Arise, my champion, the woman’s voice had said, You have work to do.
Erak couldn’t see at all as he gingerly reached upward. He placed his hands on cold stone pressing down on him from above. He reached to the sides and found the same cold stone. He was inside a stone box of some sort. No, that wasn’t right. He knew where he was. He was in a coffin. Buried.
Erak reached up again, setting his hands on the stone slab. He pushed. Nothing happened. Fear began to well up within him, threatening to drive him into a panic that would surely be the end of him. Instead of allowing that to happen, Erak channeled the fear into strength, and he pushed again with all of his might.
At first, the stone slab above him remained securely in place. Then, ever so slowly, it began to move. Erak continued to apply pressure, despite the pain, and the effort paid off. The stone slab slowly grinded open, revealing a sliver of moonlight that eventually widened enough for Erak to squeeze his way out of … what was this? A sarcophagus? Another memory surfaced, again in the woman’s voice.
The living have need of the dead this day, my champion, the woman had said.
Erak stumbled out of the sarcophagus and tried to get his bearings. He appeared to be in a small, stone building. A window high on the wall showed the deepening darkness beyond and let in the light of the rising moon as it hovered above the tree line. The headstone at the top of the stone coffin bore no name or date, just a carved symbol of a bird’s head. No, more than just a bird, Erak thought. A raven.
The symbol of the Raven Queen, the god of winter and fate. The god of death.
Erak shivered. Was this his tomb? Was he dead?
The word “revenant” suddenly surfaced in his thoughts.
“I was dead,” Erak said aloud, and his own voice sounded loud and alien in this otherwise silent chamber.
He remembered the darkness, the quiet. He remembered the lady’s presence. The Raven Queen? He couldn’t be certain, but that felt right to him somehow. Why had she cast him out? Why was he back in the world of pain and anguish?
Arise, my champion.
Her words echoed in his mind.
You have work to do.
Erak shuddered. He was cold, and his chest felt heavy and empty. At the same time, his thoughts were a confused jumble of images and half-formed sensations. Perhaps they would sort themselves out in time. Perhaps not. No matter. He had work to do.
After a quick examination of the tiny mausoleum, he found a wrapped package at the foot of the sarcophagus. It was sealed with a wax casting of a raven’s head. Erak broke the seal and examined the contents of the package. There was a long sword with an exotic and cruel blade, all elegant curves and terrible serrations, with hints of crimson within the folded steel. The pommel featured a raven’s head, one crimson eye set on each side.
“Hellsteel,” Erak said, touching the blade as he remembered the word. Tiefling crafted, he knew, whatever that meant.
He set the weapon aside to examine the armor. It was padded leather, with lots of straps and buckles, dyed as black as the inside of Erak’s coffin. It fit perfectly. He donned the accompanying leather jacket colored a blue as deep as darkest twilight. The armor and jacket felt right as he fastened the buttons.
Erak picked up the long sword and headed for the mausoleum’s stone door without glancing back at the sarcophagus he had emerged from. The door was heavy, but it was equipped with hinges that allowed it to swing open easily. It certainly required a lot less effort than moving the stone slab that had covered his tomb. With the door opened, he stepped out into the night. It was time to leave this place of the dead behind him. It was time to do his work.
Erak took a couple of steps and paused. Had he heard something? He listened intently, trying to determine if he had heard a noise or if his thoughts and scattered memories were playing tricks on him. He turned slowly, examining the deep shadows clumped around the mausoleum he had just emerged from.
Nothing moved. No sounds broke the stillness of the night. Erak sensed danger in the darkness, however, and he drew the hellsteel blade from its sheath. The first creature appeared then, slipping out of the shadows to crouch atop the edge of the mausoleum’s roof. It was humanoid in form, but its flesh was ashen gray and its mouth was nearly bursting with large, oversized teeth. Erak recognized the creature as a ghoul, and it hadn’t come alone. There were at least five of the undead scavengers sliding out of the shadows around Erak’s one-time tomb.
“It looks edible, don’t it, you flesh-eaters?” the first ghoul growled around its mouth full of pointed teeth.
“Hungry,” moaned two of the ghouls.
