The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel

by Bill Slavicsek

  There was a collection of small, geometrically shaped pieces of bone, including pyramids, squares, and hexagons. Each flat side was inscribed with a draconic rune.

  There was a strange compass that pointed to runic shapes instead of toward the cardinal directions.

  And there were two other items, alone on a shelf set about half way up the wall. One was a cylinder of glass, about three inches long and three quarters of an inch wide. It was capped at both ends by gold seals, and a golden chain was strung through a hook at one end. Inside the glass vial, an unusual crimson substance with silver strands and flecks of gold swirled through it filled about half the available space. It was a crystalline substance of some sort, like liquefied honey that was a translucent red instead of amber, and it pulsed with an inner light. Kalaban found himself drawn to the vial and its interesting contents. It was almost … alien, and looking at the slick crimson-silver substance made Kalaban’s head swim. As he watched, the strange liquid rippled. His hand reached out, almost of its own volition, and the liquid crystal flowed up the side of the glass to meet him. He wrapped his fingers around the vial, feeling the coolness of the glass as well as the heat of the substance within. Without really thinking about it, he slipped the vial into his belt pouch.

  Then Kalaban turned to examine the other item on the shelf.

  It was a triangular shard of black stone, about the size of Kalaban’s palm. The shard was so dark that the knight-commander had almost missed it. It was sitting within a small frame made of gold from which another chain was strung. This was kelonite—dead glass—fabled to come from a place far beyond the shores of the natural world and deep within the confines of the Shadowfell. It was almost as if he could see … things … floating in the depths of the shard’s flat surface. The knight-commander shook off the sensation and averted his eyes, remembering that Magroth had warned him about looking too deeply into the black stone. He drew a strip of cloth from a pocket, draped it over the amulet, and gently lifted it from the shelf.

  “You have a rather regal bearing for a common thief,” said the voice coming from the entryway to the chamber.

  Kalaban turned to see a man he assumed must be the wizard Moorin. The man was of average height, slightly round as befits a wizard who was more scholar than adventurer. He appeared to be in his sixties, but when it came to magic-users, who could really tell such things? A ball of arcane light floated beside the wizard’s head, illuminating the tower room with an otherworldly glow. The wizard held an ornate staff, not unlike the one that Magroth carried. Kalaban could also see that the wizard’s left arm was shaking. He was apparently unwell.

  “I assure you, mage,” Kalaban said, slipping the cloth-wrapped shard into a second pouch on his belt, “there is nothing common about me.”

  Before the wizard could act, Kalaban dashed across the room. He knocked the wizard’s staff aside and hurled a powerful punch toward the wizard’s head. The blow, augmented by Kalaban’s supernatural strength, knocked Moorin senseless. Kalaban caught the wizard as the man’s knees buckled. He gently lowered the wizard to the floor, making sure not to let his head strike anything on the way down.

  “Nerath must rise again,” Kalaban whispered as his hand reached into his pouch to find the cloth-wrapped stone. “Perhaps you’ll understand that one day.”

  As silently as he arrived, Kalaban slipped out of the tower. He had recovered the Necropolis Stone for his emperor and something for himself as well. He knew that they still had much to do before their time in this world ran out, but the knight-commander couldn’t stop thinking about the unusual substance in the glass vial or about the strange black stone.

  11 FALLCREST, THE BLUE MOON ALEHOUSE, NIGHT

  The young eladrin named Albanon sat at a table in the Blue Moon Alehouse, hoisting a tankard as he listened to the tales of the travelers sitting across from him. Albanon was a wizard-in-training apprenticed to the great mage Moorin of the Glowing Tower. He had studied with Moorin for nearly seven years. At times he felt like he was ready to strike out on his own, but at other times he felt he still had so much more to learn. Moorin was a fair master, kind and wise, and he permitted Albanon a good amount of freedom when there were no chores to do and no experiments to watch over. Now, for instance. Albanon had walked down into town, wandered into the Blue Moon, and struck up a conversation with the two travelers.

