure threw the door open and strode in, glowering at us with suspicion. He wore an elaborate golden collar over his robes of state, and bore the symbol of the sun disc upon his shaved head, all of which marked him as the new Grand Vizier. His dark eyes beneath shadowing brows fell upon me, and regarded me as a merchant appraises a sack of grain at market. “So, the last of my inheritance has finally arrived. Tell me, boy, of what value are you to me? Apart from keeping the woman in line, of course,” he said, his voice the rumbling purr of a jungle cat toying with its next meal. “She hadn’t mentioned that part, had she?” Ehtar-Re smirked at my stunned silence. “At first, the only way to get her into my bed was to threaten your life. Thank the gods for a mother’s will to protect her child; there’s nothing easier to manipulate. But now, she knows better than to disobey, doesn’t she?“ With that, he tore the veil from her face, and what he revealed pierced my heart.
My mother’s cheek was covered with a sickly purple bruise, and her eye above it was black, an obscene echo of the smeared concubine’s makeup she wore when we first came to this house. Her chin showed signs of a recent cut which had not fully healed, its shape a mirror of the scarab beetle sculpted on Ehtar-Re’s ring of office. Trembling with rage, I bolted to my feet. “If you ever hurt her again…” I growled.
“You’ll do what, exactly?” Ehtar-Re sneered. “Come then, show me your worst. The woman claims you’re some sort of magical prodigy. If you’re any good I might make you an apprentice. I’ve been needing someone to keep my scrolls in order. So show me some magic, boy.” He advanced on me with arms spread, presenting himself as a perfect target. “Or did they only teach you that slaves give orders to their masters at Gheldaneth?” he snarled.
“Please, Marukhos. Don’t upset him…” Beylyssa implored me. Fearing for her safety, I hesitated.
Seeing this, a predator’s grin spread across Ehtar-Re’s face. “So, the son wants to protect his mother? That makes this so much easier.
“Ekohc!!!!!” he cried out, stretching out his hand in a clutching motion towards Beylyssa. A dull red glow formed in his palm, then streaked out at her, coalescing into a claw of force around her neck, lifting her up off the floor. She strained frantically to pry the spectral fingers loose, gasping for breath. “Try to stop me from killing her, boy! Let’s see what your magic can do!”
“Let her down!” I roared. While my inborn gift for magic enabled me to learn four times as many spells as my fellow students at the Great University, less than a dozen were of use in battle. As Aten-Hotep had hoped, I was a scribe and scholar, not a fighter.
Ehtar-Re snorted with disdain. “Let her down? That’s no spell I’m aware of, boy. You can do better than that! Show me this supposed talent of yours!” He closed his hand into a fist, and his phantom grip tightened around Beylyssa’s throat, causing her to struggle for air even harder.
“Tloj!” I shouted, sending a jolt of electricity at the Vizier, hoping to stun him into dropping her. It crackled along his arm for a moment, yet he did not release his grasp.
“That’s it?” he asked incredulously. “A miserable cantrip is the best you can do? You disappoint me, youngling.” Ehtar-Re glared at me with contempt. “The woman told me you were reading magic before you could read the Common Tongue. I would think you’d have more to show for it, if that’s the truth. Perhaps she needs to be reminded of what happens when slaves lie to their masters…” With that, he swung his arm and opened his fist, causing the glowing claw around Beylyssa’s throat to mimic his motions. She was slammed against the stone wall with a sickening crack, and then she drooped to the floor in a heap, where she lay silent and still.
“Swodahs fo Ten!!!” I roared, and inky shadows flew from the corners of the room to ensnare Ehtar-Re in a net of darkness. As he thrashed about blindly, I cast off my scholar’s robes to free my wings. With another shouted spell of “Ekirts Eurt!!”, I saw with utter clarity the exact point at which I needed to strike him through the darkness. Spreading my wings wide, I lunged for him, hitting his lower back and knocking him off balance. I continued my charge, shoving him through the open balcony of my mother’s chambers and out into the air above the city of Skuld.
Still carrying Ehtar-Re, I climbed for a few moments as the shadows that had surrounded him dissipated. Then, after reaching a dizzying height, I pulled my wings in tight and dove, heading directly for the stones of the street below. At the last moment before we both would have struck the ground, I released him, allowing the force of our fall to carry him the rest of the way. I spread my wings again and swooped back skyward as Ehtar-Re collided with the paving stones like a catapulted boulder.
Hovering in mid-air, I turned to see if Ehtar-Re had survived the drop. As the dust settled at the point of impact, he could be seen clearly, standing in the man-shaped crater he had made, the translucent scarlet outline of a ghostly suit of knight’s plate mail still shining around him, the sign of a Mage Armor spell. A leer split his face, as if he were finding sick entertainment in this conflict.
Too enraged to stop, I dove back down at him, launching the remainder of my offensive spells in quick succession. Bolts of acid, ice, fire and lightning flew from my hands, but to no avail. They crashed against Ehtar-Re’s mystic shield like hailstones against a windowpane, only true hail might have threatened him more. I continued my plunge until I was on top of the monster, and with no more spells to cast I rained down blows upon him with only my bare fists. Untroubled in the least by my assault, he grabbed me by the shoulders and hurled me to the ground. Ignoring the pain, I pulled myself back to my feet, refusing to give in.
Ehtar-Re dropped to one knee and punched the cobblestoned street. Bellowing “Tsrub Htrae!!!”, streams of crimson energy coursed down his arm into the ground. The stones rippled from his fist in a furrow, which sped towards me like a cobra hunting its prey. When they reached me, they burst upward, taking the rest of the cobbles around me with them, and formed together into a massive serpent of stones. Rearing back, they pounced at me before reverting to a barrage of rocks, pummeling me everywhere at once. I fell to the ground in a battered heap, desperately searching for the strength to continue.
