D&D 03-Oath of Nerull

by T. H. Lain

  Ember looked up, startled. "But the last of Nerull's priests were unmasked and ejected from civilized lands years ago. How could this be?"

  Brek nodded. "Nerull-worship was banned, yes, but banning something doesn't erase it. Especially Nerull. His is an evil that does not sleep. Nerull and those who revere him remain in the world, hidden, however much we comfort ourselves by thinking otherwise."

  The dwarf squeezed the ring hard, and continued, "This ring proves that at least one of those who attacked the chapter, if not all, owe their allegiance to the Hater of Life. All the more reason to find out who they are and where they nest, so we can stamp them out."

  "Very well," Ember sighed. "A banished cult has killed my chapter and looted the treasury. Still, there may be something they didn't get...something the order may need. It would do no good to leave anything of significance here."

  So saying, Ember walked to the edge of the fountain.

  The basin was carved from green-veined marble. In it stood a statue of a man carved from the same block of stone. He wore loose clothing, not unlike Ember's own dress, and stood in a ready stance, palms upward and slightly cupped. It was from his cupped hands that water spilled to splash into the wide basin.

  Ember studied the fountain and said, "This is Loku, the founder of this chapter. He was a great warrior. The chapter honors him, as does the whole order. Did you know he once saved the Motherhouse from destruction? So say the histories. We keep no relics in the strict sense of the word, but we do treasure one of Loku's cast-off possessions. It was kept here, hidden in the fountain."

  The monk walked into the basin. Bloody water splashed around her ankles. She knelt and reached into the murk, groping for a hidden mechanism.

  "Ah, here it is."

  Brek Gorunn, watching Ember, said, "Ember, there's something else you should know. It's about some of the monks' bodies I cleared away. A few were...melted. No, that's not the best word for it. They were dissolved, as if acid or some corrosive, alchemical mixture had been poured on them."

  Ember did not pause in her activity, but her breath caught and her eyes narrowed. "Then, they shall pay all the more."

  She didn't want to hear the dwarf's words, so she concentrated on finding the second catch to the secret vault in the fountain. A rush of bubbles marked her success. Ember extended her hand into the cavity below the waterline and yanked. With a click, two panels popped open in the arms of the sculpture. Inside each hidden recess lay a leather arm band. The bracers were pristine, and in fact seemed to glisten with a faint, golden light. The woman lifted the bracers out and held them up.

  "These are Loku's Bracers. By taking them from this reliquary, I symbolically disperse the Volanth order of the Enabled Hand. And so it is done; Volanth chapter is no more."

  "What are you going to do with them?"

  "Wear them, of course. They are woven round with spells of defense. I expect I shall need their protection on the road to New Koratia." Ember strapped the bracers on and stepped across the basin's edge. "I don't think Loku will mind, since I'm the only member of the chapter remaining."

  Wearing the bracers, Ember felt emboldened, magnified. The dwarf looked at her with admiration. Ember wondered whether the relics should have seen the light of day earlier. Perhaps if someone had worn them, instead of locking them away, the tragedy might have been averted. On her arms, the bracers felt as if they had been custom made for her.

  Brek cautioned, "I know you want to get started immediately, but we both need rest, after all. Let's sleep for what remains of the night anyway, then leave at dawn."

  "Agreed. New Koratia can wait those few hours."

  "You think so? Then watch!" said the small man—or, more precisely, said the gnome.

  These small-statured, nimble-fingered folk made up for their lack in size with enthusiasm. At least this gnome did. He wore an elaborate coat with many pockets, and goggles pushed up on his forehead. His name was Nebin Raulnor, and he was explaining the superiority of his craft to his friend, Hennet. Nebin and Hennet shared a table in a roadside tavern called the Fair Warrior.

  Hennet was a young, human male from the distant east. His dress, barbaric by civilized standards, consisted of leather leggings, spiked bracers, a wide belt, and a suitably dramatic cloak. Two entwined dragons were tattooed on his chest. Hennet, like Nebin, was also a student of the craft, though he came at it from a far different direction than the gnome. Their differences, often enough rubbing both the wrong way, were in truth the bond that continually strengthened their easy camaraderie.

