Forsaken by Shadows 49: The Warlock

~14. The Warlock ~

Torafein

Pain was the first sensation that returned. Pain, and heartache. 

Torafein’s eyes flickered open, focusing on his chained hands bound before him. He blinked once, and his bleary vision sharpened, taking in the rest of his surroundings. 

He sat hunched over, stripped of all of his belongings save for his linen trousers, his bare ankles chained like his wrists. He ached and itched where the throwing knives had dug into his back, the wounds sticky with congealing blood. 

How long had he been out for? By the way his muscles cramped, several hours, if not a full cycle. He measured his breaths, inhaling slowly before finding the strength to uncoil and take in more than just his captive hands. Cold metal bit into his shoulder blades, the bars of what appeared to be a slaver’s cage, barely four feet by four feet, and not quite tall enough for him to stand to his full height. 

Because apparently chains weren’t enough. Fantastic.

“You’re awake,” said a soft, cracked voice beside him. “Thank Eilistraee.” 

Torafein tensed, even as he recognized Crysla’s form and voice in another cage beside his. She was bound similarly to him and stripped to her underclothes as well, allowing for a perfect view of the abdomen he had ripped open. Gods, had he really done that? His eyes dragged themselves to her naval before his horror could convince him not to look, fully expecting to see the worst.

But though the skin beneath her camisole was smeared with dry blood, there wasn’t even a hint of the wound Torafein had given her. Not a scratch, not a scar. 

Maybe he hadn’t actually done it. Maybe the memory assaulting his mind was a fabrication, a twisted dream brought on by pain and sleep toxins.

But he’d never been prone to wild flights of fantasy. His mind didn’t have to reach far for nightmares. They lived inside his head. 

“Crysla,” Torafein began, his voice dry and hoarse. “I’m so sorry, I—” 

“Hush,” Crysla said, cutting him off. “Aren’t you going to ask my question first?” 

Torafein blinked. He was still groggy, his thoughts still slow to catch up with his consciousness. But Crysla wasn’t wrong. He needed to make sure she wasn’t an imposter, because that was the rule. When someone left your presence, you verified their identity before welcoming them back into the fold. He’d blacked out. Crysla could be anyone. 

“How did we meet?” he finally asked. 

Crysla smiled weakly, her eyes distant. “Through your wife. She wanted to hire me to look after Ardyn, and you interrogated me for hours before allowing me to be left alone with him.” 

Torafein was silent. That was her answer, her agreed upon lie that was based in truth. She had watched Ardyn when his son was small, when he was away and Tsaria served on the Council. But that wasn’t how they’d met. 

His history with Crysla went back much farther, to the time before either of them had known of Eilistraee or music. She’d served in his house, a common soldier under his command, an expendable weapon for him to wield. A name he didn’t even know, until they met again in Launa, but a face he’d never forget, even if he hadn’t thought of her again until she showed up a century after him, dredging up a host of long-forgotten memories he would have preferred not to have relived. 

But Eilistraee worked in strange ways. Hands that had once borne the blood of innocents by his orders now carried life and light, and had held his child when he wasn’t around to do the holding.  

And he’d almost killed her. 

Torafein cleared his throat. “And me?” 

“I never lost consciousness,” Crysla said, and as she turned her face away, Torafein noted a black strip of leather bound around her neck, a collar engraved with silver runes. A device he recognized. It blocked her connection to the Weave. “I know who you are.” 

“Crysla,” he began again. “I’m sorry—”

Once more, she cut him off. “Don’t. It wasn’t your fault. It was the warlock. He enchanted you with madness, I saw the whole thing.” 

Torafein’s brow furrowed. “The warlock?” 

“That elf Chameth and Jahelli found. His powers are infernal and he…” Crysla shuddered, swallowing hard, before going on. “He’s terrifying. I can’t explain why. There’s something about his eyes…” 

Torafein shut his own eyes, bowing his head under the weight of shame that engulfed him. This was all his fault. No matter what Crysla said about magic and madness, he had succumbed to the spell. If he had been stronger, they wouldn’t be in these cages, and the others would be alive. 

Wait. The others! 

His eyes popped open. “Did anyone else survive?” 

