The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel

by Bill Slavicsek

  “Master?” Albanon inquired, keeping his voice uncharacteristically low as he moved cautiously into the darkness.

  The eladrin’s boot touched something wet and sticky puddled on the floor. He drew it back, struggling to keep the fear that was growing inside him at bay. He whispered a word of power and called forth his will. Instantly, a small ball of light appeared beside his head. It illuminated the chamber in a soft, arcane glow.

  Albanon almost wished that he had left the chamber in darkness.

  There was blood everywhere. It covered the floor. It decorated the walls. It even speckled the ceiling like some kind of insane art. Albanon forced the ale he had consumed at the Blue Moon to stay down, though it turned to acid as soon as he saw all the blood and it definitely wanted to vacate his stomach. The apprentice shook his head and took a couple of deep breaths, steadying himself, and then he looked over the scene again. He spotted ancient Moorin, the wizard who had been his teacher and his mentor these past six and a half years (nearly seven, really), sprawled against the far wall. His once-stern eyes, usually filled with a spark of intelligence that was equally fascinating and disturbing, were glazed and vacant. His usually immaculate robes were torn and bloody. Worse, the front of Moorin’s body had been ripped open and more or less emptied of its contents.

  “Moorin?” Albanon tried to say, but all that emerged was a pained squeak.

  Then the apprentice doubled over, the contents of his own stomach spilling out in uncontrolled heaves and gasps.

  “What could have done this?” Albanon whispered, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his robe. Moorin was the most skilled and powerful wizard that Albanon had ever met, even counting the court wizards of his father’s estate back in the Feywild. Of course, Moorin had been growing weaker these last couple of years, and Albanon had noticed how his hand and arm would shake at times. He should not have had to defend himself. This was his tower, damn it! Who would do this? And why?

  “Apprentice!” a high-pitched voice called from the shadows beyond the reach of Albanon’s arcane light. “Defend yourself! The danger is not yet gone!”

  Splendid, Moorin’s pseudodragon, launched herself out of the darkness. Her wings spread wide and her scales glistening in the arcane light of the floating ball of energy, Splendid roared with surprising power as she flew over Albanon’s head toward the chamber entryway. Albanon strained to see what had startled the pseudodragon, and he noticed a figure standing at the door.

  The figure ducked, letting the pseudodragon fly by and raising open hands to show that it was unarmed. The figure stepped forward, into the light of Albanon’s spell. The light revealed Tempest, the tiefling adventurer from the Blue Moon Alehouse.

  “I’m a friend,” she said softly, her eyes scanning the bloody chamber before finally coming to rest on Albanon. “I’m so sorry.”

  Albanon nodded, noticing that Tempest had his wand stuck within her belt. He had forgotten it. Again. And she had followed after him to return it.

  He bent down beside his fallen master. Splendid landed beside him, still watching the tiefling with undisguised mistrust. “There’s another one,” she hissed, indicating the second figure that came to stand behind Tempest.

  Roghar, the dragonborn paladin, looked almost as stricken as Albanon felt. “What did this?” he managed to say as he made a reflexive gesture of blessing.

  “It killed him,” the little dragon said.

  And then Splendid wailed for the dead wizard, and her sorrow poured forth in such waves that Albanon could scarcely believe the little form had contained it. He wanted to join her, but not yet. He had something to do before he could give in to his grief.

  15 WINTERHAVEN, THE KING’S ROAD, DAY

  Uldane rode beside Shara as their horses pounded down the King’s Road. They were riding southeast, away from the village of Winterhaven. To each side of the road, the hills of the Gardbury Downs rolled into the distance. It was a clear day, the kind of day that Uldane usually enjoyed. But he hadn’t felt very much joy since the battle with the green dragon, Vestapalk. Since three of his best friends had died and the life and happiness had fled from Shara, leaving her hollow. No, not hollow. She was filled with anger. Anger and pain.

