这个东西……小说看得多的人估计会发现模仿的程度很大，所以……扔上来看看，不行就放弃这个坑了

我是为什么想起来要挖它的呢……

 

Son of the starless night

Born in the night

 

“Are you challenging me, son?”

“Of course not, Archmage.” The blue-eyed young man replied respectfully.

“So what is this? Speak, and keep it short. I have urgent matters to attend to.”

“I’m leaving the city, my lord.” After a pause, he added. “And I know I need your signet ring for the paperwork.”

The archmage of Zhentil Keep raised a brow. “I assume you also know that I’m unwilling to let you run away, and that if you do, the whole Keep, with the help of the Black Network, will be hunting you down all across Faerun, in which there is not a single rabbit den inaccessible to us.”

“Yes, my lord.”

 

 

Prologue

 

1358DR, the Year of Troubles 

    Helm, He of the Unsleeping Eyes, God of Guardians, stood vigilant, watching his fellow gods. The assemblage was complete. Every god, demigod, and elemental was in attendance...

“Keepers of the Balance, I address you one and all!”

It was Ao’s voice, and in that voice was heard the power of a being so great that the gods fell to their knees in response.

“Most noble was your heritage! Yours was the power to stave off the ever-present threat of imbalance between Law and Chaos, and yet you chose to act like children, resorting to petty thievery in your request for power…”

“No longer will you sit in your crystal towers, looking down upon the Realms as if they had been created simply to amuse you.”

“No longer will you ignore the very purpose for which you were given life! You shall know your transgressions and remember them for all time. You have sinned against your liege and you will be punished.”

“Now drink deep from the goblet of a true god’s rage!” 

All the gods, save Helm, were cast from the heavens.

 

 

Chapter one

 

1358DR, the Year of Troubles

Jhessail, priestess of the Black Lord, stood with arms locked around her body and her eyes tightly shut. In front of her was a wooden table upon which lay a nice-looking baby. The parents were nowhere to be seen, and yet the little boy was eerily silent, simply watching the armored woman as her fell deep in pray. He was a tiny pretty creature, as are all babies. And yet he was rather unique, with dark brown skin as if deeply tanned. None of his parents had skin like that, but aside from this one difference, his face was strikingly alike with his father, and he had the same blue eyes of his mother.

Suddenly, the priestess opened her eyes, green orbs set aflame by the candle light, or something more. Her arms shot skyward, finger outstretched, as if trying to grab the stars, which were twinkling on the other side of the roof.

 “O Lord Bane, the Dark Lord, Tyrant of the Black Fist, hear your loyal priestess’s call!” The woman almost screamed her prayer, “Set your sight upon this newborn, judge his worth, and grant him your favor!”

Jhessail’s gauntleted right hand began to burn like a torch. Emerald fire consumed her fingers and palm, but she didn’t seem to feel any pain. She raised that flaming fist, touched her forehead with it, and her lips, and the same evil flame leaked from her eyes like tears. Then she set it on the baby’s breastbone.

Or, she tried to.

When her hand was no more than an inch from him, a strange and strong wind hammered open the locked door and blew out several candles. The surviving ones cast the priestess’s huge shadow over the table, and the baby lying on it.

Jhessail let out a startled gasp and froze. A long silence followed.

“Bane’s Black Fist,” with a confused voice, the priestess muttered to herself, “Where is the baby?”

 

1358DR, the Year of Troubles

Allen screamed, cried, kicked, and twisted furiously as Sorrell and Dalmara, his parents, tried to have him swallow a spoon of “disgustingly glue-like stuff”, as he remembered years later. The young warrior battled, though in vain, to keep his stomach clean of any suspicious-smelling thing. It was already late in night, when everyone, except for this poor couple, and other couples just as poor, was deep in slumber.

Well, almost everyone.

A black-clad man walked past Allen’s home, making his way to the great temple of Bane. He wasn’t even conscious of the fact that he’s walking in reality, not just in his mysterious dream. A compelling voice in his mind drove him on, speaking of glory and power beyond his imagination without saying a word. It was a kind of feeling, inserted by the will of a higher existence.

After a terrible struggle with his own beloved son, Sorrell successfully sent a full spoon of “that stuff” into Allen’s mouth. He expected a more desperate fight. But, unexpectedly, the little boy fell silent.

Suddenly afraid that he might have choked his son, the lesser cleric of Bane pulled the spoon out, along with most of the weird food he had just put into a certain stubborn mouth. To his and Dalmara’s relief, young Allen didn’t show any sign of pain. He just stared upward, big blue eyes unblinking, at something invisible to common sight.

And that was when the enormous fireball struck down like a meteor——

at the temple of Bane.

The great and strong building of black marble was consumed and burned down to ruin like a toy. When someone arrived there, they saw a man-shaped horror of pure evil and terrible power rose from within.

They beheld, with unbelieving eyes, their Dark Lord Bane, God of Strife.

In the same instant, a storm of fireballs destroyed every temple all across Faerun, declaring the beginning of the Time of Troubles, when deities walked in flesh beside mortals, when gods waged war against each other, when the great powers could, being proved later, die.

And that instant was also the first time when Allen felt, one of the strongest ones this time, the vibration of the Weave.

 

1364DR

Sorrell and Dalmara were cooking when they came.

