The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel

by Bill Slavicsek

  “We are not afraid!” Cliffside rumbled, slamming his axe and shield together.

  Jarren sighed. “And if the dragon didn’t know where we were, I’m sure it does now.”

  “Let it come!” Cliffside demanded. “We can’t kill it if it isn’t here.”

  Shara smiled, as she always did when the male warriors had this kind of discussion. She leaned against a tree and planted her greatsword blade into the soil so that she could use both hands to extract her waterskin. She drank deeply, letting her eyes scan the area before they settled on Jarren. She had that gleam in her eyes that reminded him that Shara enjoyed her life. She relished the battles, the challenges. They were a lot alike, although she certainly found more fun in combat than he did. He was good at fighting and killing, and he appreciated the skill and prowess he had honed, but he always felt a little sad after a battle. Shara, however, reveled in the excitement and loved to feel her heart pumping and her blood rushing and the sweat dripping down her face. He loved her for who she was, and he believed that the feeling was mutual. Perhaps after this hunt, once the dragon was dispatched and they were back in Winterhaven, perhaps then she would finally agree to marry him as he had asked.

  “Why rush?” she had said. “We have all the time in the world.”

  Jarren wished that that was so, but he had a bad feeling about this hunt. A very bad feeling.

  Uldane whispered from his place a few paces back, “If we’re taking a break, could Borojon make it official? I’ve got a fire apple I’ve been waiting to bite into all day.”

  “No break,” Borojon said. “Shara, take up your sword and get back into position. Something is out of place up ahead, and until I figure out what, I want everyone on alert and ready for anything.”

  “I’m always ready for anything,” Shara whispered to Jarren as she brushed past him. “Anything.”

  Jarren smiled and returned the whisper, “Later.” When she was back in her place, he let his smile fade. He hoped they were going to have a later. But this dragon … it was unlike any creature they had faced before. Jarren hated to admit it to himself, but he was worried. This hunt felt more dangerous, somehow, than any of their previous missions.

  The group pressed on. Borojon led the way, moving almost as silently as Uldane through the trees ahead. After a time, Borojon paused. “There’s a river up ahead,” he said. “It sounds fast and deep.”

  Jarren heard the rushing water, but there was another sound as well. And a smell. “There’s something else in the clearing,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady despite the sudden tension that filled his body.

  Borojon crept forward, carefully parting the branches so that they could look into the clearing. The green dragon was there, leaning over the splayed corpse of a draft horse. The dragon had slit the horse open from neck to belly and was examining the animal’s insides as they steamed in the cool afternoon air.

  “The sign,” the dragon growled as it poked and prodded with one extended claw. “Show Vestapalk the sign.”

  Vestapalk, Jarren thought as his stomach tried to turn over, the dragon has a name.

  “It’s an abomination,” Cliffside grumbled, tightening the grip on his battleaxe. “Look at what the dragon’s doing.”

  Vestapalk pulled a tangle of intestines out of the gaping wound and peered carefully at the mess. “The Eye has looked upon the land and the way has been opened,” the dragon proclaimed, almost in a trancelike state. “An emissary has been sent, a harbinger of things to come. Vestapalk must find this Herald. This one must offer the Herald aid.”

  “What is it jabbering on about?” Borojon asked.

  “Who cares?” Cliffside countered. “We must attack now, while it is otherwise occupied.”

  The dwarf paladin was moving then, rushing into the clearing and charging straight for the dragon.

  Jarren saw a green blur as the dragon exploded into action. It was up and moving to meet the charging dwarf, swordlike talons slicing through the air. Cliffside screamed in pain as talons shredded armor and flesh, sending the dwarf spinning. The dragon never slowed, never roared. It rose into the air on powerful wings, disappearing into the cover of the trees just as Jarren and the others emerged into the clearing.

  Borojon strode toward the wounded paladin, glancing once in the direction that the dragon had flown. “Maybe the beast has fled again,” he said, bending down to examine Cliffside.

