Chapter Text
“Home? Wait, home home?” Salia asked, incredulously. “The tower prison?”
“Yes,” Grevesh nodded, gently nudging the long-empty plate forward, then resting his hands on the bar. “I…it may be time. There’s…if I could…”
Salia pretended not to notice his hands were trembling and attempted to change the focus a bit. Filling a large tankard from the nearest tap, she interrupted Grevesh’s shaky attempt to explain. “Wait, before you get to why you need to go back, tell me about how you left. You were a slave, or a prisoner, or something like that. You didn’t just walk away.”
“No.” Grevesh’s fingers clasped around the tankard’s handle and tightened until his leather gloves squeaked.
“So tell me what happened.”
“I’m not the storyteller you are – “
“You were doing fine an hour ago. Now stop stalling.”
The dragonborn sighed, and traced the side of his beverage with a finger, then poked the center of the foamy head. “One midday, about two years ago…”
Torbor, chief enforcer of the slave workers at the Tower of the Firebloods, clad in thick armor made of brass and steel and clutching a wide-bladed spear, shoved six dragonborn in nothing but rags forward and up the stairs to the roof. “These are the most experienced,” he snarled to the robed figure waiting for them. “If you don’t mind, make this quick. Pulling all of these off-duty puts things at a standstill downstairs.”
The six slaves dared to look at each other, to see if each was as surprised as the last. They’d been brought up to the roof to talk to Lord Archmage Drennek, the arcane leader of the Firebloods. The Archmage had never shown any interest at all in the details of the tower’s construction, never spoke to the slaves, and had been nearly invisible for the last few months. For him to ask for a meeting with any of them was a confusing mystery.
“Yes, yes,” the Archmage waved a dismissive hand without even looking in their direction. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe ten, if they have a brain amongst them.”
Torbor grumbled, turned, and headed back downstairs, likely to vent his frustration on any of the workers downstairs abusing the impromptu break they’d received. He didn’t even bother to avoid the two junior Fireblood wizards coming up the stairs, slamming his shoulder into one of them.
The slaves stood there, still confused, until finally the Fireblood apprentices directed them to move closer to the Archmage. Drennek wore a crimson robe, designed with wide, curved shoulders to cut a more imposing figure, and supported himself with a seven-foot staff, topped with an array of colorful gemstones. He was also wearing an extensive collection of jewelry. It was almost certainly all enchanted by his own hands.
Nobody spoke. The slaves were still mired in a mix of confusion and fear – while he had never done so, Drennek could order any or all of them dead with a simple phrase – while the Archmage was simply uninterested in talking. Eventually, with his free hand, he gestured in a small circle. “Show them.”
One of the wizards incanted the Visage of Setonne, invoking a variant of clairsentience –
Salia cleared her throat noisily, giving an “I don’t care” look.
“You’re learning spells,” Grevesh defended himself. “This is important.”
Salia continued the look.
Grevesh shook his head in defeat, and took a sip from the remaining half of his beer.
One of the wizards conjured an image from a far-away quarry. There, surrounded by more of the Firebloods, was a carved stone construction, a dozen cube-like segments connected in an arch shape. Magic symbols and runes were complete, or nearly complete, on ten of the cubes.
“That,” Lord Drennek said without turning to acknowledge his audience, “is going here.” The tip of the staff pointed at two places on the square roof, near diagonally opposing corners. “Tell me how it can be supported.”
The six, now less confused, sized up the arch and thought about the work they’d done below. A few of them asked each other questions quickly, answering them just as quickly. When he was sure, the oldest and most skilled dared to address the Archmage…or his back, at least. “It can be done, Lord Archmage.”
“Yes, I know. Tell me how.”
After looking over his shoulder, and getting five nods, the outspoken slave continued. “It will take four new columns on every floor except the top, where it will need two directly under the arch supports. It will need steel beams to spread the stress mounted under the top floor, and steel beams inside the four columns. It will take tall steel pillars on those two corners,” the slave pointed, despite Drennek facing the other way still, “sunk down to the wood supports below. And it will take a securing support of wood and stone at the base of the arch supports, up to – “ he indicated the lowest cube on each side of the image, “ – there, which we cannot do until the arch is placed.”