  The woman warrior rarely spoke to Uldane anymore. She brooded. She drank. She remembered. But she hadn’t cried. Not yet. And that lack of tears frightened Uldane more than he knew. He was worried about his friend and companion. It wasn’t healthy for her to hold back her grief.

  “Shara,” Uldane began, trying to think of some way to start up a conversation.

  “Not now,” Shara said, cutting him off.

  And so they rode on, in silence.

  As they crested the next rise, Uldane spotted a wagon being pulled by a pair of draft horses. Two figures sat in the wagon, both cloaked. The taller figure wore a straw hat and held the reins. The smaller figure had a pitchfork nestled across its lap. Most of the back of the wagon was covered by tarps, but Uldane noticed a few sacks poking out from beneath the coverings.

  Farmers, the halfling thought, probably a farmer and his son.

  A small band of short reptilian humanoids surrounded the farmers, maybe six or eight, but it was hard to count them as they ran this way and that around the wagon. They carried javelins and spears, and they were whooping and hollering and having a grand old time terrorizing the poor farmers.

  “Kobolds,” Shara said, a note of excitement creeping into her voice.

  Uldane sighed. Well, maybe a little violence will help her sort out her feelings, he thought as he reached for his weapons.

  Without waiting to confer about tactics or even to check to see that Uldane was with her (she knew that he would be), Shara kicked her horse and charged toward the band of kobolds. It took the marauders a moment to notice the large warhorse bearing down on them, and another moment to realize that the tall woman atop the horse was dressed for battle and carrying a massive greatsword.

  The kobold closest to the charging horse called out a warning as he threw his javelin at Shara. She easily batted the shaft of wood out of the air with her sword, never slowing her horse or changing direction. The warhorse ran over the kobold, hooves bashing the creature to death as it scattered the rest of the band.

  Shara was already leaping off her horse so that she could deal with the remaining kobolds in a more personal manner. Uldane followed behind her, watching for any signs of unexpected trouble from the marauders. The halfling reached into his pocket and rubbed the ancient coin nestled there for luck. He glanced at the farmer and his son, thinking not only to check on them but to reassure them as well, when he noticed a curious thing.

  The farmer had thrown off his cloak and straw hat, revealing two kobolds beneath the disguise. One stood atop the other’s shoulders to attain the height necessary to pull off the deception. And the one on top wore a horned skull of some sort as a headdress, and a variety of feathers and smaller skulls adorned his spear like tribal fetishes. The third kobold atop the wagon, the one that Uldane had mistaken for a farmer’s son, had also shrugged off his cloak and was preparing to hurl the pitchfork at Shara’s exposed back. The woman warrior was engaged in battle with the other kobolds and had not bothered to protect herself from the “people” in the wagon.

  Uldane spurred his horse to gallop faster. He threw a pair of daggers in quick succession and then leaped from the horse toward the wagon. He heard grunts of pain as both daggers found their mark, and the tossed pitchfork landed wide of Shara, who still hadn’t noticed the danger from the wagon. The halfling landed on one of the draft horses, grabbing the reins that the farmer had discarded when it revealed itself to be a pair of kobolds.

  “Shara, there’s more of them,” Uldane shouted, drawing his sword and watching the kobold that wore the horned skull. That had to be a wyrmpriest, Uldane decided, and from the size of his sneer, probably a powerful one at that.

  The wyrmpriest tapped the blunt end of his spear against the wagon’s floorboard. At the pre
arranged signal, the tarp was thrown off and more kobolds poured out of the back of the wagon. Among the emerging kobolds were two that carried short swords and shields—the dreaded dragonshield warriors that had recently appeared among the marauding bands that were causing trouble all around Winterhaven.

  “Mighty Vestapalk sends his greetings,” the wyrmpriest sneered. “He ordered me to relate how sweet the flesh of your companions tasted. I was honored to be allowed to partake after Vestapalk had had his fill.”

  Shara spun to face the wyrmpriest, four dead kobolds sprawled at her feet. The remaining three had stepped back, out of reach of her greatsword, and they were now being joined by the gang that had been hiding in the wagon.