“Edible, edible,” sang the other two as they danced from side to side. One of them was gnawing the last bits of meat off a long bone as it sang.
Erak took the measure of these filthy creatures, noting their long, talonlike nails, their hunched posture, and the stink that perfumed the air around them. By the Lady of Fate, he hoped he didn’t smell like that.
The first ghoul leaped down from the roof of the mausoleum, landing lightly on the path between the tomb’s door and where Erak stood. “There’s no honor among the dead,” the ghoul sneered, “at least not in this graveyard. Our graveyard, really. To us, you’re just more meat.”
“A little more ambulatory than most,” another ghoul called.
“That just makes it interestin’,” a third ghoul said as it laughed.
Erak returned their smiles, but it was a hard, humorless smile, and it caused the lead ghoul just a moment of pause.
“Your call,” Erak said, his eyes locked on the ghoul that had stopped a few paces back along the path.
The lead ghoul hesitated. It seemed to weigh its options, glancing back once to gauge the mood of its companions. Then it made its decision and hurled itself forward, its talonlike nails cutting through the air toward Erak’s face. But before the ghoul could strike, Erak was in motion. He easily dodged the ghoul’s lunging attack, following through with a single sweep of the hellsteel blade he had found in the tomb. It was a fine weapon, and it seemed to have been specifically crafted just for him. The curved blade cut deep, drawing forth a howl of pain from the ghoul. Before it could react, however, Erak stepped into the ghoul’s shadow—and disappeared.
The ghouls fell silent, collectively disoriented by the behavior of their supposed dinner. Erak stepped out of the shadow of one of the other ghouls and plunged his sword into the foul creature’s back. The curved tip briefly emerged from the ghoul’s chest before Erak drew it back out and then turned the motion into a slice that lopped off the creature’s head. He turned to face the one beside it.
The ghoul flew into a rage and leaped toward Erak. As it moved closer, Erak gathered the shadows around him and seemed to fade. The ghoul passed right through Erak’s now shadowy form and smashed headlong into the stone wall of the mausoleum with bone-breaking force. It fell to the cold ground, stunned by the impact.
Erak never paused. He stepped away from the two fallen ghouls as his body began to shift back into solid form. Before the shadows completely faded away, he scooped a handful out of the air and hurled them. The shadows became a volley of black darts that streaked toward the lead ghoul. The ghoul started to break to the left, but the shadow darts struck in rapid succession. The lead ghoul collapsed even as Erak strode back to stand over its body. He turned to face the remaining undead.
“Well?” he asked, the hellsteel blade held ready in his right hand.
“Hungry,” one of the ghouls repeated.
“Not that hungry,” the other said.
“No, not tonight.”
Without another word, the ghouls slipped back into the shadows and were gone, leaving Erak alone in the graveyard. He sheathed the hellsteel blade, turned, and walked out into the night.
4 FALLCREST, MOORIN’S TOWER, NIGHT
The wizard Moorin drew his robes around him. The cold and the damp bothered him more these days than he cared to admit, and the recent rain made his bones a
che. If not for the fact that it was expected of him, he’d close up the tower and move everything into a warm and comfortable manor house. Maybe when he retired and turned over his spellbooks and library to his apprentice, Albanon. Maybe then he could find a home that wasn’t always chilly. Speaking of the young eladrin, Moorin wondered where his apprentice was and what he was doing.
“Albanon?” Moorin called. “I’m preparing to seal the tower for the night.”
“Your lazy, good-for-nothing apprentice is down in his room, getting ready to go gallivanting around town,” purred the small creature sitting on the arm of one overstuffed chair. She was a tiny dragon, about the size of a house cat, covered in scintillating scales that reflected the light from the fireplace she sat in front of.
Moorin smiled at the psuedodragon and rubbed under her jaw. “Now, Splendid,” Moorin said as the tiny dragon cooed, “you know perfectly well that Albanon is neither lazy nor good for nothing. He does feed you every day, doesn’t he?”
Splendid seemed to consider this for a moment. “Yes, but he doesn’t do it well. The bowl he uses could certainly hold more than he ever puts in it.”
Moorin chuckled. “Well, I’ll certainly have to have a talk with him about that.”
