The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel

by Bill Slavicsek

  Darrum shook his head and turned his attention back to the common hall. There was the usual collection of locals, grumbling about the weather or the current influx of strangers. Off-duty caravan guards crowded around the bar, drinking their way through various contests they used to amuse and test themselves as they approached heavy inebriation. Merchants and clerks and a handful of travelers filled the tables scattered throughout the chamber, pouring wine, telling stories, and even conducting a small amount of business while they passed the hours in front of the fire.

  One old dwarf was staring at Darrum from a nearby table. His eyes were heavy with drink, but he had a look of intense concentration despite his obvious state of drunkenness. The old dwarf stood, spilling beer from the cantered tankard he held tightly in one thick-fingered hand. He stumbled toward Darrum, his expression never faltering.

  “I know you,” the drunken old dwarf muttered, spraying foam with every word. “You’re one of those Imperial Shields bastards, so high and mighty.…”

  “Leave me be,” Darrum said, trying to sink deeper into his corner of the tavern. “Imperial Shields haven’t been seen in the land since the fall of the Empire of Nerath, and that was a long time ago.”

  “Where were you, oh high and mighty Shield, when the empire was crumbling?” the drunken old dwarf demanded, his voice growing louder as his anger built up a head of steam. “Where were you when poor old Emperor Aldoran was slaughtered? Why didn’t you do your duty and save him?” The old drunk fell to his knees then, wracking sobs overtaking him, and his words slurred into blubbering incoherency.

  Darrum stared at the older dwarf, unsure what to do. The drunk’s words had struck home, however, because those were the same questions that Darrum had asked himself every night for the past century. What more could I have done? Why did I survive when so many of my comrades had fallen along with the empire? And, just like every night for the past century, Darrum had no answers.

  One of the barmaids gently laid her hands on the old dwarf and whispered, “It’s all right, Togon, it’s all right.” She gave Darrum an apologetic smile and led the drunken dwarf closer to the fire. “Leave the poor man be and let’s get you to someplace more comfortable,” she said as he allowed her to lead him away.

  Darrum took a long pull on his tankard, letting the bitter ale calm his rattled thoughts. The old drunk had recognized him, somehow, and his words had pierced him like arrows from a gnoll’s bow. He turned away from the barmaid and the old dwarf, and that’s when he noticed the two strangers near the door.

  They were tall and lean, hidden beneath dark hoods drawn tight and dark cloaks that fell almost all the way to the floor. Humans? Elves? Might even be tieflings under there, Darrum thought. The way they held themselves. The way their cloaks hung. The way the shadows seemed to drape around them. Darrum’s instincts warned him to be wary of these two. They were dangerous, of that he had no doubt. But there was something else about them that Darrum couldn’t quite identify. Not yet. At least they didn’t seem to be paying any attention to him or the brief drama that had taken place between him and the drunk. No, the two hooded figures seemed to be looking for someone else in the crowd. And the way they were concentrating their attention on the taller folk in the place, Darrum was confident that they weren’t looking for a one-eyed dwarf or a prancing halfling.

  After a few moments, the pair slipped out into the night. Darrum drained the last of the ale in his tankard, dropped a couple of copper pieces on the table, and followed the hooded figures out of the crowded tavern.

  I might be getting old, Darrum thought, but I’m not dead yet.

  6 NENLAST, THE SHRINE OF ERATHIS, NIGHT

  Falon collected the flowers and other offerings left at the foot of the altar in the small shrine dedicated to Erathis, the god of civilization and laws. He dropped the flowers into the large wicker basket that hung around his neck. The shrine was a simple affair, little more than four stone pillars that formed a square within the small park. The altar, a stone block inscribed with the half-circle symbol of Erathis, a rising sun within a gear, was placed at one end of the square, and the pillars that rose above it held a stone crossbeam that served as a small roof over the shrine. The rest of the square was open, though the garden beyond created a curtain of flowers and bushes that gave the place a serene privacy that the young man loved. The solitude was even more pronounced at this time of night, when most of the business of the village had slowed to a crawl. He enjoyed working in the evening, in the crisp night air, when Cleric Basku had already retired and Falon had the place to himself.

  As Falon worked, he let his mind wander. Though he was content studying to be a cleric of Erathis in the out-of-the-way community of Nenlast, he sometimes dreamed about what life was like in one of the larger settlements, such as Winterhaven or even Fallcrest. He sometimes even imagined himself on a grand adventure, as a heroic cleric, striking out to bring the light of Erathis to the untamed darkness of the world. They were fine dreams, and they helped pass the time as he completed his chores while the rest of the shrine was quiet and empty at the end of the day.

  Young Falon had never stepped beyond the borders of the tiny village. His family had lived in Nenlast since, well, since forever, at least according to the stories his grandfather used to tell him. Falon missed his grandfather. He didn’t remember his father, whom he had been told had died in the gnoll raids shortly after Falon was born. His mother raised him, and his grandfather had always been a stabilizing force in his life. His grandfather had died last winter after catching an illness from which he had never recovered. He had often filled Falon’s head with stories of adventurers, of distant places, of lost treasures and heroic deeds. Maybe that was why Falon had tried so hard to become apprentice to Cleric Basku here at the shrine in Nenlast. “A good cleric always has a place in an adventuring party,” Falon’s grandfather had told him on more than one occasion. Falon smiled at the memory. Whatever had driven him to a religious life, Falon knew one thing. He had heard the call of Erathis, and he had answered it with all his heart and soul.