  “There’re a lot of them, Shara,” Uldane noted, “including two dragonshields and a wyrmpriest.”

  “They’re working for that damned dragon,” Shara said, focusing all of her attention on the wyrmpriest.

  “Working for Vestapalk?” the wyrmpriest asked in genuine surprise. “We are not common laborers! Vestapalk is our god, and I am his high priest! Our god has demanded your blood this day. Make them bleed!”

  16 WINTERHAVEN, THE KING’S ROAD, DAY

  Erak had been walking since leaving the graveyard. He didn’t know where he was or where he was going, but he knew he had to leave that place of the dead. The sun was high in the sky, and the rolling hills he had been traversing seemed to go on forever. He still couldn’t remember anything from before he woke up in the sarcophagus, nothing but fragments, images really.

  Arise, my champion, the woman’s voice had said, You have work to do.

  He thought that the woman’s voice had belonged to the Raven Queen, the god of death and fate. But as to who he was or what he was supposed to do, those were still mysteries to him.

  He walked on, listening to the gallop of hooves off to his left. There must be a road in that direction, he thought. It sounded like a pair of horses, riding side by side across a well-paved road. They had come from the same direction as he had, probably from the village near the graveyard. He wondered where they were going, but then dismissed the thought. He had his own things to deal with.

  After another few moments, Erak heard the horses break into a faster run. Something was going on over the rise. He contemplated ignoring the sounds, just walking on and letting whatever it was happen without him. He thought about it, but stopped to listen anyway. He heard the pounding of hooves, the clang of steel. A battle, then, by the sounds.

  A shout echoed from that direction, bouncing around the low hills. “Shara, there’re more of them!”

  The one who had shouted was male. He sounded concerned but not the least bit afraid. Erak was suddenly interested in the noises and the one who called the warning.

  “They’re working for that damned dragon,” another voice said. It was a female voice, full of pain and anguish. Erak knew that he had to help this female, whoever she was.

  He drew his hellsteel blade and started to run toward the distant hill and whatever was happening beyond it.

  17 WINTERHAVEN, THE KING’S ROAD, DAY

  Shara swung her greatsword with all the force she could muster, smashing it against the shield that appeared to have been crafted from the scales of a green dragon. The blow knocked the smaller kobold back, but the dragonshield charged at her again, and the second dragonshield circled wide to come at her from the other side.

  “This one is worthy of a quick death,” the second dragonshield said, obviously impressed by Shara’s combat prowess.

  “Then make it quicker, brother,” the first dragonshield said, catching another mighty blow on his shield, “the human has already killed six of our kin.”

  Shara didn’t want to be caught between the two, and she certainly didn’t want the other six kobolds—definitely less competent than the dragonshields but potentially deadly in these numbers—to surround her. She hopped to one side, trying to get her back against the wagon. As she did so, the second dragonshield darted toward her, and she had to bring her greatsword around to deflect the thrust of his short sword.

  This provided the first dragonshield with a small opening, and he rushed to take it. He slashed wildly, slicing through the leather covering her right arm and drawing a line of crimson. Jarren had often chided her for not wearing a full suit of armor, but she hated to be totally covered in metal. It was too confining, and she felt slow and clumsy in plate mail. Instead, she preferred to wear a mix of scale mail and leather. She was good, and opponents rarely scored direct hits against her. But since the deaths of Borojon and Jarren, she seemed to have lost a bit of herself. She hated to admit it, but she might have taken on more than she and Uldane could deal with in her current state of mind.

  Suddenly remembering the halfling, she glanced behind her to see how he was faring. Uldane was locked in battle with the wyrmpriest and his minion, working hard to keep the cleric off balance and unable to complete any prayers.

  “Are those phoenix feathers?” Uldane asked the wyrmpriest, badgering the kobold with an endless stream of questions that were designed to make him too mad to concentrate on unleashing any deadly wyrmpriest powers. “They look a bit raggedy if they are. You should really take better care of them. If the phoenix knew how you were treating them I’m sure it would take umbrage. And is that a dragon skull on your head? Can I try it on? Please?”