Crysla shook her head. “Jahelli, Rayvor, and Leeadin were struck down by the swordsman. Umbrie fell to the priestess of Lolth. The others…” 

“The others were killed by me,” Torafein finished for her. 

“The warlock,” Crysla corrected. 

“It wasn’t he who drove his blade through their flesh.” 

“You can’t do this, Torafein. You can’t blame yourself, you were enchanted.” 

“The hell I can’t.” 

Crysla shook her wrists in frustration, her chains rattling and jarring in the darkness. “No, you can’t. Because if you and I are going to survive this, we have to be strong. If you give into self-pity, they’ll break you, and Launa can’t afford for either of us to be broken. So get over it and remember who the real enemy is.” 

Torafein bared his teeth, flexing his muscles as though he could rip the chains right off of his wrists, which only sent waves of pain through his already sore and tired body. His gut reaction was to lash out at her, to put her back in her place as subordinate and accept that this was his fault. He was supposed to be the leader, the legend. This whole escapade into the Wilds had been his idea. His plan. 

His hubris. 

But Crysla was right. Regardless of the part he had played in this disaster, the only way to survive it was to move on. Now was not the time for wallowing in grief. Reality was before him, cold and cruel. 

He breathed deep, his body protesting even that much movement, and opened his mouth to accept her rebuke. 

But he never got the chance. A light erupted in the chamber, bright and yellow. He winced and averted his eyes, until his gaze switched spectrums and adjusted. 

Two men walked toward their cages, or at least, Torafein assumed they were both men. One of them was clad in loose, grey clothing that completely obscured their form, their face hidden behind a hideous dog-like demon mask. Glabrezu, the beast was called, and the mask captured its likeness unnervingly well.

The other elf needed no scrutiny to discern his identity. He was, as Torafein had known he would be, Toloruel Tear. 

Crysla whimpered as they approached, a far cry from the strength she’d just been demanding of him. The sound splintered Torafein’s heart—the muscle softer than he let on—and he flexed against the chains once more, to absolutely no avail. 

Rage simmered like coals in a hearth, volatile and dangerous. How dare these elves get the better of him, enchant him to defy his own will, murder his comrades, and frighten Crysla? He was going to flay the flesh from the bones, pluck the sinews from around their still beating hearts, crush their—

What? Who was he kidding? Bound and caged as he was, there wasn’t a damn thing Torafein could do to make good on the old wicked impulses of his heart. All that remained was to sit there and seethe, as the grey-clad stranger stopped before him. 

“Ah, you are awake,” he said, and Torafein recognized the voice of the pale elf who had snuck into their midst. 

How had he done it? How had this monster fooled his scouts? The wounds had seemed so real. Was it all an elaborate act? Some trick of magical illusion? Torafein wondered, but he didn’t ask. He just waited as the stranger settled before him, seating himself with legs crossed and the lantern at his side. 

“Wonderful,” the warlock said. Toloruel loomed behind him, on the edge of the shadows, looking on with a twisted smile. “I have been so eagerly looking forward to making your acquaintance, Torafein Xarrin, ninth son of House Xarrin, traitor of blood and name. I believe we have so much to talk about.”

Torafein barely concealed a sneer. “Who are you?” he asked, ignoring Toloruel’s presence. “What do you want?”

“Of course, of course. Where are my manners?” 

The elf lifted a hand and removed his mask, revealing the familiar pale skin and red eyes. Surprise managed to ripple through Torafein’s hate, though he was careful not to show it. He’d begun to believe the whole act an illusion. But if the skin was real and the eyes were real, what did that mean for the blood? 

“I am called Ivory,” the elf said, setting the mask gingerly beside the lamp. All of his moves were like that, methodical and careful. As if Torafein was a wild animal he didn’t want to make sudden moves in front of. 

Not a bad assumption, actually. 

“For obvious reasons,” Ivory added. He pulled back his hood, exposing smooth, drow-white hair. “And I believe you are acquainted with my associate, Toloruel Tear. As I am sure you are smart enough to ascertain, we want from you what all captors want from their prisoners. Information and leverage.” 