  The first was one of the humanoid dragonkin known as the dragon born. He was tall, well above six feet, and powerfully built. He called himself Roghar and resembled a humanoid dragon covered in bronze scales. He claimed to be a paladin of Bahamut, the god of justice and honor. He did wear the symbol of the Platinum Dragon on his shield, so Albanon was willing to take him at his word. But each story that Roghar and his companion told seemed more fantastic than the last. And the pair seemed awfully young to have taken part in so many amazing adventures. In fact, they seemed only a few years older than Albanon himself.

  “So, elf,” Roghar said, “that was the way that Tempest and I escaped from the death trap known as the Pyramid of Shadows.”

  “Eladrin,” Albanon corrected for the twelfth or thirteenth time this evening.

  “What’s that, friend?” Roghar asked, motioning for another round of drinks for the table.

  “Eladrin, not elf,” Albanon said. “I’m an eladrin, and my name is Albanon.”

  “Elf, eladrin, drow. What’s the real difference, I ask you? None, as far as I can see,” Roghar said.

  “Well, the difference is … oh, never mind,” Albanon said, draining his mug before the fresh one arrived. Something poked at his side and he reached into his robe. He removed his wand and placed it on the table beside his mug.

  The tiefling female, a warlock named Tempest, leaned close and whispered to her companion. “The Pyramid of Shadows?” Like other tieflings, Tempest’s appearance testified to her infernal heritage. Her skin was a subtle shade of red, and sweeping horns curved out from just above her red eyes to frame her head. She wore her dark-red hair long, and her thick tail constantly moved behind her as she sat and talked with them.

  She assumed that Albanon couldn’t hear her above the noise in the rest of the alehouse, but she was wrong. His pointed ears were extremely well-suited for hearing the faintest of noises, as Moorin was fond of mentioning whenever he caught his apprentice eavesdropping on a conversation.

  “You know,” Roghar replied quietly, “the place those braggarts were going on and on about in the Seven-Pillared Hall. What was that fighter’s name? Brakis? Boregard? Something like that?”

  “Belkas,” Tempest said, rolling her eyes, “I believe he called himself Belkas. And the other one, the loud and obnoxious one, that was Goren.”

  Albanon smiled. So what if they probably hadn’t accomplished half or even a quarter of what they claimed? The stories of adventure and excitement that Roghar spun were intriguing. Fascinating, even. And the duo certainly had an adventurous spirit that Albanon found infectious. He sipped from the fresh tankard and made a face. He always found the ale here in the Blue Moon to be just a little too bitter for his taste. Albanon noticed that the tiefling was leaning close to him, her red eyes mischievous and her red lips turned in a friendly smile.

  “So, my eladrin friend,” Tempest began.

  “Elf,” Roghar corrected, incorrectly.

  Tempest ignored the dragonborn. “So, my eladrin friend, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

  Albanon stared at her over the top of his tankard of ale. He was grateful that neither Tempest nor Roghar seemed at all uncomfortable around him. That wasn’t always the case when the other races interacted with an eladrin. Anyway, the question that Tempest posed was the very one that had been bouncing around in his head when he had left the tower earlier this evening. Well, not when he grew up. Not exactly. More like what was he going to do when his apprenticeship had ended. Did he want to be a sage or a scholar, locked away in a tower of his own with nothing but books and spells for company? Or did he want
to join up with people like Roghar and Tempest and use his arcane talents to battle monsters and gather treasures from dank dungeons and ancient ruins? Or maybe, just maybe, he should go back to his family’s estate in the Feywild and forget all about the pursuit of arcane magic. He was young. There was still time to start over. All he had to do was figure out what it was he really wanted to do with his life.

  “Don’t tease the elf, Tempest,” Roghar chided. “Not everyone is cut out for a life of adventure.”

  How true, thought Albanon as he stood up from the table. “It was a pleasure meeting the both of you,” the eladrin said, trying not to slur his words. He couldn’t remember the last time he had three mugs of ale in one sitting. “Good luck to you both.”

  “Going so soon?” Roghar asked, but Albanon had gathered his mantle around himself and was already heading toward the door.

  Tempest laughed, “Stop teasing the boy, Roghar. I’m sure he has to get up early in the morning to take care of his chores.”