By this point, the common passers-by, who had scattered like frightened pigeons when Ehtar-Re dropped into their midst with such force, were getting over the initial shock of such a sight, and were alarmed for other reasons.
“It’s Aten-Hotep’s pet freak!” one shouted.
“He’s trying to kill the Grand Vizier!” cried another.
“Someone get the Guard!”
“Stop the freak!”
“Don’t let him get away!”
As the shouting grew louder, an insistent whistle could be heard approaching from around the corner. A squad of the Pharaoh’s Guard came running into the narrow street, the sun glinting on their gold and lapis headdresses, as they shoved gawking pedestrians out of their path. Between blowing shrill notes with his whistle, their Captain barked demands to make way.
Pausing to cast a triumphant smile at me, Ehtar-Re called out to the approaching guardsmen. “Arrest him! He broke into my home and murdered my consort! He attacked me when I found him killing her!”
Drawing their shortswords, the guardsmen advanced on me. With the crowd now blocking off both ends of the street, there was no other escape save straight up. They gasped in shock as I snapped my wings out to full span and leapt for the sky. I soared over their heads and made for the city wall. Below me, some began hurling rocks in my direction, and others followed suit. Above their jeers and cries of hate, I heard the Captain of the Guard summoning archers. As I sped out of the city, dodging their crude missiles, I never once looked back. There was no longer anything there I cared to see.
Part Three: Vow of Vengeance
Mirith leaned back in her seat, still taking in the full scope of the history Marukhos had just finished. “Ilmater’s Tears….” she whispered, her brow creased with pity for the grieving soul who sat opposite her. “What happened after that?”
“I just flew, as fast and as far away from Skuld as I could before I gave in to exhaustion. I finally dropped somewhere along the coast of the Alamber Sea, near the port of Neldorild. When I had recovered, I secured passage on a ship bound for Cimbar, in Chessenta. I worked my way West, making my living as a scribe where I could, until I reached Waterdeep. This is as far from Mulhorand as one can get without leaving Faerun altogether.” Marukhos said softly.
Mirith leaned in closer, her voice full of sympathy. “But, you can’t live your life just… running away from everything. You may not be able to go home again, but surely you can start a new home here; find something to live for? “ She placed her hand on the table between them, a clear invitation for him to take it.
Marukhos chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, I’m not running away. Far from it. I’ve come to Waterdeep with a much more… constructive purpose.”
“And what would that be?” Mirith inquired.
“Power,” Marukhos stated quite simply, before taking a last swallow from his mug.
Mirith blinked in astonishment. “Power? That’s all, just… power?”
“Of course. The power to be a stronger mage than I am now. Strong enough to return to Mulhorand, face Ehtar-Re, and avenge my mother’s murder,” he stated matter-of-factly. “And the best place to find that power is here in the City of Splendors. I could spend a year searching the whole of Faerun, and not find a tenth of the magic that passes through the Trade Wards in a single afternoon. Enough rings, wands, and potions to rival any fabled treasure hoard in the lost tombs of the Dragonsword Mountains change hands every hour at the bazaar not fifty steps from where we now sit. The Guild Wizards keep libraries of scrolls and spellbooks gathered from lifetimes of adventuring across this and countless other worlds. Gem Magic, Runecasting, mastering the Shadow Weave; simply name it, and the knowledge of it is here somewhere, for a price.” Marukhos’s voice took on an edge of determination, mingled with a trace of excitement at the prospect of so many secrets waiting to be uncovered.
Mirith shifted with discomfort. “So, once you think you’ve amassed enough power, what? You’ll kill this Ehtar-Re, just like that?”
“Not immediately, no.” Marukhos narrowed his eyes as he spoke, and they glinted with restrained fury. “By killing Beylyssa, Ehtar-Re took from me the one thing in this world that I cared about more than all else. I shall return the favor before I kill him, and strip him of everything he holds dear first. And there is nothing he treasures so much as his position of power over Mulhorand. I shall return with an army at my back, to raze Skuld to the ground. I shall crush the Palace and the Temple of Anhur into dust, and sell the Pharaoh and all who take his side into slavery. I shall burn the crops and salt the fields with poison so that nothing will ever take root there again. Once Ehtar-Re has seen everything that he sought to control taken from him forever, then and only then shall I kill him. His death will be filled with as much pain and fear as I can cause him, and I will burn his remains beyond all hope of restoration. And once I have done all this, I will eat his ashes.”
Mirith’s already fair skin grew visibly paler with horror as Marukhos outlined his plan. “But, you can’t…” she whispered with shock. “Anhur is no evil god, you can’t blame him for what happened…”
“Is he?” Marukhos shot back. “If Anhur is such a benign deity, why did he give his blessing to Mulhorand’s conquest of Unther, and the enslavement of my birthplace? Why do the priests of his temple still buy whole caravans of slaves in his name to this day? No, let Set and Apep feast upon his rotten carcass; he’s just as guilty as Ehtar-Re and the Pharaoh.” he spat.
“But why the Pharaoh?” Mirith entreated. “Everything I’ve heard about him says that he’s a good man, and that he’s trying to make life better for all his subjects…”
“He’s not trying hard enough!” Marukhos hissed with rage. “It would take only one decree from him, just one, and every slave in Mulhorand and Unther could be made free people. Why hasn’t he done this? Don’t tell me he wants to improve lives, when the lives who need it most are the ones forced into bringing him his breakfast every morning. If slavery is such a beneficial and necessary institution, then he and the priesthood should have no argument with taking their turns as slaves.”
