Voice of the Silent
Baethor lives his life with suspicion now, one eye over his back. He knows that he does not live in a time of Mages, his talents are considered sinister and the only man whose trust he has earned, Thal Modan, was notoriously untrustworthy and might turn on his Court Mage at any moment.
He spent his days at the Academy, with the few prisoners who had been released.
The people of Sommerset call them, "The Silent."
Baethor's terror had only increased as the Silent were slowly released, in waves, from the prison. The leaders remained in the dungeon, Watched carefully, they pass notes from one to the other and at every opportunity these notes are apprehended, read, but the guards know that the only way to really keep these men under control is constantly shifting cell assignments, solitary confinement, and constantly changing execution schedules.
And these men once held the respect and fear of the people of Sommerset as yet more magical relics under their command, and in those days they need not cast spells for people to obey them.
But now that the Silent walk the streets of Alinor, the people forget the old image of the powerful mage, they see this crippled traitor, and they are trained in the exercise of real power.
By making their humiliation public, Thal Modan made himself a God in the eyes of Sommerset.
And now Baethor tries to rebuild the magical legacy from scratch. Now the Court Mage doubles as the Headmaster and both offices are less for it. So he has gathered the Silent together back at the Academy, he watches over them as they create instruction manuals for future apprentices.
One day the words of the summoners would be heard again.
Of course, Baethor was well aware that he wasn't the only person looking over these manuscripts. He had made it perfectly clear dozens of times, to every single Silent who chose to write instead of living their lives in public humiliation. Thal Modan knows everything, and he would not think twice if he had a good excuse to execute everyone at the Academy.
A courier is at the door, "Headmaster, the High Lord requests his Court Mage."
Baethor sighs, turning to Timmor, "Keep things under control."
For centuries the Summoners of Sommerset had been considered among the most powerful mages in the world, people came to the Academy to learn Summoning from the masters. And when it all came crashing down it turned out that almost every summoner in the land was involved in this conspiracy, tongue cut out, sent to the dungeon for rotating execution schedules with intermittent follow through, a world of madness, or at best to be a public testament to the power of the High Lord.
But Baethor had not taken to summoning. To be sure, he went to the Academy to learn such things, but when the spells were to be cast Baethor always stumbled through the demon tongues. His skill was with ice. In fact, the only work Baethor had ever been able to find consistently was the crafting of ice sculptures, forming them carefully one drop at a time, and all of the finest parties required one of Baethor's sculptures.
So, when he was named Court Mage by the new High Lord it was seen as a great injustice. A Summoner had sat as Court Mage and held the ear of the High Lord for generations. Maybe it was an attempt to put the High Lord in his place, their conspiracy, but it had backfired and now there are less than thirty competent casters of any sort in Alinor. Baethor's trainer, Timmor, was one of them. The man who had taught him how to work ice and fire had been also excluded from the plot. And Timmor wouldn't let these Silent deal the deathblow to the Academy by spreading subversive writings.
At the Marble Throne Thal Modan smiles to see his Court Mage, "Baethor, it seems that there is a problem to the East, some sort of trembling, with monuments rising from the earth."
"Yes, milord."
The High Lord hands Baethor a note, "This is a list of the Silent who have been released from the dungeon, take them with you and go find out what is happening there."
Baethor gulps, a suicide mission if he'd ever seen one.
The rot of expendability takes root in his chest and expands, a shiver through every organ, "Yes, milord."'
--
Bears and other wild animals had tried to confront the group on its way, which was quite stressful since Baethor had been the only man capable of defending them. Running back and forth into the fray as silent mages scrambled away.
But now they stood at the edge of the field.
They had seen the scouts on the way, it was clear what happened to them, only a few hats or hands still lifted hopelessly above the soil, but it was obvious that the ground beneath them was not reliable. So Baethor froze it solid as deep and wide as he could manage. It seemed to be holding up, but now they stood at the edge of the source and the only speaking mage was exhausted.
A Silent, a contemporary of his from the Academy named Nerav, hands him a sheet of paper.
Baethor, drained and panting looks it over, "This is a summoning spell."
Nerav nods.
Baethor takes a closer look, "This is a very complicated summoning spell, Nerav, you know I can't do this."
The Silent nods and hands him another note, "You are going to help me? What are you talking about? None of you have tongues."
Another note, "Have faith?! I'm exhausted, I've been making the ground safe to walk on for miles, I know that you don't respect my work but I'm a real mage and I've been doing real work. I don't have the patience to try some hugely complicated summoning spell right now."
A final note, just give us a chance.
Baethor sighs, at least he'll be able to take a nap after this whole failure is behind him. But the silent won't leave him alone until he's tried to cast this ridiculous spell that he won't be able to pronounce.
Baethor takes a look, carefully investigating every demonic syllable, "Fine."
The men without tongues smile wide.
They start to hum, a deep guttural noise. Not a spell, Baethor is confused by them, what a strange group, and now the Court Mage is the one who gets sent on their suicide missions with them.
But suddenly he feels a little stronger, a little more wind in his lungs, his nose clears his eyes widen. He hears the humming.
And he catches the slow and rhythmic beat of the noise, when he looks at the words on the paper they suddenly make more sense, they follow the pattern. These men know their spell so well that they can, with his somewhat limited assistance, cast it without tongues.
And Baethor begins to speak on their behalf.
The words of the first line glow and radiate, he speaks them with a sudden ease. The words flow smoothly and orderly through the unfamiliar territory of his mouth.
The ground begins to tremble the rocks rise up to greet one another, piling taller and taller. Legs begin to take shape, taller than the monoliths that rise from the ground.
And Baethor continues casting with a supernatural ease that he had never known before. The Silent hum and moan in time with his spell.
A torso, arms, a head.
And the massive golem, the spirit captured and bound to the stones to unite them in a single purpose turns to Baethor.
"There is a glory that seeks to rise from this ground. I bid you dig it up." Baethor speaks with the voice of many.
"Why!" roars the golem, "Your friends do not cast with you, and you cannot bind me to your will. I will only dig up terrors worse than myself and then you shall all perish at their hand."
His voice still strong, his lungs still full, every trace of exhaustion erased Baethor pulls from inside him an old, familiar spell, which he speaks in the many voices, more powerful than he had ever cast it before.
The wind whips in, freezing and deadly, a sharp and glistening glacier appears out of the blizzard, smashing into the golem.
The wind dies down, the Golem pries himself out from under the glacier.
"As you command," the stones say.
The humming slows and stops, Baethor smiles.