  Albanon could hear them laughing as he stepped out into the chill night air. His mind was full of Roghar’s stories of adventure and his own doubts about his future as he started the long walk back up to Moorin’s tower.

  12 FALLCREST, MOORIN’S TOWER, NIGHT

  Moorin blinked, trying to clear his head. That was a death knight, the wizard thought. A death knight in my tower. Of all the audacity!

  The old wizard sat up and peered into the darkness of the tower chamber. His arcane light had gone out when he lost consciousness, but some inner sense told him it wasn’t yet time to recall it. He had survived a meeting with a death knight. More to the point, the death knight had easily overcome him and yet, here he was, still among the living. The death knight had left him alive, and that confused the old wizard more than he cared to admit.

  Moorin stood up, stretched, and touched the bruise on the side of his jaw. He shook his head, but the feeling that something was wrong inside the tower persisted. He found his staff and started to move around the outer wall of the tower, toward the pedestal where the pseudodragon was perched. He had noticed that Splendid was awake and growing agitated. She never liked it when the domed cage was placed over her. She would start wailing soon, and Moorin didn’t want that to happen.

  Splendid reached out her tiny claws, gripping the bars of the cage tightly. She strained against the bars, but the metal wouldn’t give, wouldn’t budge at all. The pseudodragon prepared to call out when Moorin’s gentle finger reached through the bars and patted her on the top of her head.

  “Stay quiet, my little friend,” Moorin whispered as he draped a cloth over the dome of the cage. “Stay out of sight and be safe.”

  He watched as Splendid began to fade away, drawing her invisibility around herself as Moorin might slip on his traveling cloak. Then he let the cloth fall completely over the dome, hiding it and the pseudodragon from sight.

  A strange sensation ran down Moorin’s spine. It was fear, definitely fear. But it was something stronger than ordinary fear, more primal. The old wizard was afraid to his very core. Something alien had entered the tower chamber. Moorin couldn’t see it yet, but he could sense it. It was powerful, and it didn’t belong here. Not just here in the tower. It didn’t belong in this world.

  Moorin stepped away from Splendid’s cage and moved across the chamber. He wanted to draw the strange presence away from where the pseudodragon crouched, cloaked in invisibility of her own creation. He hurt all over, and he knew that he was well and truly past his prime. His left arm had never stopped shaking, and the death knight had been on him before he was even able to call up a simple spell let alone a spell of amazingly destructive power.

  He turned to the far window. He sensed that the new intruder was there, hidden in the darkness. The old wizard let arcane energy flow through his staff, and the tower chamber filled with soft light.

  The light revealed a female halfling standing before the window. She appeared to be a scullery maid, probably from one of the inns or alehouses in the town below. Appearances, as Moorin well knew, were often deceiving. She had a strange look about her, at once fierce and distant, as though she was totally focused on him and yet totally detached from this moment in time. Her look was unsettling. Cracks radiated from the corners of her eyes, forming spider webs of glowing red that fanned out around the side of her head. The cracks in her skin were filled with a crimson ooze that ululated like a liquid but that had a crystalline sheen that reflected the light of Moorin’s staff. The old wizard immediately knew who and what he was facing.

  For the first time that he could remember, certainly for the first time since he had passed his tests and had taken on the mantle of wizard, Moorin of the Glowing Tower was unsure if he was up to the task before him.

  13 FALLCREST, MOORIN’S TOWER, NIGHT

  Nu Alin stood before the wizard, wearing the borrowed form of the halfling woman he had acquired in the town below the tower. He stretched out his senses, detecting the faint tingle deep within his true form that told him that the substance he sought was nearby. The sensation was weak, however, and it was beginning to fade. Had the wizard detected his approach? Had he sent the Voidharrow away?

  Nu Alin forced the halfling woman’s vocal cords to operate, pushing air through them as the woman’s mouth formed the words that he borrowed from her mind. “Will you challenge me, wizard?” Nu Alin asked in the strange speech of this land, ignoring the weak sound that emerged from his host. “Or will you stand aside and allow me to retrieve that which I have traveled very far to obtain?”