  Nebin screwed up his face, as if recalling something complex. The gnome chanted a few unintelligible syllables, gesticulating with his hands. Called by his arcane manipulations, a ten-foot ball of red fire appeared in the center of the tavern. It burned like a piece of Hell itself, though it made no sound.

  Hennet watched the display with a single, raised eyebrow. The other tavern patrons reacted less calmly. There was a stifled stream, many shouts, and the crashing of overturned chairs. Cries of "Fire!" brought the taverner from the kitchen, a bucket of water in one hand. He hurled the bucket, and the water passed through the globe of fire as if it wasn't there. And a second later, it wasn't.

  "By Pelor's blinding eyes, who's working magic in my house?" bellowed the taverner. He glared around the room.

  Someone in back murmured, "It was only shadow magic. Any fool could see that."

  Another patron laughed, if a bit nervously. A few people hadn't even stood, including those at the table where Hennet and Nebin sat. The gnome ducked his head.

  At still another table, a dwarf in a mail overcoat scowled. The dwarf's companion, a capable-looking human woman wearing a travel-stained cloak, returned to her meal as if the sudden appearance of balls of flame was commonplace. Hennet was struck by her easy manner. Soon enough, everyone returned to their seats, righting chairs and laughing at the prankster, whoever he was.

  The taverner sighed and returned to the kitchen. As he moved from sight, he yelled, "the Fair Warrior is a tavern, not a carnival. No more magic, or you'll be out on your butts!"

  Nebin peered after the retreating taverner and said, "Again, I've demonstrated the advantage of wizardry, Hennet. That was a minor spell, but with it I create the image of anything I can imagine. That's just one of the many wonders I have recorded here." Nebin patted a heavy, metal-bound book he carried on a shoulder strap.

  The young man scratched his chin. "A wonder? More a spectacle. Of course I've seen you pull that one off before. You're lucky the taverner didn't see you. I doubt I'd have stood up for you. It is cold out tonight."

  The sorcerer laughed, and Nebin sniffed.

  "Him? I doubt he'd trifle with someone of my obvious talents."

  Hennet smiled as they settled into one of their favorite arguments.

  He said, "Besides, you've just admitted your weakness. Once you have expended your magic, you're no different from anyone else. You have to return to your book of spells to study, or be completely bereft of enchantment. But me? Once I master a particular piece of the craft, I never forget. It becomes part of me, and I, it."

  Nebin chuckled. "So you say. True, you never consult a spellbook. But, be honest, it's no secret that raw workers of the craft, such as yourself, are limited to only a few spells. We've been together a long time now, and I can see it's true. Take me, on the other hand. I'm only limited by what I can scribe in this book."

  Again, the gnome patted his metal-bound tome.

  It was one of Nebin's favorite gestures. Hennet thought it was the most annoying in an extended list of habits, all of which were annoying to various degrees. Despite that, Hennet liked the gnome and considered him a friend. Trading barbs was one of their favorite pastimes, and on the road to attend the Duel Arcane, it was expected.

  Neither Hennet nor Nebin had previously attended the Duel Arcane, held in New Koratia every three years. Both knew of it for years, though, and had thought about it since taking up studying the craft,
each after his own fashion. The Duel Arcane was the most prestigious magical competition in the region. Merely attending the event was an honor. They were both nervous, but neither would admit that to the other. At least Hennet wouldn't—he wasn't entirely sure if Nebin's bravado was real or feigned. Their arguments, with their bluster and straightforward hauteur, helped to keep nervousness at bay.

  Hennet looked back at the gnome. Nebin had been speaking, hut Hennet wasn't sure of the topic. To rattle his friend, Hennet broke in, interrupting the gnome's speech.

  "Nebin," he said, "I've been meaning to ask you—do those rven do anything?"

  Hennet waved a finger at the goggles the gnome wore pushed up onto his forehead. It was the gnome's habit (another one) to pull them down over his eyes when he faced a dangerous situation.

  Nebin paused mid-speech, looked vaguely disturbed, then continued where he had left off, ignoring Hennet's question altogether.

