“Who’s your friend?” Uldane asked, motioning toward the figure in black leather who was putting sword to the last kobold standing.
“Jarren?” Shara whispered, reminded of her fallen lover as she watched the figure move among the defeated kobolds. He had the same general build as Jarren, though he wasn’t quite as tall and his shoulders weren’t exactly as broad as the fighter’s had been. He moved with the grace and confidence of Jarren, the same swagger that said that he knew how to fight and he wasn’t afraid.
The figure turned to face them, swinging the crenulated blade he carried to fling off the kobold blood. It was a man, that much was clear, with dark, wild hair and gray, ashen skin. He wore a long leather jacket over leather armor that was cinched closed with numerous buckles and straps.
Shara stared as he approached. Why she imagined that this … creature … could have been Jarren she had no idea, but it was obvious now that he wasn’t. She raised her greatsword, pointing the blade directly at him.
The figure stopped, standing just beyond the reach of Shara’s blade.
“What manner of foul creature are you,” Shara asked, “and why did you help us?”
18 NENLAST, FALON’S HOME, DAY
Falon paced around the kitchen of his mother’s home, trying to make sense of the events of the previous twelve hours. He had been minding his own business, cleaning up at the shrine after the evening prayers had been held, just as he did every night since becoming an acolyte in service to Erathis, the god of civilization. But last night something terrible occurred. It was right out of the stories his grandfather used to tell him, the stories about adventurers and monsters and hidden treasures.
“No,” Falon repeated again, as he had been repeating since Darrum had first mentioned the idea last night. “I am not of royal blood. I am not the heir to some long-dead kingdom. I’m not anybody!”
Darrum grunted, sitting back in the chair by the table and reaching for another chunk of cheese.
Falon was glad that the old dwarf had appeared in the garden and had helped them deal with the brigands that had tried to kill him and Gamun last night. He was glad that none of them, except for the brigands, had been seriously injured. At least, none of them had received any wounds that Falon wasn’t able to heal. Except those hadn’t been brigands, at least not ordinary brigands. They were undead.
Falon was tired. He wasn’t used to fighting for his life one moment and arguing with the old dwarf about things he just knew couldn’t be true the next. He was tired and confused.
“No, no. I’m just a novice cleric in service to a tiny shrine in the middle of nowhere. Look around you! Would the royal family, even in exile, live in a place like this? I’m nobody special!”
Darrum made a harrumph sound. “Then why did those undead creatures try to kill you?” he asked, speaking around a mouthful of bread and cheese.
Falon wanted to scream, but he had no real explanation for what had happened last night.
“Maybe it was all just a big mistake,” he said, slumping down into the chair across from Darrum.
“Falon, listen well to what I say,” Darrum said quietly. “I was an Imperial Shield. Protecting those of royal blood was one of my primary duties back in the day.”
“Great job,” Falon laughed, but there was little humor in his voice. “Look how that turned out. Nerath fell, the royal family died out, and now you’re here trying to find lost glory in an insignificant village by hooking up with an insignificant nobody.”
Darrum tried to restrain his anger, but his hand dropped to the dark hammer resting at his side. “The birthmark is clear,” the dwarf said in a clipped tone.
“My father was a farmer,” Falon continued, ignoring the warning signs that he might have pushed the old dwarf a bit too far. “My grandfather before him was a farmer, too. I come from a long line of farmers, and we’re so far from the center of civilization out here that your story doesn’t even make any sense. Think about it! If I was an heir to the throne of Nerath, what would I be doing way out here in the borderlands?”
“You would be hiding,” Falon’s mother said as she entered the room. After she had welcomed them and fed them, she had disappeared into one of the back rooms and left her son and the dwarf to their discussion. Now she had returned, and she was carrying a long object wrapped in oilcloth. She placed the wrapped object reverently on to the table, between Falon and Darrum.
“Mother?” Falon asked, his eyes wide. “What are you saying?”
She ignored his question, slowing unwrapping the oilcloth from around the long object. As the cloth fell away, Falon could see a soft glow emanating from the object within.
“By Moradin’s anvil!” Darrum proclaimed, obviously recognizing the object as something important.
It was a sword, sleek and well-honed. The hilt was fashioned with the holy symbol of Erathis, the same one that Falon wore on his tabard and on a chain that hung around his neck. Moreover, there was something etched into the blade itself, just above the hilt. It was a crown, and three small stars floated above it in a graceful arc.