  The wizard stood tall, staff in hand, its tip glowing with arcane energy. “You are the second thief to disturb my tower this night,” Moorin said, “and it is time to remind the world of the power of Moorin of the Glowing Tower.”

  Arcane fire erupted from Moorin’s staff, washing over the space where Nu Alin had stood. Before any of the licking flames could touch his host’s form, however, Nu Alin made a powerful leap. It carried him clear of the wizard’s initial attack and on to the ceiling of the tower chamber. Nu Alin made the halfling form hang there, upside down, like some kind of gigantic insect. He made the head spin at an unnatural angle, made the eyes bore into the wizard with hatred and anger.

  “I almost feel sorry for you, mage,” Nu Alin said through the halfling woman’s mouth. “Almost.”

  Nu Alin saw that the old wizard recognized him somehow, or at least recognized the threat that he represented. He also saw that the old wizard wasn’t exactly healthy. His left hand and arm shook with an intensity that must have made the delicate art of spellcasting difficult. Maybe even impossible, at least with the subtlety and precision that a master wizard preferred to work. Nu Alin had nothing to fear from this old man. Nothing at all.

  But Moorin hadn’t lived as long as he had to go down without putting up some kind of fight. He forced the fingers of his left hand to open wide—even though the look of pain that crossed his face seemed to be excruciating—and uttered a word of power. Small bolts of arcane energy flew from the wizard’s shaking fingers and pounded into Nu Alin’s host form with amazing accuracy. The halfling’s grip on the ceiling failed, and the borrowed body crashed on to one of the long tables in the tower room.

  “I don’t know how you managed to free yourself, demon,” the wizard said as the air around him crackled and hummed with power. “But I won’t allow you to leave this tower. Forgive me, young woman. I know that none of this is your fault.”

  Before the wizard could complete the complicated gestures needed to focus and unleash the power he had gathered, the shaking in his left arm spread out so that his entire body was caught in the convulsions. His concentration wavered, and the gathered power dissipated like dust in the wind.

  “You are ill, old man,” Nu Alin said through the halfling’s mouth. “Perhaps your threats meant something once, but not now.”

  Fear filled the old wizard’s eyes, but he refused to give up just yet. He struggled to calm his shaking form, but that on
ly seemed to make the shaking worse. Still, he managed to point his staff at Nu Alin and force the words of power from his suddenly dry lips.

  Silvery missiles exploded from the tip of the staff and streaked across the tower room. The missiles struck Nu Alin over and over again with staggering force, each one driving the borrowed body back a half step as it hit.

  The effort obviously took a lot out of the old wizard. He went down on both knees, barely able to keep himself upright by clutching tightly to his staff.

  “Enough of this,” Nu Alin said.

  And then Nu Alin leaped again, carrying his host form directly at the wizard. The halfling’s body landed right in front of the old man, her eyes just about at the right height to look into his as he struggled to get back up.

  Nu Alin smiled inwardly, giving himself over to the destructive nature he mostly held in check. He relished these moments of pure freedom.

  Of carnage.

  Of blood.

  The old wizard never had a chance.

  14 FALLCREST, MOORIN’S TOWER, NIGHT

  Albanon hurried up the stairs and into his master’s chamber at the top of the tower. The wards that usually guarded the entrance to the tower had been broken, and the apprentice was worried about what that could mean. In all his time serving under Moorin, the wards had never failed or been removed, and they had never been expertly dismantled as his cursory examination had seemed to indicate. He hadn’t waited to analyze the magic that had been used against the wards. If an intruder had stormed the tower, then Moorin could need his help.

  At the top of the stairs, Albanon paused before rushing into the upper chamber. The room was dark except for the faint light of the moon that spilled in through the many windows. He saw familiar shapes outlined in the faint glow, shapes that were now askew and out of place in the silent chamber. A pedestal had been knocked over, the one where the pseudodragon Splendid usually spent her nights, as had a stool, a chair, and a small table. There was a metallic smell in the air, as well as the lingering scent of arcane fire. Albanon tried to keep his emotions in check as he stepped into the chamber.