  The young cleric set aside thoughts of his grandfather and adventure and got back to his chores. Basku could get extremely unpleasant when Falon failed to keep the small shrine tidy. Luckily, a small shrine meant that there was never a terrible mess to clean up, though the garden around the shrine constantly needed tending. Falon was almost finished when he heard the familiar voice of his friend Gamun, strong and loud in the small courtyard, call a greeting.

  “Why did I know I was going to find you here, friend Falon?” Gamun said, his deep voice resonating.

  “Because this is where I always am?” Falon replied. “You know that Cleric Basku works me as though I was his slave instead of his apprentice.”

  “Ah, my friend, my heart bleeds for you and your terrible woes,” Gamun said as he laughed and strode into the center of the shrine’s square.

  Gamun was one of the goliaths of the barbarian tribes of the Winterbole Forest, though he regularly visited Nenlast with his father to engage in trade. The two young men were about the same age, but Gamun was much taller and more powerfully built than the young human. They had met six years earlier, on one of the first trips in which Gamun had accompanied his father to the village, and their friendship had grown stronger with each passing year.

  “Why aren’t you out and about, mingling with the visiting dwarves or exploring the market camp set up around the caravan outside the village?” Gamun asked. “It’s like you have no adventure in you, no curiosity.”

  “I have responsibilities, Gamun,” Falon said. “We can’t all be carefree wanderers.”

  Gamun frowned. “That’s true. You would not make a very good carefree wanderer.”

  “Oh? And why not?”

  “Because you care too much, my smallish friend,” the goliath said, laughing.

  Gamun’s laugh was infectious, and Falon couldn’t help but join in. He laughed hard, spilling some of the flowers he had collected
from the wicker basket hanging around his neck. He reached down, letting his left sleeve slide up to reveal the birthmark on his wrist. It was an unusual mark, and Falon usually took great pains to keep it covered. The mark was shaped like a crown, with three small star-shaped dots arced above it. He quickly pulled his sleeve down. He didn’t know why he tried to hide it, but it had become almost a reflex to do so.

  “Let me help with that,” Gamun said, moving forward and bending to gather the fallen flowers.

  As the goliath stepped in front of the young cleric, Falon heard something whistle out of the darkness. There was a sound of fabric and flesh being pierced, and a metal shaft buried itself into Gamun’s shoulder. With a small grunt of pain, Gamun shoved Falon to the ground just as a second bolt whizzed past them and ricocheted off the altar.

  “Crossbows,” Falon whispered as he tossed aside the wicker basket and pulled the mace from his belt.

  “But who would attack a holy shrine, and why?” Gamun asked, drawing his own sword. He was forced to use his left hand, since the wound to his right shoulder made that appendage unusable.

  “Let’s figure that out after the fighting is finished,” Falon said, getting back to his feet as he scanned the area for their unknown attackers.

  “There,” Gamun grunted, gesturing toward the path that led through the garden away from the shrine. Two figures stood in the shadows, tall and lean, with long cloaks billowing around them. They discarded their crossbows, letting them fall beside the path as they drew long swords from sheathes hanging at their waists.

  The two figures separated, moving through the garden from each side as they rushed toward the shrine. They moved with supernatural speed, Falon thought, and there was something else about the pair that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Before he could work out what it was, one of the attackers was on him. Falon brought his mace up quickly, but even so he barely managed to deflect his attacker’s blade as it blurred through the air.

  From the sound of metal clanging on metal, Falon knew that Gamun had engaged the second attacker in combat. “Be careful, Falon,” the goliath called, “these aren’t your ordinary sort of bandits or brigands.”

  Falon used every bit of skill and luck he could muster to keep his attacker’s sword from finding flesh. He parried with his mace, though every strike of the sword reverberated through his arms and made his hands ache. The tall figure was fast and strong, and the young cleric knew that it was only a matter of time before the attacker found a way through his meager defenses. He dodged and side stepped, swinging his mace hard to try to land a blow of his own, but to no avail. The tall figure easily deflected the mace and intensified its own assault.

  As they fought, Falon instinctively uttered a prayer to Erathis. The words came naturally to the young cleric, and they were pure and heartfelt. As the divine energy gathered, Falon’s mace glowed with power. His attacker hesitated before the building light, taking a step back as though trying to assess the extent of this potential danger. Then the light flashed, releasing a searing burst that rolled into and through the attacker. As the light burned away, the cloaked figure collapsed to the ground.