After a pause, he unclenched his jaw and added bitterly, “The Pharaoh is far from innocent, for there are no innocents in Mulhorand. When I fought Ehtar-Re in the streets, hopelessly outmatched by him, whose side did the crowd take? They stood by the bully, because they are an entire nation of bullies. I have no pity or forgiveness for any of them, and may Set take them all.”
They were both silent for a time, an island of unease in the sea of holiday merriment that filled the pub. When she had regained her composure, Mirith spoke slowly, “You may not believe me, but I understand how you feel. I know that you’ve been hurt deeply, and that it’s been eating away at you inside all this time. My heart aches to see you like this, it truly does, and I think your mother should be avenged. That’s what makes this next part so difficult.”
With lightning speed, Mirith reached into the sash around her slim waist and retrieved a dagger, pointing it at Marukhos. Moments later, the two orcs had abandoned their game of darts, taking up position in front of the booth and cracking their knuckles ominously. “I suggest you come with us willingly. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you leave me no other choice,” she said, her voice low and firm.
Marukhos raised an eyebrow quizzically at her, folded his arms, and allowed as much venom as possible to soak into his words. “Well,” he drawled, “I suppose this is your turn for storytime.”
“My name is Mirith Iceheart. I’m a bounty hunter hired to bring you back to Mulhorand for the attempted murder of Grand Vizier Ehtar-Re,” she said in a voice tinged with regret. “I’m sorry…”
“So all your sympathy just now was merely a ruse; a ploy to entrap me?” he demanded. “After all you’ve heard, you’re still going to hand me over to that beast so he can finish murdering me?”
“No! I do believe your innocence!” she protested. “But no one else will if you remain a fugitive. Come back to Mulhorand, bring your story to the Pharaoh, and let the law deal with Ehtar-Re.”
“The law?” Marukhos spat out the word with disgust, as if it were a decaying thing upon his tongue. “What good is the law to me, when men like Ehtar-Re can bend it to serve their wills, or avoid it altogether?”
“It’s far better than throwing your life away for vengeance! Right now, you’ve committed no crime, and I’ll gladly help you clear your name.” She leaned in closer and spoke with urgency. “But if you insist on pursuing this plan to destroy the whole kingdom, then I won’t be able to help you.”
The bald mage regarded her with his blue-gray eyes for a few moments, stroking his neatly trimmed beard as if deep in thought. Finally, he spoke. “Tell me one thing before I make my choice. Were you telling the truth before, about having been alone?”
Mirith looked him in the eye and answered without hesitation. “Yes. I’ve stood in the exact same place you stand now, and I don’t want you to choose the wrong path.”
She held her gaze and looked deeper into his eyes. His cool, blue-gray eyes. Eyes the same color as the moonlit sea on the night she watched him flying over the shore. By Selune, he was beautiful when he flew. So graceful, so serene…
The next thing she knew, Mirith was sitting in the booth, but Marukhos was nowhere in sight. Her two orc assistants were getting up off the floor and rubbing their heads as if trying to clear away cobwebs. The rest of the pub’s patrons were returning to their conversations, clearly having been interrupted by some spectacle in the last few moments. She turned to one of the orcs. “Lugg, what in the Nine Hells just happened?”
“Well, we was standin’ ‘ere, ready to rough ‘im up a bit if ‘e tried anyfink funny, while you was talkin’ at ‘im,” the orc said in a gruff accent that marked him as a native of Waterdeep’s Dock Wards. “Den you just stopped talkin’ all sudden like, and you looked like you was starin’ straight through ‘im. After a minute or three o’ dat, I figgered ‘e musta put some manner o’ spell on you or sumpfink. So Dybbur an’ me get ready to thump ‘im afore ‘e starts pitchin’ ‘arder stuff about, when ‘e turns to me and just… coughs.”
“He coughed?” Mirith asked incredulously.
“Aye, ‘e coughed, but it weren’t like yer common cough what comes from smokin’ too much pipeweed. It felt more like the old Tower Bell soundin’ Midnight, and me poor ‘ead’s the clapper! I can’t ‘ear nuffink after dat, but ‘e ain’t out o’ tricks yet. ‘E snaps ‘is fingers, and dere’s dis bright flash o’ light. Now I can’t see nuffink either, an’ I’m figgerin’ Dybbur didn’t fare no better. When it all wore off just now, you was sittin’ dere all alone, Dybbur’s tryin’ to get ‘is noggin movin’ again, an’ our mark’s gone an’ scarpered off!” Lugg hung his head like an embarrassed child. “I’m dreadful sorry, Miss Mirith. I done bollocksed dat one up sumpfink fierce.”
“Don’t worry about it, Lugg,” Mirith sighed. “I should have known better than to let my guard down myself.” She cursed herself for letting her quarry get to her like that. Still, it was difficult not to feel for him. There was no way she could let him threaten an entire kingdom, but she honestly didn’t blame the rogue mage for wanting to punish Ehtar-Re. She held out hope that she could catch him in time to turn his obsession from personal vengeance to true justice. She hoped the fact that he had only incapacitated her without doing any real damage was a sign that he genuinely had no desire to harm her, rather than a simple lack of offensive spells.
As she gathered up her fallen dagger from the table, she noticed something unexpected. Sitting there next to Marukhos’s empty mug were a few coins, enough to pay for both their drinks and still leave a generous tip for the barmaid. Even in the middle of escaping from her, he had stopped to pay his bill. Mirith allowed herself a tiny smile, reflecting that her hope of saving her quarry from himself may not be as slim as she had thought.