  Maybe, but Jarren didn’t think so. Not this time. They had interrupted something important. Something the dragon cared about. And Jarren didn’t think it was as fearful of them as Borojon believed it to be. The fighter listened to the rushing water that was ahead of them, beyond the clearing. The sounds seemed strange in this part of the forest, as though the river had somehow spun around and was now behind them. Growing louder. Getting closer. No, Jarren realized, it wasn’t the river.

  “Dragon!” he shouted, spinning in place as he raised his shield and drew his sword.

  The others were moving, reacting to Jarren’s warning. Shara dove to the side, while Uldane spun around to challenge the fast-moving creature. Borojon, meanwhile, leaned across the fallen paladin, meaning to protect his companion from another attack.

  The dragon shot out of the trees like a massive green arrow, scattering the adventurers like leaves in a hurricane wind. Jarren caught a claw swipe on his shield, but the force of the blow sent him sailing backward. Uldane managed to step to the side as the dragon flew past, but at the last moment its tail snaked out to deliver a glancing blow to the halfling even as the tail’s rounded, scale-covered tip slammed into Shara’s chest and knocked her off her feet.

  Jarren rolled with the blow that had hit his shield and jumped to his feet just as Borojon began rapidly firing arrows at the swooping dragon. Most bounced off the green scales, but a couple pierced the creature’s tough hide.

  Vestapalk soared in a great, wide arc, landing beyond the clearing at the river’s edge. Jarren couldn’t see the rushing water. The bank must have been higher than the level of the river at this point. He looked around wildly for his companions, but only Borojon remained on his feet, firing arrow after arrow as he moved toward the dragon.

  Borojon fired another pair of arrows, and then he tossed his bow aside and drew two blades from their sheaths. “You’ll kill no more farmers, monster!” Borojon shouted. “We shall destroy you for the harm and damage you have caused in the Nentir Vale.”

  “Is that what you call this insignificant depression in the earth, human?” the green dragon asked in a rasping, alien voice. It spoke the Common tongue, which sounded strange emerging from the green dragon’s deadly maw. “This one calls it Vestapalk’s hunting ground. This one shall take what Vestapalk wants and kill what Vestapalk pleases. This one shall start with you and yours, human. Is that your spawn this one smells lying in the grass behind you? Will her blood taste like yours, this one wonders? Will her guts show this one the sign he seeks?”

  “We are not farmers that shall cower and die without a fight, dragon!” Borojon said, moving slowly yet purposefully toward Vestapalk.

  “No,” Vestapalk laughed. It was a terrible, frightening sound. “No, you are adventurers. Do you know how many adventurers Vestapalk has faced and killed in his time, human? This many!”

  The green dragon turned its left forelimb so that Borojon and Jarren could see the inner scales. There were hash marks scratched in straight, even lines, starting at the wrist and working toward the elbow. Nine deep slashes, as though each was made with the swipe of a single claw.

  “Before this day ends,” the dragon proclaimed, “Vestapalk shall add five more marks to his scales.”

  “Never!” Borojon shouted. He began to charge the dragon, his twin blades glistening in the sun.

  “Borojon! No! Wait for the rest of us!” Jarren called, but his leader wasn’t listening. He was charging ahead, ready to face the green dragon by himself at the river’s edge.

  Jarren was sure that the dragon was s
miling.

  Vestapalk roared, and a blast of green gas exploded from its open maw. The gas struck Borojon, its noxious vapors boiling his flesh and filling his lungs with poison. Borojon tried to ignore the pain, but Jarren could see that he was moving slower because of the effects of the deadly gas. Borojon stumbled to one knee, and the dragon was upon him, clamping its powerful jaws onto his left shoulder and biting hard. Sharp teeth tore through leather armor, flesh, and bone, and Borojon wailed in agony.

  Jarren was moving then, watching the blade fall from Borojon’s left hand even as the younger fighter charged the dragon’s left side. His shield raised high, Jarren delivered a mighty blow with his long sword, striking Vestapalk in the left shoulder. He found the spurt of blood to be extremely satisfying. But the green dragon never released Borojon. Instead, it fixed its intense gaze on Jarren, showing a terrible hatred even as it crunched down harder on the older man.