“We’re not going to tell you anything,” Torafein said, as evenly as though he were turning down a bargain in the market. “And no one will trade for us.” 

The elf—Ivory—smiled pleasantly. “Ah, I do so love the formalities of hostage-taking, don’t you? You insist we cannot break you, I offer you some ominous threats, and so on and so on until the blood-letting begins. But alas, as much as I desire to prolong our acquaintance, my companion here is… not so patient. So let us skip the formalities and get to the part where I make you very, very aware of the predicament you are in.”

Torafein’s expression darkened. “I think we are well aware of our predicament.”

“Perhaps.” Ivory’s gloved fingers tented together. “But I would so hate for there to be a misunderstanding.” His eyes roved over Crysla. “I want you to understand what your defiance will cost, so that when she screams, and she will scream, you will be fully cognizant of the fact that you chose this path for her, Commander Xarrin.”

“He chooses nothing for me,” Crysla snarled, though Torafein could sense her trembling. “I defy you of my own free will. You will get no information from us.” 

“Ah, ah,” Ivory said, his lips curling into a sinister half smile. He looked at her the way Eilistraee’s cats looked at their daily portion of river trout. “We are skipping this part, remember? Predicament now, so we all understand each other.” 

“Take off these chains,” Crysla snapped back, “and I’ll show you just how well we understand each other.” 

Ivory just smiled at her, before shifting his eyes back to Torafein. “This is your fault, you know. Everything was going according to plan, until you chose not to play along. No one had to be lost, no prisoners had to be taken, had you done your part as well as your scouts.”  

“What can I say,” Torafein said. “I live to disappoint.” 

“Well, you certainly succeed.” Ivory shook his head, making a tut-tutting noise. “You’re supposed to ask what I mean.” 

Torafein just stared at him, refusing to be baited. If the elf liked to talk so much, he’d let him. There was much to be gleaned from an overabundance of words. 

When enough silence had elapsed that Ivory could assume Torafein had no intention of speaking, he filled the void himself. “There seems to be a misconception in the Underdark,” he said, light and conversationally. “I was curious to know if that misconception spread to those of your particular religious persuasion.” 

Religious persuasion? How much did Ivory know about him, aside from his name and the order of his birth? He’d already been called a blood traitor, but that label could be applied for any number of reasons. “You’re going to have to speak plainly,” he said. “I don’t speak in riddles.”

Ivory’s delight only seemed to grow, as if Torafein were the most amusing jester he’d had the pleasure of stumbling across. “Intrigue is the spice of life,” he said. “But for you, I shall condescend.” Then, as though speaking to a small child, he said, “I’ve heard the followers of Eilistraee have hearts that bleed.” 

Well. That was certainly plain enough. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he glowered at the pale elf. If he knew about followers of Eilistraee in the area, it wasn’t a far stretch to assume they knew about the Sanctuary, as well.

But how had they found out? And how much did they know? Surely not much, since they had taken prisoners. That was what Ivory said they’d wanted, right? Leverage and information. 

“No denials,” Ivory said, nodding as though in approval. “Good, good. I like you, Torafein Xarrin. You do not waste time with trivial arguments. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. My villainous monologue.” His grin turned predatory. “There we were, plotting how best to trick you into bringing me into your fold, when I had an idea. You see, my colleague here is quite skilled in carving without killing, as you shall soon become vividly aware.” 

So those wounds had been real. And from what it sounded like, Ivory had volunteered for it. Torafein was sickened, his eyes flickering briefly to Toloruel, who looked like he was relishing the memory. 

“Your scouts performed their role admirably,” Ivory continued, drawing his attention back. “They did exactly what every other dark elf has done upon seeing my true face.” He lifted his glabrezu mask so that it covered half of his face. “They took one look at poor, pitiful me, and failed to believe that a drow could be born with ivory skin. And like the good Launites they are—sorry, were—they tried to rescue me.” 

Crysla sucked in a sharp breath, and Torafein’s immovable expression cracked. His eyes widened, and he studied Ivory as if seeing him for the first time. 

No, it wasn’t possible. If what Ivory was saying was true, then he was a thing of legend. A creature thought not to exist, because if any did, they would have been dashed to pieces on an altar of spiders the moment they were born. No dark elf mother would bear a child that looked like Ivory and let them live. At least, not outside of Launa. 