She didn’t know where she would find Marukhos next, but it was sure to be the most interesting hunt of her career.
The End - For Now
The Tale of Marukhos
Part One: Midsummer Meeting
The crowd in the pub was exactly the way Marukhos liked it: big enough to blend into, yet not so thick that privacy couldn’t be had. And, in a city as cosmopolitan as Waterdeep, it was wide and varied enough that nobody would notice a thin, bald man in ash-grey robes among the more flamboyant specimens on display. Still, the half-elven woman was doing far more than notice him.
She had seated herself at his booth a little more than half-an-hour ago, wishing him a Happy Midsummer and offering to buy him a drink. In Marukhos’s experience, it was generally the man who made such offers to the woman, but he expected that the City of Splendors had enough disparate cultures represented that one man’s ironbound tradition was merely another’s polite suggestion. He accepted her offer nonetheless, reflecting that it was a holiday after all, and her face was far more enjoyable to look at for the rest of the night than the raucous orcs playing darts a few yards away.
Mirith, as she had introduced herself, exchanged trivial pleasantries with him about the day’s festivities, about the weather, about the latest local news, about the bard that had played here the night before, and then questions began to get uncomfortably personal.
“You’re a long way from home, I can see,” Mirith remarked casually.
Marukhos regarded her for a moment, searching for any hint in her ice-blue eyes or body language that her inquiry might be anything less than innocent. “What makes you say that?”
“Your clothes. They’re Mulhorandi, if I’m not mistaken,” she replied, taking another sip from her flagon.
“True enough. You’ve traveled to the Old Empires, have you?” he answered with a question of his own.
“No,” she said, “but this is Waterdeep. Everyone comes to the City of Splendors eventually. Are you from Mulhorand?”
“I can’t say I would call it home, exactly, but I spent many years there, yes.”
“So,” Mirith asked, “what are you, exactly?”
“Merely a wandering scribe and calligrapher. I write letters, announcements, contracts, that sort of thing. I suppose you’d find the details excruciatingly boring…” Marukhos tried to deflect further inquiry.
“No, I don’t mean what do you do. I mean, what are you?”
He chuckled as he lifted the mug to his lips again. “Ah, pub philosophy. I believe there was a sage once who said something about a man being more than his name, his title, his possessions…”
“I know you’re not human. What are you?” she asked. Her eyes glittered back at him, diamond-hard and demanding answers.
“You know, I really must complain to the innkeeper. I ordered spiced tea, but there has to be something stronger in this mug, because it almost sounded just now like you were accusing me of not being human…” He tried to laugh off the question and began planning an expeditious retreat.
“I’ve seen your wings,” she stated plainly. “I’ve watched you flying.”
Marukhos froze, and his smile faded. He cursed himself inwardly for being such a fool as to go out on Midsummer’s Eve. He normally tried to wait for the New Moon to take his little constitutionals, when there would less light for witnesses to see him by, but he just couldn’t hold back the need to be free last night. With an entire city celebrating, he couldn’t tolerate being among them all on the ground any longer. If he had to be alone, he would do it in the sky, where he wouldn’t have to look at the multitudes rejoicing in not being alone.
“I saw you, sitting on a rooftop near the Sea Wards last night,” she continued, “At first, I thought you were just another carved gargoyle, but then you leapt into the sky and flew over the shoreline for almost an hour.” A trace of awe had crept into her voice. “It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
He studied her warily. “It is… an incomparable feeling from my perspective as well. All right then, you know my little secret. It’s my turn for the probing questions: What do you want of me?” he asked, his voice steady and serious.
“I just want to know more about you. I’ve never seen a being like you before,” she replied.
Marukhos hesitated, uncertain about trusting this strange woman.
“Don’t be frightened,” Mirith said quietly. “I know what it’s like to be different.” She brushed aside her short platinum-blonde hair to expose the pointed ear-tips that marked her elven heritage. “I know what it’s like not to be at home anywhere, to be seen as neither one thing nor the other by both sides of my family. Remember, I was the only person in the city not gazing into a lover’s eyes long enough to see you in the air. I know what it is to be alone.”
Marukhos looked down for a moment, and then lifted his eyes to meet her gaze. “Very well. I’ll tell you.”
“Are you a Tiefling?” Mirith asked.
“No, there was some speculation that I might be one, but I don’t seem to have any of the other typical traits. My mother had wings as well, but not these.” Marukhos rolled up the sleeve of his robe to expose his forearm. Just barely visible against his pale skin were a faint pattern of white marks.
Mirith studied his arm intently. As the shadow of the orcish dart players passed briefly over their table, she noted with amazement that the intricate shapes glimmered softly with their own pearly light. “They look almost like… magical writing.”
“They are. A Divination spell, to be precise. I can read magic as plainly as the Common Tongue.”
“You were born with these?”
“As far as I can tell, yes. I think it may be a sign of my father’s bloodline, but I don’t know for sure. He died when I was but an infant, so I never knew him. “
Marukhos covered his arm once more and met Mirith’s gaze. “You ask me what I am, when I ask myself that question every day. I wish I could tell you, that I could point to some other being and say ‘that is what I am,’ but I can’t. To the best of my knowledge, there isn’t another being like me in all of Faerun, and maybe not in Kara-Tur or Zakhara either. I honestly don’t know anything more than that. I’m some kind of half-breed, but I can’t even guess what those halves might be.”
Mirith sat back in her seat, stunned by this admission. “But… surely, you must know a little, your mother must have said something about where you came from?”