After a short pause, the Archmage’s head finally turned around, looking over his expansive robe shoulders at the speaking slave. “Why do we need steel pillars sticking up from the roof?”
“The arch is heavy and brittle. If it falls, it will either shatter into pieces that cannot be repaired, or it will smash through the roof and break through every single floor, killing almost everyone in the tower before the tower collapses inwards upon itself and kills everyone else. The pillars will hold the arch in place with ropes and chains until the supports can be reinforced.”
Slowly, the Archmage turned and walked up to the slave, who was confident in his statement but frozen in fear of how it might be taken. There was no emotion on Lord Drennek’s face, unless boredom or indifference counted. His thumb played up and down his finger knuckles as he gripped his staff, the only visible indication that he was even acknowledging what he’d heard at all.
“Your name.”
“Prollis, Lord Archmage.”
“Hmm,” he mumbled, still seeming disinterested. “You will use ropes, not chains. And you will remove the steel beams when they are no longer needed.”
“Yes, Lord Archmage.”
“How much time before the arch can be moved here securely?”
“Eight months, Lord Archmage.”
At this, Drennek pushed his shoulders back and raised himself to his full height – almost as tall as the slave he addressed – and narrowed his eyes into a nearly threatening glare. “Now, I am going to ask you that question again,” he spoke, firmly and directly this time. “And if you take one more day than the answer you give me, when your work is complete, I will bring all six of you back here to admire your handiwork one last time, before I personally burn each and every one of you to a glowing pile of cinders, then grind you out with my foot. Now, how much time before the arch can be moved here securely?”
“Eight months, Archmage.”
The *clunk* of the staff on the stones accented the single step closer Drennek took. “Faith in your work. An admirable trait. Shame you don’t have the Spark, you’d have fit in quite well.” After looking up and down the still-frightened slave, as if seeing him for the first time – and perhaps he was – he turned away once more, raising his free hand. “Spread the word, what you just told me is the sole project for every last one of you for the next eight months. Go.”
As the two wizards by the stairs beckoned for the slaves to descend and make the Archmage’s request take place, five of them did. One of the younger ones, however, did not. He was staring at the image of the arch.
“Dissent?” the Lord Archmage asked, the wooden strikes of his staff on the flagstones moving towards the remaining slave, who was too engaged with the runes carved in stone to turn around. “If you disagreed with what was said, you should have spoken then, not now.”
“…no, the directions seem accurate,” the lone worker responded, quietly, his back still to Drennek.
“You will call him Lord Archmage, slave!” ordered the closer of the two Fireblood wizards, who took a breath to continue before a casual wave of the hand bid him otherwise.
“The construction, then?” The final *clunk* came from right beside him, as the Lord Archmage drew level, shoulder to shoulder. “I suppose a stoneworker like yourself should find it fascinating. It’s taken years to get every feature correct, and in a few months, it will be flawless. So go ahead, look. In time, you’ll be able to see even more detail, but it seems you must wait eight months.”
“I…do not want to,” the slave admitted, his eyes still fixed on the image.
“I tire of guessing. You will explain yourself, slave.”
With an outstretched finger, he traced three of the shapes. “That is a Tana’ri cycline, that is a Baatezu binding rune, and that is an Ignan command symbol in a Thaumaturgic Triangle. I don’t know the others,” he said as he backed away, “but that arch is more dangerous than…anything anyone has ever known.” His eyes finally met Drennek’s. He was terrified.
“That is the point of a weapon, isn’t it?” The Archmage advanced, forcing the slave to back towards the stairs, and his voice was loaded with malice. “And just so we’re clear, that arch is the second most dangerous thing anyone has ever known. You are draining the patience of the first.”
“Why would you make this? Why would you bring it here?”
“I have no desire to explain myself. What I do desire, right now, is how you recognized those symbols, slave.”