  Borojon refused to scream again, but Jarren could see the gush of blood welling out of the older man’s mouth. Borojon wasn’t finished yet, however. He slashed upward with all his might, letting his right arm swing back like a pendulum to scrape along the scales that covered the top of the dragon’s forelimb.

  Vestapalk tossed the ravaged Borojon away like a well-gnawed piece of meat, and the old human slammed into a nearby tree with bone-crunching force. Jarren wasn’t sure that even Cliffside’s healing power would be enough to deal with Borojon’s injuries—if the paladin was even still alive to use them. He hadn’t recovered yet from the dragon’s initial attack, and that wasn’t a good sign. Jarren leaped to the side, preparing to make another attack when a dagger flew out of the woods and buried itself in Vestapalk’s right nostril.

  “Yes,” said Uldane in an excited tone, “a bull’s eye! Or a dragon’s eye, maybe. That sounds good. A dragon’s eye! I think the next one will find a nice home in the dragon’s left eye socket.”

  Jarren saw that Shara was moving up to join him, her greatsword held across her body in preparation for her first strike against the dragon. “You’ll pay for the injuries that the Old Man has suffered,” she said, her voice cold and hard.

  “Old?” Vestapalk asked in disbelief. “Old? This one shall never understand how the lesser creatures measure time.”

  Shara ignored the dragon’s words. She swung her greatsword in a powerful arc, cutting through scale and biting into flesh as the blade traced a bloody slash across Vestapalk’s neck. Jarren struck at almost the same moment, his sword piercing the green dragon’s upper left forearm.

  “By Moradin’s holy hammer!” Cliffside shouted as he stumbled forward, holding his shield with the symbol of his god Moradin high enough for the dragon to see. The symbol was an anvil that burned with blue flame, superimposed on the head of a dwarven hammer. The shield glowed with power, and a lance of holy light flew from the symbol to smash into the dragon with unbelievable force. Suddenly the battlefield had changed, and Jarren could see that the dragon recognized the paladin as the obvious threat. It launched itself into the air with a single beat of its wings, landing atop the dwarf with terrible force. The dragon’s claws pierced Cliffside’s chest, driving him down and pinning him to the ground.

  “You dare call upon another god in Vestapalk’s presence?” the dragon roared. “When Vestapalk is here, there are no other gods!”

  The green dragon pulled to each side, ripping the dwarf apart with a sickening tearing sound. Jarren couldn’t believe how powerful the creature was, or how poorly his companions were working together. “Shara, Uldane, to me!” Jarren called, working out a new plan of attack even as the dragon turned back toward him.

  Jarren stood tall, his weapon and shield at the ready. Uldane was to his left, nearer to the tree line. Shara was to his right, near the river’s edge. The dragon watched them all, but its eyes were fixed on Jarren. It didn’t see Borojon, battered, bloody, poisoned-ravaged Borojon, lift himself up and stagger toward the dragon’s exposed back, holding his remaining blade and preparing to strike. Before Jarren could call out an order, Shara was moving.

  Shara rushed the dragon, attracting its attention and giving her father time to make his attack. Borojon made the most of the opportunity, slashing at the collection of muscles and tendons where the right wing connected to the dragon’s body. With an audible effort, Borojon sunk his blade into the spot, coaxing a cry of pain from the dragon, even as it spun and bashed its body into Borojon’s terribly wounded left side.

  Shara never stopped moving, but before she was close enough to bring her greatsword to bear, Vestapalk’s chest swelled up as it prepared to breathe poison again. Jarren realized that both he and Shara were in range of the dragon’s breath. He brought his shield up, hoping to avoid the brunt of the blast, but there was nothing between Shara and the dragon.

  With a mighty roar, Vestapalk released the cloud of caustic green gas. As Jarren ducked behind his shield, he saw Uldane leap past him. The halfling collided with Shara, and the two of them went sailing over the edge of the river and out of reach of the poison cloud. “Well done, rogue,” Jarren whispered, as the cloudburst roiled around his shield and harmlessly dissipated. “Now it’s my turn.”