“To be honest, I don’t think she knew much more than I do,” Marukhos muttered pessimistically. “She often spoke a language with me unheard anywhere else on Toril, and the word she used for our kind was ‘niomus’. In years of study and searching, I have yet to find a single mention of that name. Sometimes, she would speak of growing up in mountaintop cities and cliffside aeries, but there’s nowhere like that in the Realms. The way she spoke of it, I think she knew she could never go back there. I was born in Unther. That whole region of the Old Empires has a history of gates between worlds, and nobody knows when or why they open. I suppose it’s likely that my parents might have fallen through one of them and found themselves here on Toril.”
“There are sages who study the Planes, maybe one of them could help you and your mother find her home world…” Mirith’s voice trailed off as she saw Marukhos stiffen at the mention of his mother in the present tense. “She’s gone, isn’t she? I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up…”
“No, it’s all right,” he reassured her, not entirely convincingly. “They say it’s helpful to talk about these things. You’ve heard so much, you might as well know the rest.” He took a deep breath and began to tell his tale. “Her name was Beylyssa.”
Part Two: Recounting the Past
I have said that I was born in Unther, and that I spent many years in Mulhorand. What I did not say was that my mother and I spent those years as slaves. When I was still but a few months old, my village was raided by slavers from Thay. My mother and I were taken prisoner, and sold to the Temple of Anhur in Skuld. My father must have been killed trying to defend us, but my mother always refused to speak of what happened to him.
We were presented as a gift to the Grand Vizier, a wizard named Aten-Hotep, and a highly placed advisor to the Pharaoh. Beylyssa was a beautiful woman, with hair like strands of dawn sunlight, and she was presented to Aten-Hotep as an exotic concubine. However, Aten-Hotep was an old man, and had little interest and less need for a trophy wife. Even more fortunately for us, he was a kindly man. He saw not a gift of slaves, to do with as he pleased, but a frightened young woman, her tears smearing the rouge and kohl that the temple acolytes had applied to her face, with an equally frightened child held tightly to her breast. I’m not sure if she or the priests who delivered her were more surprised when the Vizier led Beylyssa to the kitchen instead of his bedchambers, and then fixed her a hot meal by himself.
Having devoted his long life to the study of magic and to the service of his Pharaoh, Aten-Hotep had no family of his own. He accepted us as slaves, since to refuse us or to set us free upon receiving us would have been seen as an insult, causing strife between the Temple and the Palace; yet we were slaves in name only. Aten-Hotep treated us as if we were his children, and he provided well for us. When I was very small, I even used to call him ‘Grandfather’ for a time. We were happy in his home for many years, as I grew towards manhood. But outside that home…
We learned fairly quickly that not everyone in Mulhorand was as accepting as Aten-Hotep. Our wings set us apart, and the protection of the Grand Vizier’s household could not extend to silencing the gossiping tongues which whispered that he dallied with a succubus, or to turning away the contemptuous stares of those who feared and envied us for our gift of flight. Beylyssa soon taught me that we must fly only in secret, and that we must keep our wings folded and hidden beneath our clothes when in the presence of others. I would later know that they resented our prosperity in Aten-Hotep’s home while they lived little better than slaves beneath harsh laws and suffocating taxes; but young as I was, I came to understand that I was different, and that I would be hated for it.
And yet, I learned that I was also different in a way that would serve me well. Aten-Hotep noticed very early that I had a natural talent for magic, my father’s legacy. He trained me by himself for a time, and then he sponsored my admission to the Great University and Wizard College in Gheldaneth. I studied there until my eighteenth year, when I returned to Skuld. The circumstances of my return were anything but happy, I regret to say.
Arriving at the house of Aten-Hotep, which now bore the mark of another above its door, I quickly became aware of the change that had been wrought in my absence. The housekeeper greeted me, but the cheer I remembered from youth had long vanished from her round face, replaced by worry and dread. She led me upstairs to my mother’s chambers with the silence that comes from fear of attracting attention.
I found Beylyssa hastily donning a veil before she rose at my entrance. Before I could say anything, she rushed forward to embrace me, the catch of tears in her voice as she welcomed me home. This was not merely a mother’s relief at seeing her son safely returned, more than simple mourning for Aten-Hotep’s passing, there was a desperation to her actions that I did not yet understand. But I would learn the reason soon enough.
Aten-Hotep was an old man, and he knew his last days were approaching. He had planned that upon his death, my mother and I would be set free, and we would inherit any portions of his estate not bound to the office of Grand Vizier. Unfortunately, the Temple would not approve of this arrangement, and he died before he could convince them. This meant that, without any heirs, all of his property went to his successor… including us.
Ehtar-Re assumed the title of Grand Vizier upon Aten-Hotep’s passing, and he displayed a remarkably different attitude towards our relationship. The law of Mulhorand states that slaves are to be treated with respect, and that harming a slave was considered the same as defiling Temple property and bore the same heavy penalty; but in all kingdoms there are always those who believe that their positions of power place them above such laws. Ehtar-Re was such a man. Officially, Beylyssa was concubine to the Grand Vizier, and he was determined that she would serve him in that capacity, not as surrogate daughter.