“I…” he was prevented from backing further away by the two Firebloods, who had moved up behind him and grabbed his arms. “The walls and floors are unfinished, and I work next to those studying and researching. I see things, I hear things.”
“No. I find it astronomically hard to accept that someone with no magical talent would take the effort to study those things, much less pick them up by gossip.” A clawed hand flew out, faster than expected, and seized the young slave by the jaw. Drennek pulled the two of them closer, staring intently into the eyes wide with horror. “Did we miss something?” Releasing his grip, he ripped the slave’s rag shirt open, revealing a wide patch of scars. “Were we not thorough enough? Time to find out. You two, take him to be tested again. This time, we will not stop until there is nothing left but Spark, or ash. After he is prepared, tell Torbor he will have to make do with five experts. You can tell him to change eight months to ten to compensate. Expect him to be angry. Expect me not to care.” Done talking about it, the Lord Archmage headed back to the center of the roof.
Both of the other Firebloods guided the slave down the floating stairs, which are solid slabs mounted into the wall using a custom inset –
“Really?” Salia interrupted.
Grevesh rubbed his left temple. “Fine.”
Both of the other Firebloods guided the slave down the stairs towards the basement, where the Spark testing took place. In name, it was a laboratory. In practice, it was a torture chamber. Everyone had been there, but only once. This was going to be a first for all involved.
“Just so you know, slave, Lord Archmage is almost certainly right,” one of them said. “After your Spark is discovered, you’ll get to join us.”
“Perhaps it’s an element they don’t test,” the other added. “If it’s not fire, li— “
Grevesh hurled every pound of his body directly into the speaking Fireblood, his elbow going for the exposed stomach, immediately silencing him. A split-second later, Grevesh’s shoulder and head furthered the assault, ramming the Fireblood’s skull into a solid stone wall. The wizard lost both his grip on Grevesh’s arm and his own consciousness, and began to slide downwards.
The other got as far as “What – “, instinctively letting go to attempt a spell, before Grevesh stepped forward and shoved with all his might. The stairs had no railing, and instead of a spell, only a scream was let out as the second Fireblood plunged over a hundred feet.
Seven seconds. Grevesh had gone from terrified, docile servant to murderer in seven seconds. It would not be many more seconds before his crime was discovered, and he was either executed on the spot, or dragged downstairs to be tortured to death. It was time to leave the only home he’d ever known, and go anywhere else in the world.
Concern wandered the tower as the Fireblood who’d “accidentally” fallen landed near dozens of slaves standing around, waiting for instructions. Word of it spread quickly. It was enough of a distraction that the other slaves, the armed guards, and even the Firebloods barely noticed Grevesh hurrying for the front door. Floor by floor, no attempt was made to stop him. But the exit itself would be another matter. Both guards – almost as big as Grevesh, but wearing iron-studded leather armor and formally trained with their double-edged blades – were peering inside, trying to figure out what the problem was.
There was a sledgehammer leaning against the wall near the door.
It was the only option.
The nearer of the two guards was sticking his head through the doorway, looking forward rather than to the side. His iron-banded leather helmet was a perfect target, but nowhere near perfect protection. A single overhead swing made full contact right on the top of the skull – he didn’t see, or feel, a thing. Startled by the sudden, and gruesome, loss of his partner, the remaining guard turned his already-unsheathed blade towards Grevesh, thrusting with muscle memory from years of training. There was blood, but only from a glancing blow along the ribs. It wasn’t nearly enough to stop him. Trying to ignore the pain, Grevesh used the momentum of the sledgehammer swing to pivot his body, letting him slam shoulder-first into the guard, mashing his spine directly into the solid stone door jamb. The impact drove the wind out of him, stunning him just long enough – a strong horizontal swing drove the sledgehammer’s head deep into the guard’s stomach, folding him neatly in half. As tough and as armored as he was, maybe he lived. Maybe.
Grevesh could not conceal the attack, not with the blood all over him. Clinging to the hammer but leaving everything else behind, he picked a direction at random and fled into the tall grass, not daring to look back.