  Shara turned back to the dragonshields, confident that Uldane was at least holding his own against the wyrmpriest. He would have to. She couldn’t help him if she wanted to. Not until these armored kobolds were dealt with.

  The dragonshields approached Shara cautiously, spread apart and moving in from each side. At the same time, the gang of javelin-wielding kobolds pressed forward, creating a wedge between the armored kobolds. Shara had her back to the wagon, but the arc in front of her was swarming with kobolds.

  And the kobolds were smiling.

  “No,” Shara shouted, “I will not be beaten by the likes of you.”

  Shara had to win this battle. She had to survive. She promised herself that the dragon would pay for the deaths of Borojon, Cliffside, and Jarren, and for that promise to come to fruition she had to get out of this situation in one piece.

  The second dragonshield clanged his sword against his shield. “You have my respect, warrior,” he said earnestly.

  “Enough,” the first dragonshield said. “We are here to kill her, not exchange pleasantries. Mighty Vestapalk commands it!”

  “Yes,” Shara smiled, “Let’s get on with this. I’m already late for my afternoon ale.”

  The dragonshields darted in then, shields raised and swords at the ready. Shara dodged the sword thrust of the first dragonshield with a quick step to the left. At the same time, she brought her greatsword up to deflect the second dragonshield’s strike.

  The gang of kobolds prepared to join the fray, when they suddenly turned as one to look to the west. Shara didn’t know what had distracted them, and frankly she didn’t care. If she just had to deal with the two dragonshields for the moment, she would make the most of the more or less even battle.

  Shara followed her deflection of the second dragonshield’s attack with an attack of her own. She bashed her elbow into the kobold’s shield, using her greater weight to knock the smaller creature back. Then she swung her greatsword in a powerful arc, bringing it down to hack into and through the armor at his right shoulder. The weight of the sword cut deep and drove the kobold to the ground.

  The first dragonshield jabbed again with his short sword, but Shara moved so that the blade harmlessly glanced off her scale breastplate. She brought her sword up in another arc, coming up from beneath the kobold’s extended stance and cutting him nearly in two. She followed that up with a second jab, running her blade through the dragonshield and finishing him off.

  Shara could hear the gang of kobolds. Someone else had joined the battle, and the kobolds were clearly occupied and fighting for their lives. She turned back to the remaining dragonshield
. Though he was wounded, he still seemed ready to continue the fight. The wyrmpriest was also saying something up in the wagon behind her. He must have managed to fend off Uldane long enough to utter a prayer, for she could see that the wound she had inflicted on the dragonshield had begun to heal a bit.

  “Have faith, my followers!” the wyrmpriest shouted, inciting the kobolds to muster their courage and fight on. “Vestapalk shall reward us this day, regardless of the outcome!”

  She heard the crackle of energy, and Uldane shouted out in pain. Before she could turn to check on her friend, the dragonshield leaped forward.

  “For Vestapalk!” the armored kobold shouted, his shield extended and his sword poised to strike.

  Once again, Shara deflected the dragonshield’s sword thrust with her own blade. She let the smaller creature’s blade fly back from the shock of the impact even as she swept her weapon forward to meet the leaping kobold in midair. The blade caught the dragonshield across the chest, crumbling his scale armor and knocking the air out of him. He landed hard, stunned by the two quick blows. Shara stepped toward him, raising her greatsword one last time.

  “You fought bravely,” she said, driving the blade down and ending the second dragonshield’s life.

  As she pulled her sword free, Uldane slipped up beside her.

  “The wyrmpriest fled,” the halfling said, his tone apologetic. “He caught me flatfooted with some kind of poison blast, and while I was trying not to breathe in too much of it, he took off over the hill.”

  “Hmm,” Shara grunted, but she really couldn’t blame Uldane. Neither of them had been prepared to deal with a magic-wielding kobold today.