The burning subsided and the archwizard smiled in a condescending, unimpressed way. How lovely for you all.
The manner of your death was decreed by your first slave, Kaeralonn. You will share the fate of the martyr, Along the Thermals.
Along the…? Kaeralonn responded, confused. Astride the Wind closed his eyes, the power inside him linked to the heart of the clouds. He could feel Kaeralonn's hand come off his shoulder. The first half of the first syllable of a spell certainly designed to get him away whispered off the tip of the human's lip-and the sky exploded in blinding light.
The lightning bolt held all the fury of the heavy mountain clouds. It slammed into the boat and through Kaeralonn with force enough to blast the archwizard into a spray of flaming gobbets of sizzling flesh. The wood of the boat shattered, exploded from within. Astride the Wind's body tensed and he could feel small bones break in his hands, his jaw, his talons. The web boiled away, taking rows of feathers with it, and Astride the Wind screamed at the pain of his unprotected flesh burning.
He tumbled madly away, laughing through the pain and loss, knowing that he'd taken the slaver with him. The hands that grabbed him grabbed him hard and a flood of emotions flowed into his mind from Embracing the Clouds. Astride the Wind opened his eyes and found that he could only see out of one of them, but he could see his clanmate.
It is done, highest of brothers, Embracing the Clouds told him, his arms gently circling Astride the Wind's burned, limp form. The clan awaits.
Astride the Wind could feel Embracing the Clouds's wings carry them both higher, turning to the west and home.
The Fallen Lands
19 Ches, the Year of Wild Magic
I remember sitting in the class of my mentor, the wizard Maligo of Mistledale. Retired from his adventures to the clergy of Azuth, he occasionally defended the Dale from its enemies but mostly was content to live quietly and teach a new generation of mages. He would die several years later of a miscast spell during the Time of Troubles, a hard blow to me. I learned almost all I know about magic from him. In this particular class, I took it upon myself to ask a naughty question:
"If Mystra is a goddess of good, why does she allow evil people to use magic?"
The other children around me tittered that I asked such a question, but not Maligo. He was a man of infinite patience.
"What do you children think?" he asked.
"It is not for Mystra to deny magic to anyone," answered another mageling, the son of one of the Council of Six and certainly my archnemesis of the moment. Despite his best attempts, he never became nearly as close to Maligo as I did. "She teaches us wisdom instead," he explained, "and if we do not heed her wisdom, if we use her power for destructive means, she is not to blame."
This was the usual answer to that question. It wasn't the first time I'd heard it, nor the last. I had to hear that answer many times before it started to sound reasonable…
I woke up to the sun stabbing me in the eye. Assessing my situation as best I could, I found I was wrapped in some kind of animal fur and naked underneath. The chill air on my face kept me awake. I tried and failed to sit up, so badly was I aching, though I knew my wounds had been healed.
Wounds. Where did I get them? The orcs. I remembered the orcs. They attacked us at night. Hundreds of them, far more than I had seen at one time, moved toward us in waves. Many were riding flightless avians, like ugly featherless ostriches. My spells slew many, but they kept coming. These orcs looked unusual. In their eyes, shining in the torchlight, I did not see the manic bloodlust typical of their kind. Instead their eyes were glassed over, faraway.
I remembered Neril slipping between the orcs, slashing at all sides with his great broadsword and cleaving them by the dozens. Mystra! There was a moment when they were around him on all sides, separating him from the rest of us. That was the last I saw of him.
"The others," I croaked, my throat parched. "The others."
“Did you hear that?" said someone with a deep male voice. "He speaks our language!"
"Are you sure?" somebody else said.
"Please… the others." I was regaining my faculties, and I attempted a complete sentence: "Are the others all right?"
A man stepped over me. My eyes widened as I stared up at him. His head eclipsed the sun, so I couldn't make out his features clearly. He was tall, probably a head above me, and in the Dalelands I was considered a tall man. His hair was long and black, and he was clad in the pelt of a wolf. A barbarian.
Yes! I remembered the barbarians. They rushed out of the night like ghosts and joined the fray, their spears and axes and hammers sailing across the battlefield. Just before I passed out, a warhammer shattered the skull of the orc with its sword to my throat. It likely saved my life. Now, a similar hammer was in the hands of the man standing above me.
"Do not move, Civilized. Stay still, or you will taste Uthgardt steel. How did you come to speak our language?"
I heard Common, but his lips moved in his native tongue.
"I don't," I said.
I ran my weak hand up to my chest and confirmed that I was still wearing the amulet. I pulled it out from under the fur. It glowed serenely, and gave off a certain amount of warmth, something I was glad for in these northern winters.
This makes it possible for me," I explained.
The amulet was a gift from my mentor, many years ago. It translated my language into that of the listener and his language to mine. It had served the Blazing Band well over the years, even though it had limitations. The barbarian's use of "civilized," for example, was probably the best translation it could manage of a concept not present in Common.
"I knew we should have taken it away from him, Thluna. It's magic!"
"I knew it was magic, Gar," answered the barbarian above me. "That's why I didn't touch it. I was afraid it might poison me."
"It is not a weapon. It's not a danger to you or anyone," I said. "Tell me, who else from my company survived the battle?"
"No one," he said.
My heart sank, though I wasn't surprised at his answer. I reviewed them all in my mind. I had known Neril the longest, since we were children. The two of us formed the Blazing Men together in Mistledale-it wasn't until we took on our first female member that we amended the name-but somehow I felt saddest for our youngest member, dear young Shalinda. She had joined us in Sundabar barely a month before. She was just a northern farm girl, eager to see the world and with a minor aptitude for the longbow gained from shooting wolves. It was her first battle that killed her, and I doubt she was able to slay even a single orc before they reached her.
Sundabar. That's where we were when we heard the news. The Lords' Alliance was dispatching troops-even the Blackstaff was rumored to be on the move. Neril suggested we take an unusual route-east of the High Forest-to Evereska, one that would get us there quickly while avoiding major roads, which might be compromised. We were lucky to get through the Nether Mountains before the blizzards began.
"Ask him if he's a mage. Ask him if this is a magic book."
I forced myself to sit up and saw the other barbarian, an equally brutish-looking fellow. He had my spellbook, my one possession of true power, my one defense, lying closed in front of him, with my quarterstaff and robes beside it. My mind was empty of spells. I could not fight my way out if I wanted to.
I recalled the advice a seasoned adventurer once gave us. We met him in a tavern in Neverwinter. He said, "If you ever want to commit suicide easily, tell an Uthgardt you're a mage."