My mother had just finished relating these events when a heavy tread could be heard upon the stairs. She froze at the sound, like a fox hearing the hounds crashing through the underbrush. Without so much as a knock to announce his presence, an imposing figure threw the door open and strode in, glowering at us with suspicion. He wore an elaborate golden collar over his robes of state, and bore the symbol of the sun disc upon his shaved head, all of which marked him as the new Grand Vizier. His dark eyes beneath shadowing brows fell upon me, and regarded me as a merchant appraises a sack of grain at market. “So, the last of my inheritance has finally arrived. Tell me, boy, of what value are you to me? Apart from keeping the woman in line, of course,” he said, his voice the rumbling purr of a jungle cat toying with its next meal. “She hadn’t mentioned that part, had she?” Ehtar-Re smirked at my stunned silence. “At first, the only way to get her into my bed was to threaten your life. Thank the gods for a mother’s will to protect her child; there’s nothing easier to manipulate. But now, she knows better than to disobey, doesn’t she?“ With that, he tore the veil from her face, and what he revealed pierced my heart.
My mother’s cheek was covered with a sickly purple bruise, and her eye above it was black, an obscene echo of the smeared concubine’s makeup she wore when we first came to this house. Her chin showed signs of a recent cut which had not fully healed, its shape a mirror of the scarab beetle sculpted on Ehtar-Re’s ring of office. Trembling with rage, I bolted to my feet. “If you ever hurt her again…” I growled.
“You’ll do what, exactly?” Ehtar-Re sneered. “Come then, show me your worst. The woman claims you’re some sort of magical prodigy. If you’re any good I might make you an apprentice. I’ve been needing someone to keep my scrolls in order. So show me some magic, boy.” He advanced on me with arms spread, presenting himself as a perfect target. “Or did they only teach you that slaves give orders to their masters at Gheldaneth?” he snarled.
“Please, Marukhos. Don’t upset him…” Beylyssa implored me. Fearing for her safety, I hesitated.
Seeing this, a predator’s grin spread across Ehtar-Re’s face. “So, the son wants to protect his mother? That makes this so much easier.
“Ekohc!!!!!” he cried out, stretching out his hand in a clutching motion towards Beylyssa. A dull red glow formed in his palm, then streaked out at her, coalescing into a claw of force around her neck, lifting her up off the floor. She strained frantically to pry the spectral fingers loose, gasping for breath. “Try to stop me from killing her, boy! Let’s see what your magic can do!”
“Let her down!” I roared. While my inborn gift for magic enabled me to learn four times as many spells as my fellow students at the Great University, less than a dozen were of use in battle. As Aten-Hotep had hoped, I was a scribe and scholar, not a fighter.
Ehtar-Re snorted with disdain. “Let her down? That’s no spell I’m aware of, boy. You can do better than that! Show me this supposed talent of yours!” He closed his hand into a fist, and his phantom grip tightened around Beylyssa’s throat, causing her to struggle for air even harder.
“Tloj!” I shouted, sending a jolt of electricity at the Vizier, hoping to stun him into dropping her. It crackled along his arm for a moment, yet he did not release his grasp.
“That’s it?” he asked incredulously. “A miserable cantrip is the best you can do? You disappoint me, youngling.” Ehtar-Re glared at me with contempt. “The woman told me you were reading magic before you could read the Common Tongue. I would think you’d have more to show for it, if that’s the truth. Perhaps she needs to be reminded of what happens when slaves lie to their masters…” With that, he swung his arm and opened his fist, causing the glowing claw around Beylyssa’s throat to mimic his motions. She was slammed against the stone wall with a sickening crack, and then she drooped to the floor in a heap, where she lay silent and still.
“Swodahs fo Ten!!!” I roared, and inky shadows flew from the corners of the room to ensnare Ehtar-Re in a net of darkness. As he thrashed about blindly, I cast off my scholar’s robes to free my wings. With another shouted spell of “Ekirts Eurt!!”, I saw with utter clarity the exact point at which I needed to strike him through the darkness. Spreading my wings wide, I lunged for him, hitting his lower back and knocking him off balance. I continued my charge, shoving him through the open balcony of my mother’s chambers and out into the air above the city of Skuld.
Still carrying Ehtar-Re, I climbed for a few moments as the shadows that had surrounded him dissipated. Then, after reaching a dizzying height, I pulled my wings in tight and dove, heading directly for the stones of the street below. At the last moment before we both would have struck the ground, I released him, allowing the force of our fall to carry him the rest of the way. I spread my wings again and swooped back skyward as Ehtar-Re collided with the paving stones like a catapulted boulder.
Hovering in mid-air, I turned to see if Ehtar-Re had survived the drop. As the dust settled at the point of impact, he could be seen clearly, standing in the man-shaped crater he had made, the translucent scarlet outline of a ghostly suit of knight’s plate mail still shining around him, the sign of a Mage Armor spell. A leer split his face, as if he were finding sick entertainment in this conflict.
Too enraged to stop, I dove back down at him, launching the remainder of my offensive spells in quick succession. Bolts of acid, ice, fire and lightning flew from my hands, but to no avail. They crashed against Ehtar-Re’s mystic shield like hailstones against a windowpane, only true hail might have threatened him more. I continued my plunge until I was on top of the monster, and with no more spells to cast I rained down blows upon him with only my bare fists. Untroubled in the least by my assault, he grabbed me by the shoulders and hurled me to the ground. Ignoring the pain, I pulled myself back to my feet, refusing to give in.
Ehtar-Re dropped to one knee and punched the cobblestoned street. Bellowing “Tsrub Htrae!!!”, streams of crimson energy coursed down his arm into the ground. The stones rippled from his fist in a furrow, which sped towards me like a cobra hunting its prey. When they reached me, they burst upward, taking the rest of the cobbles around me with them, and formed together into a massive serpent of stones. Rearing back, they pounced at me before reverting to a barrage of rocks, pummeling me everywhere at once. I fell to the ground in a battered heap, desperately searching for the strength to continue.