  But Jarren realized that something was wrong. Shara and Uldane hadn’t splashed into the river. He leaped over to the edge and saw that it was actually a dizzyingly high cliff. The rushing river was far below, its sound amplified by the high, rocky walls. Jarren locked gazes with Shara, who was falling toward the rushing water. He knew she was watching as Vestapalk towered over him. He knew she could see as he spun to face the creature. She could just watch as Vestapalk struck twice with its powerful claws and blood exploded from Jarren’s freshly opened wounds.

  Jarren hoped that Shara was now too far away to see him fall to his knees. To see the dragon triumphantly swipe its claw across its foreleg three times. To see it open its maw and bite as the life finally flowed out of Jarren in a single, powerful gush of blood and viscera.

  As pain and darkness overtook him, Jarren’s last thoughts went to Shara. “I love you,” he whispered, glad that Shara, at least, had escaped the dragon’s claws.

  PART

  ONE

  1 DARANI, IN THE SHADOWFELL, TWILIGHT

  Kalaban marched through the streets of Darani, head held high and eyes straight ahead. He realized long ago that this was the last remnant of the ancient empire of Nerath, the human-ruled utopia that once covered most of the known world. The familiar buildings, with architecture that borrowed freely from elf, dwarf, dragonborn, and tiefling, somehow remained uniquely human in design. The cobbled streets. Even the smells. It all combined to create an illusion of a time that had come and gone. And sometimes Kalaban felt as though he was the only person in the whole place who realized it. If not for his duty, he would have tried to find a way out of this weary existence long ago. He sighed and tried to ignore the insignificant and sorry peasants who scurried around him as they performed tasks out of habit. They were shadows, echoes of lives lost long ago.

  Just like him.

  Few others in the city might understand the truth of their existence, but Kalaban knew. He imagined that this knowledge was in some way tied to the hell he had been consigned to. Because Kalaban, knight-commander of Nerath and captain of the Imperial Guard, was dead, as was every other entity that inhabited poor, lost Darani. Or, to be more accurate, they were all undead.

  Time had lost all meaning for Kalaban, but he remembered the day he had failed in his duty. That was the one blemish on an otherwise spotless record that had resulted in this unending nightmare from which there was no way to awaken. It had been a day like most other days for the Imperial Guard, which was charged with protecting Emperor Magroth: boring and glorious …

  Kalaban stood beside his brother, Krondor, on the steps outside the Imperial Palace in Darani. Each of Nerath’s imperial cities had a palace set aside for the emperor’s use, in case Magroth was traveling. Magroth traveled often, and the members of his most-trusted Imperial
Guard were always by his side. He was not a sit-in-his-castle ruler, not Magroth. The emperor enjoyed surveying his vast holdings almost as much as he enjoyed conquering neighboring lands and squelching rebellion. Kalaban sometimes wondered if the insults whispered by the crowds were true. They called Magroth “insane” and “mad.” They likened him to a tyrant, and a few called him “demon.” Kalaban knew that Magroth ruled with an iron fist, but the rest? His duty didn’t allow him to question the methods or the orders of his emperor, so he tried not to think about such things.

  The crowd this day seemed more nervous than usual. Rumors were rampant that the emperor had tracked a group of political malcontents to the walls of Darani, and now Magroth and his Imperial Guard were going to punish the entire city because of the supposed actions of a few. As usual, Kalaban had no idea what his emperor had in mind for today, but he knew that cruel punishment was not beyond Magroth’s repertoire. He glanced over at Krondor, who was younger than Kalaban by two years, and noticed that his brother had a haunted, distant look in his eyes.

  “Something bothering you, brother?” Kalaban asked.

  Krondor continued to stare over the crowd, not turning to face his brother as he said, “What could possibly bother me on this fine day, Kalaban? Why, look at all the potential victims that have dutifully gathered before the palace for Magroth’s amusement.”

  Anger flared in Kalaban. His little brother was very good at making him angry. “Lose the attitude, Krondor, and act like the Imperial Guard you’re supposed to be.”

  “I’ve earned my post, Kalaban,” Krondor said, “just as you have. Now leave me be so I can perform the duties assigned to me. Isn’t that your credo? Duty above all?”

  Before Kalaban could reply, the palace doors began to swing open. He glared briefly at his brother, and then stepped to the side to flank the stairs in anticipation of the emperor’s appearance.