  Hennet grinned, trying to take in the gnome's point. It was the classic sorcerer versus wizard argument, something they'd talked to death many times. By round-about fashion, the gnome would imply that sorcerers like Hennet could never truly experience the wonder a wizard (such as the gnome) felt upon discovering a new spell and scribing it into his spellbook.

  To forestall another pat on the book, Hennet interrupted his friend once more, but this time with a serious question: "Do you think either of us has a chance at winning the Golden Wand?"

  The prize awarded at the conclusion of a Duel Arcane was highly coveted, even though it was awarded only to mages competing as novices. The prize earned by experienced mages was a closely guarded secret, known only to those who had won. Both Hennett and Nebin expected to someday learn for themselves. For now, the Golden Wand was their goal.

  "It should be a snap," said Nebin, displaying his characteristic overconfidence. "Though I apologize in advance for taking that honor from you, my friend."

  Nebin laughed good-naturedly, showing his statement was meant as a joke. Hennet joined in, then finished his drink.

  After more talk about the competition, the two mages retired to their shared room. Neither was flush with cash, and the city of New Koratia, where the duel was to be held, would be expensive.

  The Fair Maiden had a second story filled with clean rooms set aside for travelers. That nightnight, all the rooms were filled, so they felt lucky not to be camping alongside the road, as they had done too many times in the past.

  Nebin shrugged out of his coat and kicked off his boots, then took to his cot immediately. Hennet sat on his cot, boots off and legs folded, and began his nightly reflection before sleep. He mentally examined secrets of power and magic he knew, and used those secrets to probe for deeper secrets that lay latent within him. Most nights, he came away with nothing, but not always. Sometimes a new insight, a new twist on old knowledge, blossomed under his inner scrutiny. Such was the way of sorcery. Soon enough, he would drift into sleep, perhaps with a tiny, new coal of arcane power smoldering at the back of his mind.

  A noise woke Nebin from sound sleep. He cocked his head, listening for it again—nothing. He smiled, all too familiar with the figments of his mind. Then he frowned. He was sure he heard something scratching at the door.

  What an unnerving possibility, he thought. Should I check to make sure? I'll never get to sleep otherwise, the gnome realized.

  He considered waking Hennet, but decided against it. If it was nothing, he would only have disturbed his friend's rest.

  Better to check first, Nebin decided.

  The gnome's fingers trailed across his spellbook as he quietly slipped from bed. He'd cast one of his spells earlier, and it would take too long to renew it. Contrary to what he'd told Hennet, the enchantment he'd loosed earlier in the tavern's common room was one of his most potent illusions. He always felt a little naked without its subtle presence in the back of his mind.

  The gnome minced across the cold floor toward the door. With his small stature and without his leather boots, he made no sound. The door was bolted on the inside. Nebin listened for just a moment, making sure the hall was silent, then he drew the bolt back, pulling it so slowly he could barely see it move. He pulled the door toward himself until a sliver of black appeared between it and the the jamb. The hallway, which would have looked black as pitch to Hennett's human eyes, stood out in dim but distinct outlines to the gnome. Nebin's problem was that, peering through the tiny crack, he could see less than half the hallway. Most of it extended the opposite direction.

  Mustering his nerve, he eased the door open wider and slipped his head through the opening into the hall. He quickly scanned both directions. Three small skylights allowed waning moonlight into the corridor, casting soft, almost imperceptible shadows. Nebin could see a blot at the far end of the hallway, but in that near-total darkness, even he could not make out what it was. A large pack, perhaps? Nebin briefly wondered if one of the inn's patrons, having drunk too much wine, eaten too little food, or simply walked too many miles, might have dropped a big, bulging sack and forgotten it.

  The more he stared at it, however, the more he questioned whether it really was a pack. It looked more like a sack.

  No, not a sack, he thought, but a very, very large cocoon. But that was ridiculous.

  With thoughts of giant cocoons in his head, Nebin's heart skipped a beat when the object suddenly appeared to shift.

  Is it moving, he wondered? Is it...looking at me?