“See that you do,” Splendid said as she closed her eyes and immediately fell asleep in front of the fire.
The old wizard sighed. If only he could fall asleep that easily. He almost envied the tiny dragon. Years of aches and pains, combined with memories that never truly grew quiet, made the long hours before dawn particularly difficult for the old man. He tipped his staff, pointing it toward the burning fire. With a whispered word of power, the fire in the hearth went out.
“Hey!” snarled Splendid, opening one eye to stare at the wizard. “I’m sleeping here!”
“Upstairs,” Moorin said quietly. “Your perch awaits.”
Splendid grumbled, but the words were too soft for Moorin’s old ears to pick up. The psuedodragon took flight, winging her way to the upper levels of the tower.
Moorin slowly followed, walking toward the stairs that were set against the outer wall. The stone steps led up to his library and work space or down to the two sleeping chambers below ground. Using his wizard’s staff to support his weight and help him maneuver, he began to work his way downstairs.
As Moorin took the stairs slowly, one at a time, he could feel his left hand and arm begin to shake. The episodes were coming upon him with increasing regularity. He knew that his time as a fully functioning master wizard was almost at an end. If he was honest with himself, he knew that he hadn’t been fully functioning for more than a year. The old wizard was dying. He just wasn’t ready to admit it to the world. Not yet. There was still so much to do.
And it started with Albanon.
Moorin paused in the doorway to Albanon’s sleeping chamber and watched the young eladrin as he critically examined a set of robes and a mantle that hung more like a jacket when worn. Albanon was about six feet tall and slim, with fine silver hair and long, pointed ears. He had been with Moorin since his eleventh birthday. It was sometimes hard for Moorin to believe that seven years had passed. It seemed like only yesterday that the eladrin had come to his tower to study.
“I’d go with the mantle,” Moorin said. “The cut looks good on you and the blue brings out the color of your eyes.”
Albanon turned to look at the older wizard, showing the opalescent blue orbs of his eyes. As with all eladrin, the close cousins of elves who hailed from the Feywild instead of the natural world, Albanon’s eyes were solid orbs of color that glowed softly in the dim light of the chamber.
“If it’s all right with you, master,” Albanon began, “I thought I’d go out for a little while this evening.”
“Back to the Blue Moon?” Moorin chuckled. “Who is it this time? Are Valenae and her father back in town?”
“No, no. I heard that a couple of adventurers were passing through and I wanted to listen to their stories. If that’s all right.”
The old wizard nodded. He had much to discuss with his apprentice, much he still had to prepare him for. But it could wait until tomorrow. It was good to see that Albanon was trying to fit in. Most eladrin projected a detachment that could make them seem distant and intimidating. But Albanon had come to the natural world specifically to engage in new experiences, as well as to learn the arcane arts from Moorin. The old wizard was proud of how far the young eladrin had come.
“Of course, Albanon,” Moorin said. “Have fun. I’ll set the wards around the tower, but I’ll leave the inside wards dormant until you return.”
“Thank you, master!” Albanon burst out. His time in the natural world had made him more expressive than other eladrin that Moorin had known, including Albanon’s father. “I won’t be very late.”
As the young eladrin started for the stairs, Moorin cleared his throat. “What are you forgetting, my apprentice?”
Albanon froze in place, took a deep breath, and slowly turned to examine his room. His gaze finally came to rest on a slender, tapered piece of wood on the dressing table. “My wand,” he said, looking embarrassed.
“Your wand,” Moorin agreed.
Albanon snatched it and ran up the stairs. “See you later, master!” he called from above. Moorin heard the heavy tower door open and shut.
The old wizard sighed and sat down heavily on Albanon’s bed. He watched as his left hand shook uncontrollably. Time catches up with us all, Moorin thought. Even wizards. He tried to begin cataloging all the things he had to explain to Albanon in the morning, but there was so much that came to mind. The kelonite, for one. The glass cylinder and the Order of Vigilance, for another. And whenever Moorin thought about the Order, he remembered his old friend Kri. He hadn’t seen Kri in more than ten years, but Moorin knew that the cleric was still out there, fighting the good fight and keeping an eye out for any signs that the invaders had returned.
