He_Who_Would_Be

He Who Would Be King

                                                                                                                                                                    The Storm King�s Citadel, Thunder Gap
                                                                                                                                                                           18 Eleasis, The Year of Wild Magic
                                                                                                                                                                                                              (1372 DR)

Austerex stood on the ramparts of his citadel, his fierce pleasure looking more like a scowl than a smile. He leaned over jagged granite battlements, gripping the spikes of iron and steel that were bolted onto the gleaming stone, testing their strength.

He felt a brief sizzle of static against his skin, causing the hairs on his arms and neck to stand on end. He looked north, scanning the massive mountains of the Thunder Peaks with his iridescent amethyst eyes, noting with pleasure the gathering clouds, the chill in the wind, the scent of raw earth in the air.

There was going to be a storm.

Allowing his fine muslin robe to whip around him, he stepped off the balcony and back into his throne room, the sanctum from which he would soon rule Deepingdale, and then all the Dales, crushing all resistance before him and overwhelming his insignificant enemies. It had been so easy to gather his army�orcs from the mountain passes, hobgoblins from the wastelands to the north, ogres and giants from the hills, even a band of tanarukka from some forsaken hole in the earth. So easy... with one pathetic tribe under his thumb he had simply invaded the lands of a second, and a third; standing alone before the enemy rabble, allowing their arrows to bounce off his breastplate and then calling the storm from his blood to melt them alive. Once a handful of warriors were killed, the rest invariably surrendered. With each tribe that he conquered, further conquest became easier and easier. Why should it be any different for humans?

Austerex stepped easily over the black marble stairs with his giant stride, settling into his throne of jet and banded onyx. Flash and Thunder, saber-toothed spotted lions the size of small elephants, sat obediently at his feet, rubbing affectionately against his legs. The Storm King looked back to the battlement, across the indigo tiles of his throneroom, beyond the obsidian pillars that framed the open window, towards Deepingdale. The storm brought with it a maelstrom of snow and slurry, filling the thin mountain air. �Soon, you mewling sons of bitches. I�ll be there for you soon. The arrows of elves and the swords of men cannot hope to stop me.� Flash purred as if in anticipation of the bloodshed.

Austerex surveyed the magnificent trappings of his throneroom, glorying in the tapestries that commemorated his many victories�tapestries that he had woven and painted himself, each one a masterpiece of form and color. They will be priceless soon, he thought, as my subjects beg for me to teach them the meaning of true art. He would burn the libraries of men, slash the moldering tapestries of elves, when he was King. When he was king... only the books written by Austerex would be read, the glorious passages awing the tiny minds of the small races; only the art of the Storm King would be displayed. They would show the little ones the glory of their king, how he had risen above his bastard heritage to rule the greatest kingdom on Faer�n.

No, my son. Your kingdom is a band of savages.

He ignored the voice, stood, and strode to the center of his throneroom so that he could see his masterpieces better. The Battle of Cloven Rock showed him crushing the cloud giant clans in chiaroscuro strokes of blue and white, and everywhere the crimson arcs of blood.

You chained me to the Cloven Rock. You exposed me to the bitter cold. You laughed when the wolves came for me.

�That�s right, father. I repaid you for the pain that you gave to me. I repaid you tenfold. And then I went to visit mother.� He turned his gaze to The Siege of Stormreef, where he single-handedly shattered the matriarchs of the Three Rifts clan. His own mother fighting against him... his own mother...

Yes, my son. I fought you because you were tainted. You were unclean. You were evil.

Austerex clenched his teeth, bit back his rage. �Bitch! Whore! I killed you! I killed you, go away!�

You killed me, with the point of a knife in my palm, you drew my blood and let it flow through the water. You watched as the first shark came. You stood by as I cried out to you; as they ripped me apart. Yes, you killed me. You murdered me.

�Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!� cried the would-be king, alarming the massive lions reclining near his throne. �I am king now! You�re dead, and the clans are mine! MINE!

Yours only in death, answered the phantom. The clans are broken.

�No. They. Are Mine.� He spat through gritted teeth. �A kingdom that spans the skies and the seas. A symbol of my greatness.�

All dead. M-U-R-D-E-R-E-D.

�No, no...�

You tortured them as you tortured us.

Austerex laughed, laughed as he remembered the many clans of giants that he ruled, laughed as he savored the memory of his parents� agonized screams, laughed as he relived the creative tortures he had invented for the bastards that had taunted and bullied him as a child.

Killer. Betrayer. Murderer.