  Nebin uttered a whispery squeak and snapped back into his room. In his fright, he banged his ear on the door frame, jammed his thumb as he pushed the bolt home, and stubbed his toe leaping into bed. He rolled in his blanket, shivering and gazing at the door with large, unblinking eyes. Nebin did not like that sack. He didn't believe he would ever like any sack that had eyes.

  Hennet continued to sleep, undisturbed.

  Seconds turned to minutes, and the silence remained unbroken.

  Maintaining terror in the absence of threat, real or imagined, is a chore. Gradually the gnome convinced himself that he had seen only a discarded sack after all. It wouldn't be the first time his imagination conjured frightful things in the night. It was a good thing he hadn't awakened Hennett, he decided. The sorcerer would have enjoyed a good laugh at the gnome's expense—frightened by a sack! Finally, white-knuckled, sheet-clutching fingers relaxed and shivering gave way to snoring. Nebin's sleep was untroubled the rest of the night.

  A scream, loud and shrill, roused the guests of the Fair Warrior at dawn.

  Hennet jumped from his bed. He grabbed his cape for a robe and dashed for the door. Nebin sat up bleary-eyed, questioning.

  "Hennet, are you going out for breakfast?"

  Hennet shook his head and stepped into the hallway.

  He hissed back at Nebin, "There's trouble, be ready!"

  A few other groggy travelers milled about, and more exited into the hallway from their rooms looking as disheveled as Hennett. The largest group stood near a door at the end of the hall. A small, human woman pushing a cleaning cart was crying loudly. People were comforting her. Hennet pushed his way through the press. No one hindered him, and he peered into the far room. It was another guest room, very much like his own—except for the body.

  A woman lay half-on, half-off her cot. She was clearly dead. Her left leg was missing from mid-thigh on down. What remained of the stump was tattered and charred, as if it had somehow been melted away. Hennet felt bile rising in his throat, so he turned away. Looking back down the hallway toward his own room, he saw Nebin gazing out with wide eyes. The sorcerer shook his head sadly and made a slashing motion across his neck. Nebin's eyes narrowed to slits.

  He doesn't seem surprised, mused Hennet.

  Like so many of the wizard's mannerisms and habits, this one was well known to the sorcerer. The gnome knew something about this murder.

  Ember, Brek Gorunn, and their captive made good time after leaving Volanth, hiking along a well-traveled road toward New Koratia. The Fair Warr
ior Inn was a welcome respite to camping along the road. Ember shared a room with Brek and their captive for security. But in the morning, a scream disturbed Ember's sleep.

  She rose from her cot, reaching smoothly for her sandals. One was laced up before she realized that Brek was gone. And the prisoner was gone, too! Ember uttered an oath and laced up her remaining sandal in record time, then dashed into the corridor outside the room. Several people stood near the end of the hallway.

  If Brek rose early, she wondered, why would he leave and take the prisoner with him?

  A dark-haired man in a cape stood in an open doorway. He signaled to someone past Ember's room, a sleepy-eyed but scared gnome standing in the doorway of another guest room near the opposite end of the hallway. There was only one way to interpret the gesture; someone had died.

  Ember called the dark-haired man. "You, with the cape! What's going on?"

  The man looked at her, glanced back into the room, then moved up to stand next to her. She noticed his bare feet and legs, plus an interesting tattoo of two dragons on his chest.

  "I am Hennet," said the caped man. "I'm afraid there is a murderer among us. A woman lies dead in that room. And she died by unnaturally cruel means. She looks partly melted." The man hesitated as he spoke this last bit, obviously unsettled.

  limber stiffened at the news. She pushed past Hennet to take a look herself. At her back, she heard the taverner tramping up the stairs, yelling for guests to return to their rooms. Ember paid him no mind. In the room, she saw the scene described by Hennet.

  She'd half hoped to also find Brek Gorunn (but, gods preserve, not as the victim). Brek spoke of those slain in her own order as partly dissolved as if by alchemical acid—the similarity of this woman's condition couldn't be a simple coincidence.

  Where has that dwarf gotten to? she wondered.

  The taverner looked into the room and told Ember, "Clear out! The authorities are on their way."