Their son had grown into a tiny devil, as destructive as boys of his age tend to be. Without his parents in sight, Allen occupied himself with a great construct of art. There were some clay from a not so watchful neighbor, colorful stones from his best friend and a narrow piece of wood, which looked——and smelled——suspiciously like what’s left of a pipe. Allen meant to build a castle with these things, to raise order from chaos, to found civilization out of what the wild nature had to offer.

It was a grand goal.

So, when the clay castle with stone walls and a wooden flagpole, in all its greatness and magnificence, broke apart in lack of water, Allen the Constructor was furious.

He passed his hand over the ruined stronghold. With an effort of sheer willpower, which reached an impossible state in that instant, he drew energy from a blue white web suddenly visible around his fingers, and commanded the castle to mend itself.

So the castle did.

His parents, standing behind him with plates and bowls in hand, witnessed everything.

Words failed them, for quite a long moment. Before they managed to say anything, someone at the door banged it with an obvious lack of patience.

Jaws hanging open, Sorrell hurried to open the door, and found two city guards in black armor glaring at him, swords tip-down in hands. Seeing the lesser cleric of Bane with nothing more dangerous than a stew-filled bowl in hand, they parted to reveal a third man behind.

He was tall and slim. Without the strong arms to wield sword and shield in a fight, he didn’t seem less dangerous with a wooden rod tucked under his belt. This man had a handsome face with flaming red hair and a pair of piercing green eyes, and there was always a mirthless grin on one corner of his thin lips. Today he wore a black and purple robe inlaid with silver, forming a skeleton face——the symbol of Cyric, new God of Strife, Murder and Death.

Sorrell recognized him instantly, and cursed under his breath.

“What do you want?” He demanded, blocking the doorway with his body.

“I am glad to see you too, Sorrell.” Merith’s grin widened into a smile which didn’t reached his cold, measuring eyes. “Tea, please, for the three of us.”

“And I am glad to tell you that I have no tea for any of you, high priest of the God of All Gods.” Sorrell snapped. “As you can see, I have more urgent business in hand than trading honest words with a faithful of Cyric, such as you.” He motioned with the bowl he was holding, sarcasm dripping from his voice when he put together “honest” with “Cyric”, who was called the Prince of Lies for good reason. In fact, it was Cyric himself who first came up with that title.

Merith didn’t say anything, simply stared at Sorrell. But as if having received a silent order, which was very likely the truth, one city guard suddenly raised his shield and bashed Sorrell in the face. The priest of Bane struggled weakly when the other moved forward to push him back into the house. Blood running freely from one nostril, spots dancing in front of his eyes, Sorrell was dimly surprised when his back found the floor. After several heartbeats of darkness, he was able to see again, only to find Merith extending his hand down, smiling in triumph.

“I think there is a teapot I see on the table.” The wizard said. “Now, my friend, on your feet, please. I would like to treat gentlemen such as you equally.” Sorrell refused to take the hand and tried to stand up by himself, but his head still spun from the impact. Before he could fall again, Dalmara caught his arm and steadied him. The couple looked at each other for a brief moment, then Sorrell went for the teapot, and Dalmara closed the door to Allen’s room.

When everyone in the room had a cup of tea, Sorrell sat down, wiping his nose with a handkerchief. And again, though in a low voice this time, he asked: “What do you want?”

“Sitting down like civilized people as we are,” Merith commented, “is this not a better way to talk, my friends?”

“Just answer my question, Mal” Sorrell snorted. “You know I never liked your fake politeness.”

“Do not ever call me that again,” Merith’s handsome face twisted, for an instant, in what looked like anger and embarrassment blended together, but he calmed himself quickly. “Or it will be highly possible that I might forget my given order and burn you to ash outright.”

“You don’t like to be reminded of your childhood, friend?” Dalmara uttered the last word in the icy way a loyal soldier addresses traitors.

“I think I should just be straight forward and be done with you, considering a certain couple never appreciate kindness and courtesy.” Merith didn’t look at either of them; instead he stared at the cup in his hand. “It is old. When did you buy it? Ten years before your marriage?”

Then he looked up at the cleric of Bane, “This cup is as old, as outdated, as your faith. Five years, and you still mourn over Bane? He has perished. Dust to dust, ash to ash, he is no more.”

“Six years.” Sorrell growled through clenched teeth. “And Xvim is still with us.”

“Ah, it is that long?” Merith feigned a show of surprise. “Xvim is barely a god. Do you not know? He is a mere hellspawn of your former master, just like the so many children Bhaal has left behind. Human, dragon, drow, giant, and maybe goblin also, who gods-damn knows! That demigod is not worth your worship. By the way, who is the sower of strife now?”

“Cyric stole godhood from Bane.” Dalmara retorted. “He’s a pathetic thief and…” Before she could finish, Merith finally lost his temper and stroke out with a quick spell. Invisible force smashed into the woman and stunned her.

“Blaspheme is not to be tolerated.” he announced, and fixed his gaze on the husband, whose eyes fell on Dalmara’s face, filled with concern and fear. “I have had enough of this. Listen to my words very, very carefully, for your life depends on them: You have three days. Come to the Black Sun temple and beg for redemption. They may yet have mercy.”

“Or?” the priest of Bane asked. His voice was weak.

“Or?” the wizard repeated incredulously, “Do you really think you have a choice?” Without waiting for an answer, he stomped out of the house with his guards, leaving a deep-in-thought Sorrell and an unconscious Dalmara behind.