He laughed as he remembered that Deepingdale was a small prize compared to the demesne he already ruled, more a diversion than a real test of his strength.
Evil child. Sinner. Abomination.

He laughed and laughed, filling the rooms of his hollow fortress with the demented wail of his mirth.

Even the orcs posted at the pickets knew. Stupid barbaric savages living in filthy holes at the edge of civilization, thought Onlevor, but they recognized the symbol of the Zhentarim. The company of riders bore their black flag�the scepter, disk, and dragon flapping in the frigid mountain wind�like a talisman, warding off the army of the Storm King. Even the hunchbacked hill giants, living siege engines of terrible power, dared not attack them without good cause.

�Stay close men, and for the love of Bane keep your swords sheathed,� said Onlevor quietly. He was a mage of the Brotherhood; to disobey him was death. And not even the cockiest veteran among the dozen riders was confident that they would be able to survive a battle in the heart of Thunder Gap, not against so many.

So many, thought Onlevor. It was hard to believe that anyone would be able to keep so many different tribes together. As he rode slowly up to the cyclopean granite walls of the Storm King�s Citadel he noticed marks of at least half a dozen tribes: the Tornskulls, the Elfrippers, the Hellraisers, the Gutstickers, the Wargbrother goblins, the Demoncallers, the Whitehand, the Yellowtusk, even the feared Fiendblood tanarukka and the Skullcrusher ogres. A formidable force, for certain; far stronger than any reports had led them to believe. Onlevor wondered why the nearby Dales and Cormyr�especially Cormyr�suffered such a dangerous army to occupy a strategic pass. Probably a measure of their weakness, he thought, smirking.

A pair of tanarukka barred the way at the massive iron doors, brandishing their serrated cleavers. The tiefling tuskers appeared much like the rest of their kind, save for their stooped posture and the spiny protrusions on their back. The two guards snorted, waving their razor-sharp tusks menacingly. Their eyes glowed red with fiendish pleasure as they grunted, �Go �way, man, �fore we chop you up n� eat you.�

Onlevor fixed the tanarukk with his most withering glare. He had dealt with fiends before; the only way to get what you wanted was by proving your superiority. �I will not speak to the likes of you. Tell your master that Onlevor of the Zhentarim wishes to speak with him.�

The tuskers snorted dismissively and made no move to open the gates. Onlevor sighed, whispered a word of power, and suddenly was wreathed in a gale of arctic cold. His eyes burned like black ice, and with an imperious gesture he sent the gale to envelop one of the guards. Before the demonspawn could even howl in surprise it was swallowed by hellish cold and frozen to the core. The force of the sudden wind threw the icy tanarukk back. He shattered against the iron gate, splintered into thousands of tiny shards of flesh.

Onlevor, his eyes still blazing with frostfire, turned his gaze on the surviving guard. �I wish to speak to the Storm King. Are you going to bar my way as well?�

Grunting in desperate submission, the tanarukk pounded on the gate and slowly it drew open to the citadel beyond, powered by some hidden mechanism within the fortress. Onlevar dismounted, instructing his escort to do the same. Onlevor eyed them with disgust; they were nervous and distracted. Fearful of the Storm King, no doubt, who would be far more formidable than orcs and ogres. Or perhaps simply chastened by the display of the mage�s power. �Best face, sharp thoughts. Do nothing unless I order it.�

The space within was titanic, defying all logic and sense. The hall stretched into the gloomy distance, lit by garish purple or red torches ten feet from base to tip; ceilings more than forty feet high, flagstones ten paces across. The floor was polished obsidian, gleaming sickeningly in the lurid light. Rows of pillars, each a monolith of volcanic basalt, erupted from the dark floor, their bases carved with dwarves in bas-relief, small hordes of the small folk struggling to hold up the great weight of the columns.

Onlevor eyed the tapestries hanging everywhere in the great hall, surreal depictions of a massive figure in gleaming armor trampling over azure- and emerald-skinned giants, skinning them alive, cooking them and gnawing their bones, or else whipping long lines of gigantic slaves. He eyed them critically, approaching one of the nearest tapestries: the proportions were phantasmagoric, the colors demented; all rough swirls of color, exaggerated features, the giants all monstrous but for the single towering figure rendered with the precision of a Sembian master. They were disturbing, ugly�no; it was more, thought Onlevor: They were like sketches torn out of the pages of a madman�s sick fantasies.

Clearly, the Storm King�s taste in art left much to be desired.