But the longer Torafein looked, the easier it became to believe. The ruby red eyes, the quartz-white hair. Ivory was everything a drow was, without the shadow on his skin. 

“You are Szarkai,” Torafein finally said, because he needed to say it for it to be real. “An albino drow.” 

Ivory’s satisfied smile vanished behind his mask as he secured it in place. “Everyone has a role to play,” he said, not acknowledging Torafein’s words. “Yours could have been so simple.” He rose to his feet, his hands disappearing into his voluminous sleeves. “You could have done as you were meant, and brought the injured, escaped slave you found back to the community from whence you came. It would have been so easy, and no one would have had to die. Well, not today, at least.” 

He removed a key from one of his sleeves and approached Crysla’s cage. “But instead, we are here, in this predicament. Like it or not, Torafein Xarrin, you will play the part you were meant to play. You will lead us to Launa vi Eilistraee. We just get to do it…” he paused, looking down at Crysla, who glared death back at him. “The fun way.” 

The cage door swung open and Crysla lunged for him, despite her bound hands and feet. She shrieked insults and snapped with her teeth, but Ivory moved with deft speed, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight. A thin dagger appeared in his hand and nicked the side of her neck, just below the collar that restrained her magic. 

Crysla went limp, but she wasn’t unconscious. Her eyes rolled wildly as Ivory hoisted her in his arms, the way a lover would carry his sweetheart. “This is your predicament,” he said. “The pain and the waiting, the agony and the solitude. This is the reward your heroism has wrought, the prize your goddess has given in return for all your faithful service.” 

Behind his mask, it was hard to tell what face Ivory wore, or where his eyes fell. But when he looked to the priestess in his arms, it was obvious. The snarling visage beheld her, and in a visual display of utter blasphemy, he bent, nuzzling forehead. “Come, my dear. Toloruel awaits.”  

Torafein surged to his feet—or at least, he tried. In the cramped enclosure, with his ankles in chains, he only managed to rise to his knees. Nevertheless, he pounded the bars with his chains. “Coward!” he roared, desperation breaking his calm facade. “What sort of man would dare harm a woman? Lolth would have your head!” 

Ivory paused, glancing back at Torafein. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t serve Lolth. Remember, Torafein Xarrin, this is the path you chose for her. Next time we play our games, I hope you will play correctly.” 

He strode from the cavern, with Toloruel in his wake. 

Torafein didn’t cease his yelling, demanding to be taken in place of Crysla, though some part of him knew his desperate cries were music to their ears, as such sounds had once been music to his. He crashed into the metal bars, pounded his fists against the lock until his hands bled, but to no avail. He was just as trapped as when he’d awakened. 

But he didn’t stop trying. When Crysla’s cries mixed with his own, he screamed all the louder. He couldn’t remain silent while Crysla was tortured. No part of him would allow it. By the time silence echoed in the darkness, he was bruised and bleeding, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. 

Toloruel brought her back, limp and unconscious, slung over his shoulder. None of the false tenderness that Ivory had displayed. He threw open the cage and dropped her inside, slamming it shut again. Crysla didn’t even twitch. Yet though her skin was caked in blood, Torafein couldn’t see a single scratch on her. 

They’d healed her. Had it been a mercy, or a prolonging?  Or just plain necessary? 

Toloruel didn’t even look at Torafein before turning to leave, and the disregard only added fuel to Torafein’s obliterating hate. 

“Toloruel,” he growled, and the murderer halted. “Mazira survived you,” he said, in between breaths. He didn’t care what his taunt confessed to, that he was giving away knowledge. He just wanted to hurt him, and in lieu of having access to knives and his jugular, his words would have to do. “Mazira survived you, and so will we. You couldn’t break a child, you won’t break us.” 

Toloruel turned, his mouth twisted in a sneer. “So far,” he said. When Torafein’s brows furrowed, Toloruel clarified. “Kitty has survived me… so far. Rest well, my old friend. Your session comes next.” 

And then he left Torafein in the dark, with nothing but the sound of his own beating heart.

Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.