By this point, the common passers-by, who had scattered like frightened pigeons when Ehtar-Re dropped into their midst with such force, were getting over the initial shock of such a sight, and were alarmed for other reasons.
“It’s Aten-Hotep’s pet freak!” one shouted.
“He’s trying to kill the Grand Vizier!” cried another.
“Someone get the Guard!”
“Stop the freak!”
“Don’t let him get away!”
As the shouting grew louder, an insistent whistle could be heard approaching from around the corner. A squad of the Pharaoh’s Guard came running into the narrow street, the sun glinting on their gold and lapis headdresses, as they shoved gawking pedestrians out of their path. Between blowing shrill notes with his whistle, their Captain barked demands to make way.
Pausing to cast a triumphant smile at me, Ehtar-Re called out to the approaching guardsmen. “Arrest him! He broke into my home and murdered my consort! He attacked me when I found him killing her!”
Drawing their shortswords, the guardsmen advanced on me. With the crowd now blocking off both ends of the street, there was no other escape save straight up. They gasped in shock as I snapped my wings out to full span and leapt for the sky. I soared over their heads and made for the city wall. Below me, some began hurling rocks in my direction, and others followed suit. Above their jeers and cries of hate, I heard the Captain of the Guard summoning archers. As I sped out of the city, dodging their crude missiles, I never once looked back. There was no longer anything there I cared to see.
Part Three: Vow of Vengeance
Mirith leaned back in her seat, still taking in the full scope of the history Marukhos had just finished. “Ilmater’s Tears….” she whispered, her brow creased with pity for the grieving soul who sat opposite her. “What happened after that?”
“I just flew, as fast and as far away from Skuld as I could before I gave in to exhaustion. I finally dropped somewhere along the coast of the Alamber Sea, near the port of Neldorild. When I had recovered, I secured passage on a ship bound for Cimbar, in Chessenta. I worked my way West, making my living as a scribe where I could, until I reached Waterdeep. This is as far from Mulhorand as one can get without leaving Faerun altogether.” Marukhos said softly.
Mirith leaned in closer, her voice full of sympathy. “But, you can’t live your life just… running away from everything. You may not be able to go home again, but surely you can start a new home here; find something to live for? “ She placed her hand on the table between them, a clear invitation for him to take it.
Marukhos chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, I’m not running away. Far from it. I’ve come to Waterdeep with a much more… constructive purpose.”
“And what would that be?” Mirith inquired.
“Power,” Marukhos stated quite simply, before taking a last swallow from his mug.
Mirith blinked in astonishment. “Power? That’s all, just… power?”
“Of course. The power to be a stronger mage than I am now. Strong enough to return to Mulhorand, face Ehtar-Re, and avenge my mother’s murder,” he stated matter-of-factly. “And the best place to find that power is here in the City of Splendors. I could spend a year searching the whole of Faerun, and not find a tenth of the magic that passes through the Trade Wards in a single afternoon. Enough rings, wands, and potions to rival any fabled treasure hoard in the lost tombs of the Dragonsword Mountains change hands every hour at the bazaar not fifty steps from where we now sit. The Guild Wizards keep libraries of scrolls and spellbooks gathered from lifetimes of adventuring across this and countless other worlds. Gem Magic, Runecasting, mastering the Shadow Weave; simply name it, and the knowledge of it is here somewhere, for a price.” Marukhos’s voice took on an edge of determination, mingled with a trace of excitement at the prospect of so many secrets waiting to be uncovered.
Mirith shifted with discomfort. “So, once you think you’ve amassed enough power, what? You’ll kill this Ehtar-Re, just like that?”
“Not immediately, no.” Marukhos narrowed his eyes as he spoke, and they glinted with restrained fury. “By killing Beylyssa, Ehtar-Re took from me the one thing in this world that I cared about more than all else. I shall return the favor before I kill him, and strip him of everything he holds dear first. And there is nothing he treasures so much as his position of power over Mulhorand. I shall return with an army at my back, to raze Skuld to the ground. I shall crush the Palace and the Temple of Anhur into dust, and sell the Pharaoh and all who take his side into slavery. I shall burn the crops and salt the fields with poison so that nothing will ever take root there again. Once Ehtar-Re has seen everything that he sought to control taken from him forever, then and only then shall I kill him. His death will be filled with as much pain and fear as I can cause him, and I will burn his remains beyond all hope of restoration. And once I have done all this, I will eat his ashes.”
Mirith’s already fair skin grew visibly paler with horror as Marukhos outlined his plan. “But, you can’t…” she whispered with shock. “Anhur is no evil god, you can’t blame him for what happened…”
“Is he?” Marukhos shot back. “If Anhur is such a benign deity, why did he give his blessing to Mulhorand’s conquest of Unther, and the enslavement of my birthplace? Why do the priests of his temple still buy whole caravans of slaves in his name to this day? No, let Set and Apep feast upon his rotten carcass; he’s just as guilty as Ehtar-Re and the Pharaoh.” he spat.
“But why the Pharaoh?” Mirith entreated. “Everything I’ve heard about him says that he’s a good man, and that he’s trying to make life better for all his subjects…”
“He’s not trying hard enough!” Marukhos hissed with rage. “It would take only one decree from him, just one, and every slave in Mulhorand and Unther could be made free people. Why hasn’t he done this? Don’t tell me he wants to improve lives, when the lives who need it most are the ones forced into bringing him his breakfast every morning. If slavery is such a beneficial and necessary institution, then he and the priesthood should have no argument with taking their turns as slaves.”