  Falon turned to see how Gamun was doing and his heart skipped a beat. The second attacker had managed to disarm the goliath, who had been forced to use his weaker hand to hold his sword. The second attacker was about to plunge its weapon into Gamun’s exposed chest when suddenly a new figure leaped out of the garden’s shadows. It took Falon only a moment to recognize the new figure as a dwarf, compact and powerfully built, with a gray beard that contained only hints of black and a patch over his right eye. He swung two warhammers that appeared to be exact opposites. One was bright as a sunny morning, its head a brilliant gold. The other was as dark as the deepest night, its head a deep gray that was almost black. The dwarf dispatched the second attacker without a word, striking it over and over with his warhammers. The weapons flashed each time they struck the cloaked assailant, hinting that they were enchanted in some way.

  Falon was so captivated by the dwarf’s spinning weapons that he failed to notice a third attacker slip out of the dark garden surrounding the shrine. “Your blood for Orcus!” the attacker cried, driving its sword toward the young cleric. Falon managed to raise his left arm protectively, and the sword slashed him from bicep to elbow. Falon staggered back, trying to call upon a prayer or to bring his mace up, but the attacker was too close, too fast.

  “No more blood for your master this night,” the dwarf declared, hurling his golden hammer. It spun through the space between dwarf and attacker, glowing like a miniature sun. When it struck the third attacker squarely in the chest, its light exploded in a burst that forced Falon to avert his eyes. As his vision cleared, he noticed that Gamun was examining the attacker that Falon had defeated.

  “I think you killed this one, Falon,” Gamun said, sounding surprisingly impressed.

  The dwarf shook his head. “You may have defeated it,” the dwarf said, ripping Falon’s sleeve so that he could examine the wound on his arm, “but these three were already dead when they attacked you.”

  The dwarf turned Falon’s arm, studying the birthmark on his wrist. Falon pulled his arm away. “I’m fine,” he stammered, feeling uncomfortable at the look of recognition that seemed to pass before the dwarf’s good eye at the sight of his birthmark. “Let me tend to Gamun’s wound.”

  The dwarf let Falon go, and he turned to stare into the dark garden.

  Falon removed the bolt from Gamun’s shoulder and muttered a word of healing. The wound instantly closed.

  “Thanks,” Gamun said, flexing the fingers of his right hand.

  “It’s not over,” the dwarf said, still staring into the darkness. “There’s another one out there, and I think it’s after you, young cleric.”

  Falon swallowed hard, because the same thought had already occurred to him.

  7 WINTERHAVEN, WRAFTON’S INN, NIGHT

  Uldane Forden was miserable, and that was extremely unusual for the halfling rogue. He prided himself on his happy-go-lucky nature, his optimism, and his unshakable lust for life and all of the wonderful experiences that waited to be … well, experienced. Encounter a closed door? Uldane was always the first to run up and open it. He couldn’t wait to see what was behind it, to see where it led.

  But that was the old Uldane.

  The Uldane who hadn’t lost three of his friends to the green dragon, Vestapalk.

  The Uldane who hadn’t fallen hundreds of feet into a rushing river.

  The Uldane who didn’t have to sit in Wrafton’s Inn, sipping wine and watching his one remaining friend, Shara, drink herself into oblivion while also picking fights with anyone stupid enough to get within earshot.

  The halfling fingered the platinum coin in his pocket. Jarren’s lucky coin. It didn’t feel so lucky now, Uldane thought. At least, it wasn’t lucky for Jarren, because Jarren didn’t have the coin when the dragon attacked. Uldane had it, and Uldane had survived. If he hadn’t borrowed the coin from out of Jarren’s belt pouch, if Jarren hadn’t told him to carry it for safekeeping, then maybe its luck would have protected the fighter.

  Instead, Uldane and Shara had survived the battle and the plunge into the river. Uldane. Not Jarren. Not his other friends.

  Uldane watched as Shara downed another mug of strong dwarven ale. She hadn’t spoken a civil word to him since they had dragged themselves out of the river and made their way back to the site of the terrible battle with the dragon. They had worked silently to gather the bodies of their companions, secure them to their horses, and bring them back to Winterhaven for a proper burial. When the necessary preparations had been completed, Shara turned and marched into Wrafton’s Inn. That was three days ago. She was still here, drinking and brooding.

  Uldane wished that she would grieve. She hadn’t cried for her friend. She hadn’t cried for her lover. She hadn’t even shed a tear for her father, Borojon. But she was angry. Uldane recognized that look in her eye
s, the tension in her muscles. Shara wanted to fight something, anything. That had always been the best way for her to work through her feelings. The halfling was certain, however, that as soon as she started, she wouldn’t stop until either she had been killed or everyone around her had fallen to the sharp blade of her greatsword.

  And then how would she feel? Even worse, Uldane was sure.

  The halfling rogue noticed that Shara’s gaze had shifted. She was staring intently at a large human who was sitting at the bar and eyeing her with a sneer.

  “What are you looking at, troll spit?” Shara asked, motioning for a serving girl to refill her mug.

  “I was just trying to figure that out,” the human said, smiling more broadly. “I was trying to decide if you were a bog hag who had wandered out of the marsh or an owlbear who was trying to pass an egg. Either way, I figured that if you wanted to have a go of it, I’d be happy to provide the coin for one of this fine establishment’s upper rooms.”

  Oh gods, Uldane thought, this fool is going to give Shara exactly what she’s been looking for.