Why had his ancient mind suddenly coughed up these particular memories, Moorin wondered? He looked at his left hand, with its gnarled fingers and the scars from battles fought long ago, and he tried to make the shaking stop. It didn’t. He slowly rose and stepped from Albanon’s room to his own chamber across the hall. He was tired tonight, very tired. Maybe sleep would come more easily this night. He set his staff against the headboard and stretched out on his bed.
And with thoughts of things he had to tell Albanon and memories of old companions, Moorin drifted off into a fitful sleep.
5 NENLAST, THE DRUNKEN GOBLIN TAVERN, NIGHT
Darrum sat with his back to the wall, nursing a tankard of ale. Darrum was a dwarf ranger, about four and a half feet tall and built solid and broad of shoulder. He wore intricately detailed leather armor that must have been impressive in its day. But the armor’s day, like Darrum himself, had been long ago. Now it was scuffed and stained and repaired more times than the old dwarf could count. He had lost his right eye in a battle long ago, and the leather patch that covered it appeared as weathered as the rest of the dwarf. Only his gray hair and beard, long and braided, hinted at the pride that Darrum still possessed somewhere deep within his soul.
It was a crowded night in the Drunken Goblin, a small tavern in the small village of Nenlast, the last plot of settled land in the northeastern corner of the Nentir Vale. Nenlast sat on the eastern shore of Lake Nen, where its mostly human population earned a living by fishing and trading with the barbarian tribes of the Winterbole Forest. It was a quiet spot, a great place to pass some time in utter obscurity, which was just the way Darrum preferred to spend his time these days. Unfortunately, the usual quiet that filled Nenlast was replaced with the bustling activity that always accompanied the arrival of a trading caravan—especially a large caravan on its way to distant towns and villages far to the south. Twice a year, such a caravan diverted from its usual route to visit Nenlast. It was just Darrum’s luck that he happened to arrive in the village only a few days before the caravan.
The trading cara
van hailed from the dwarven town of Hammerfast, laden with dwarven goods of all descriptions, including weapons, armor, tools, jewelry, and raw materials pulled from the mines of the Dawnforge Mountains. The carts and wagons probably also contained various goods and foodstuffs from the nearby settlements of Fallcrest, Harkenwold, the Seven-Pillared Hall, and Winterhaven, since it made more sense to combine the cargo of several merchants into one easier-to-protect caravan than to let the small-time traders fend for themselves. It was just good business, and the dwarves—especially the dwarves of Hammerfast—were all about good business. Darrum should know. He grew up in Hammerfast. But that was a very long time ago, in another life.
Darrum scanned the tavern’s common room with his one good eye. Just yesterday he was one of a handful of dwarves in Nenlast. Now he was one of dozens. That didn’t make Darrum feel less conspicuous. On the contrary, he felt as though he had suddenly been thrust into the center of attention, though he couldn’t quite understand how that could be. The old ranger was quickly coming to realize that his short time in Nenlast was nearing its end. It was time to pack up his few belongings and move on. Again. Something felt wrong in the small village. It was a sense that had started building with the arrival of the trade caravan and had become more intense as the day slid into evening. Darrum trusted his instincts, and he wasn’t about to break his long habits of caution and vigilance after they had served him so well for almost one hundred and twenty-five years.
Darrum sipped his ale. He was old, especially by human standards. But for a dwarf, he still had a few years left before he was ready to take on the mantle of “venerable” or—gods forbid—“ancient.” How he hated that word. Ancient was a term that should be applied to the ruins of the long-dissolved kingdoms that dotted the landscape, places with names such as Bael Turath and Arkhosia. It could also be used to describe forests and mountains, artifacts and relics. But it should never be applied to a person, whether he or she be human, dwarf, elf, or dragonborn. And Darrum, no matter how old and battered he lived to be, would never willingly allow the term to be applied to him. At least not as long as there was enough strength left in his arms to swing his twin hammers, Dawnfire and Nightstorm. He sipped again, smiling at the thought of himself as a decrepit old man trying to heft warhammers that were larger and heavier than he was. Then he paused in mid-sip, trying to figure out why such a depressing thought held even the slightest bit of humor.
The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel Page 4