After a pause, he unclenched his jaw and added bitterly, “The Pharaoh is far from innocent, for there are no innocents in Mulhorand. When I fought Ehtar-Re in the streets, hopelessly outmatched by him, whose side did the crowd take? They stood by the bully, because they are an entire nation of bullies. I have no pity or forgiveness for any of them, and may Set take them all.”
They were both silent for a time, an island of unease in the sea of holiday merriment that filled the pub. When she had regained her composure, Mirith spoke slowly, “You may not believe me, but I understand how you feel. I know that you’ve been hurt deeply, and that it’s been eating away at you inside all this time. My heart aches to see you like this, it truly does, and I think your mother should be avenged. That’s what makes this next part so difficult.”
With lightning speed, Mirith reached into the sash around her slim waist and retrieved a dagger, pointing it at Marukhos. Moments later, the two orcs had abandoned their game of darts, taking up position in front of the booth and cracking their knuckles ominously. “I suggest you come with us willingly. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you leave me no other choice,” she said, her voice low and firm.
Marukhos raised an eyebrow quizzically at her, folded his arms, and allowed as much venom as possible to soak into his words. “Well,” he drawled, “I suppose this is your turn for storytime.”
“My name is Mirith Iceheart. I’m a bounty hunter hired to bring you back to Mulhorand for the attempted murder of Grand Vizier Ehtar-Re,” she said in a voice tinged with regret. “I’m sorry…”
“So all your sympathy just now was merely a ruse; a ploy to entrap me?” he demanded. “After all you’ve heard, you’re still going to hand me over to that beast so he can finish murdering me?”
“No! I do believe your innocence!” she protested. “But no one else will if you remain a fugitive. Come back to Mulhorand, bring your story to the Pharaoh, and let the law deal with Ehtar-Re.”
“The law?” Marukhos spat out the word with disgust, as if it were a decaying thing upon his tongue. “What good is the law to me, when men like Ehtar-Re can bend it to serve their wills, or avoid it altogether?”
“It’s far better than throwing your life away for vengeance! Right now, you’ve committed no crime, and I’ll gladly help you clear your name.” She leaned in closer and spoke with urgency. “But if you insist on pursuing this plan to destroy the whole kingdom, then I won’t be able to help you.”
The bald mage regarded her with his blue-gray eyes for a few moments, stroking his neatly trimmed beard as if deep in thought. Finally, he spoke. “Tell me one thing before I make my choice. Were you telling the truth before, about having been alone?”
Mirith looked him in the eye and answered without hesitation. “Yes. I’ve stood in the exact same place you stand now, and I don’t want you to choose the wrong path.”
She held her gaze and looked deeper into his eyes. His cool, blue-gray eyes. Eyes the same color as the moonlit sea on the night she watched him flying over the shore. By Selune, he was beautiful when he flew. So graceful, so serene…
The next thing she knew, Mirith was sitting in the booth, but Marukhos was nowhere in sight. Her two orc assistants were getting up off the floor and rubbing their heads as if trying to clear away cobwebs. The rest of the pub’s patrons were returning to their conversations, clearly having been interrupted by some spectacle in the last few moments. She turned to one of the orcs. “Lugg, what in the Nine Hells just happened?”
“Well, we was standin’ ‘ere, ready to rough ‘im up a bit if ‘e tried anyfink funny, while you was talkin’ at ‘im,” the orc said in a gruff accent that marked him as a native of Waterdeep’s Dock Wards. “Den you just stopped talkin’ all sudden like, and you looked like you was starin’ straight through ‘im. After a minute or three o’ dat, I figgered ‘e musta put some manner o’ spell on you or sumpfink. So Dybbur an’ me get ready to thump ‘im afore ‘e starts pitchin’ ‘arder stuff about, when ‘e turns to me and just… coughs.”
“He coughed?” Mirith asked incredulously.
“Aye, ‘e coughed, but it weren’t like yer common cough what comes from smokin’ too much pipeweed. It felt more like the old Tower Bell soundin’ Midnight, and me poor ‘ead’s the clapper! I can’t ‘ear nuffink after dat, but ‘e ain’t out o’ tricks yet. ‘E snaps ‘is fingers, and dere’s dis bright flash o’ light. Now I can’t see nuffink either, an’ I’m figgerin’ Dybbur didn’t fare no better. When it all wore off just now, you was sittin’ dere all alone, Dybbur’s tryin’ to get ‘is noggin movin’ again, an’ our mark’s gone an’ scarpered off!” Lugg hung his head like an embarrassed child. “I’m dreadful sorry, Miss Mirith. I done bollocksed dat one up sumpfink fierce.”
“Don’t worry about it, Lugg,” Mirith sighed. “I should have known better than to let my guard down myself.” She cursed herself for letting her quarry get to her like that. Still, it was difficult not to feel for him. There was no way she could let him threaten an entire kingdom, but she honestly didn’t blame the rogue mage for wanting to punish Ehtar-Re. She held out hope that she could catch him in time to turn his obsession from personal vengeance to true justice. She hoped the fact that he had only incapacitated her without doing any real damage was a sign that he genuinely had no desire to harm her, rather than a simple lack of offensive spells.
As she gathered up her fallen dagger from the table, she noticed something unexpected. Sitting there next to Marukhos’s empty mug were a few coins, enough to pay for both their drinks and still leave a generous tip for the barmaid. Even in the middle of escaping from her, he had stopped to pay his bill. Mirith allowed herself a tiny smile, reflecting that her hope of saving her quarry from himself may not be as slim as she had thought.
She didn’t know where she would find Marukhos next, but it was sure to be the most interesting hunt of her career.
The End - For Now
What alignment is he, if you don't mind my asking?