The tanarukk led them, bowing and scraping all the way, through the titanic fortress, through the great hall with tapestry after tapestry flapping tastelessly against bleak obsidian, up a flight of stairs whose every step was the height of a man (Onlevor snapped his fingers and levitated), up to a pair of towering granite doors. Onlevor looked at the doors questioningly, then turned to the tanarukk.

The creature pointed emphatically at the doors and said, �In there, boss-man. Storm King there.�

Onlevor sighed again. He had hoped to be announced, or introduced, or something�but he supposed that such simple decencies were too much to ask from half-idiot half-demons and an army of even stupider creatures. He wondered about this Storm King, and not for the first time. What kind of self-respecting giant would surround himself with such barbarous trash? Of course, it wasn�t any of his concern. Onlevor didn�t care about the Storm King�s motives; he only cared about twisting him to the Brotherhood�s purposes.

Whipping his hands up to free them of their sleeves, he whispered a few words and the granite doors unlocked of their own accord, grating agonizingly over the floor of the chamber beyond. Within the indigo-paved throne-room sat the Storm King himself: a cyan-skinned giant, fully four times the size of a man, an iron crown framing his short-cropped teal hair. He leaned forward, his violet eyes sparkling with fury. The gigantic snow lions seated by his feet snapped suddenly to attention, their slitted eyes focusing on the Zhentarim company.

Now is the time for judgment, cried the accusing voices. Now you shall be punished.

Austerex looked up at the dark-robed wizard and his cadre of warriors. �Who are you?� he shouted. �How did you get in here?�

The robed man spoke, but his voice was drowned by the chorus that spoke to Austerex always, whispering in his ear.

They are the forces of retribution. They are the righteous, come to avenge us.

The Storm King leapt to his feet, feeling the anger burn through him. �What do you want?�

The human�s mouth moved, and he gestured expansively. But it was as if he was surrounded in a sphere of silence; no sound penetrated the voices of the chorus.

He has come to end your kingdom. He has come to claim your life.

Electricity burned through him, gathering in his hands. �No...� he growled, �You will not!� The power burned through him, leaping out at the dark-armored men, arcing from one to the next, fusing armor to flesh, burning flesh to the bone, filling the hall with the scent of ozone and the sweet sound of screams.

Onlevor stood calmly as lightning crawled around him, crackling harmlessly around his spell-mantle and chewing through his men. When the screams died down he looked from side to side, noting the blackened bones of his men, the wisps of smoke wafting over their charred skeletons. The stench was repugnant, but he stifled a gasp.

�I assure you, your majesty,� he said, sweeping down in a bow, �that was entirely unnecessary.�

Once the lightning fled from his blood, Austerex felt calmer, the voices quieter. He looked curiously at the remaining mage, filled with a frustration that gave way to respect as the man spoke.

An alliance, he said, the words floating through the churning chaos of the Storm King�s thoughts. The mage wanted to give him swords, armor, training from the best drill instructors around the Inner Sea. Austerex grew euphoric thinking of the possibilities, imagining hordes of dark-armored orcs and pike-wielding giants sweeping over the walls of cities, burning through forests and crops... �And what is it you want in return, human?�

The mage smiled, and answered silkily, �Nothing that you do not want yourself, my lord. I want you to use this great army of yours. Plunder caravans passing through the Gap; make the Dalesmen and Cormyreans pay. Use your incredible might to show these weaklings the true glory of your rule.�

Austerex smiled himself, a sickening, bloodthirsty grin. The voices wailed at the injustice, which only fed his hunger. This stupid human was giving him everything he wanted, and for nothing in return? The fools! The glorious fools, so easy to manipulate into feeding the glory of his destined kingdom!

�Very well, Zhent. I accept.�

Onlevor bowed graciously, assiduously maintaining his measured expression; there was no telling how the volatile giant might react to any obvious sign of his pleasure. �My thanks, your majesty. The first shipment shall arrive in a few days, along with some of our finest warriors. They are yours to use as you see fit, and I assure you that they will hone your army into a fighting force that will strike fear into the hearts of your enemies.�

He took several steps backward, preferring to show the traditional respect of an underling to a king. In this case it served his purposes, as he did want to leave his back exposed to the murderous monarch. With each bow of obeisance, he thought, What a fool! Had he no concept that the Zhentarim were stringing him like a puppet? With every sword they gave the King of the Thunder Peaks, he was one step closer to invasion of the Dalelands, that insufferable quagmire that they could not control. In a few months, he would fight the war that the Zhentarim could not afford. The stupid fool, so easy to manipulate into serving the ends of the Brotherhood!