The etching looked just like the mark on Falon’s left wrist.
His birthmark.
Darrum suddenly dropped to one knee and bent his head before Falon’s mother. “My lady,” he said solemnly, “I am yours to command.”
The woman smiled. “Arise, good dwarf, there is no need for ceremony here.”
She turned to Falon, gently placing a hand on the side of her son’s face.
“The time has come for you to hear the truth, my son.”
19 THE MOON HILLS, DAY
Tempest rode her horse across the Moon Hills, a stretch of land that rolled away from Fallcrest to the south. Albanon rode behind her. The young wizard hadn’t said more than a few words since they started this journey. She felt sympathy for the eladrin, and she wanted to help him get whoever or whatever had ripped apart his mentor. Her own anger and need for vengeance had risen since she and Roghar had entered the dead wizard’s tower and seen what had happened there. She just wished there were more than the three of them. Well, four, if you counted the annoying psuedodragon that was draped across Albanon’s shoulder. Tempest didn’t count her, so they were back down to three.
Tempest followed behind Roghar, keeping her eyes locked on his broad back. As they rode, she remembered how the dragonborn paladin had found her in the Warrens, a rundown section of the city of Nera. That was three years ago. She had been barely sixteen then, on her own and trying to stay alive on the streets of the decadent city.
She had bumped into the dragonborn early in the day in the Market Ward, using the distraction and her disarming smile to deftly lift the coin pouch from his belt. She remembered how distraught Roghar had been, thinking that his clumsiness had caused her injury. He kept apologizing even as she tried to disengage and slip away among the crowd before he noticed that his money had been taken.
It took longer than she had hoped, but she eventually got away from the good-hearted dragonborn. As she made her way back to the Warrens, she passed by the ruins of the Old City, where the ancient palace had fallen into the earth on the day the empire collapsed. Not far from the ruins, Tempest happened upon another mark that she couldn’t resist. The human examining the wares at a small stall situated at the back corner of a narrow street, far from the other traders, was dressed all in black. He had a sinister air about him, from the skull clasp at the neck of his black cloak to the infernal pattern etched into the left side of his hard, sharp face. He was arguing softly with the merchant, obviously hoping to strike a better deal for whatever arcane trinket he had his eye on. Tempest casually strolled by, reached into the pack resting on the ground at his feet, and walked away with a small, hard item that she hoped she’d be able to sell to one of the brokers in the Warrens.
She turned the corner, made sure she was no longer within the man’s line of sight, and she started to run. What a day! she remembered thinking. She might have earned enough to rent
a room for a couple of nights, to get a couple of hot meals for a change. Maybe even pay off The Jolly Man, the always-smiling halfling who ran the Rogues’ Guild and who was as mean and deadly a predator as any monster running around the Underdark. It all depended on what she had retrieved from the sinister man’s pack.
She found a spot to rest, a place where she could put her back against a wall and duck down out of sight from any passer’s by. Only then did she uncurl her fingers and look at the item she had taken from the man’s pack. It was a small onyx statue, no longer than the length of her palm. The statue depicted a shapely woman with long, flowing hair. She was in a seated position, her knees drawn up to her ample chest and her slender arms wrapped around them. The woman wasn’t exactly human, however. Great bat wings extended from her back and were pulled tight around her, like a cloak. As Tempest looked at the small statue, its eyes sparked with crimson light. The tiefling let out a startled squeal as the statue changed. It no longer had the shape of a woman, but instead resembled a powerfully built male tiefling. It sat in the same pose, the same bat wings draped around it.
“I believe you have something that belongs to me,” said the deep, menacing voice that startled Tempest even more than the shape-changing statue did.
Tempest looked up to see the sinister man in black standing over her. He had a sharp-bladed dagger in his hand, and he was pointing it in her general direction. She quickly slipped the small statue into a pouch she wore on her belt and turned her head up to give the man her most dazzling smile.
“Don’t try that on me, girl,” the sinister man warned, “I’ve been seduced by creatures much more practiced at the art than you.”
“Like your devil?” Tempest said, letting the words slip out before she had really thought about it. Speaking before she thought was part of her problem. That and the fact that she was poor, hungry, and all alone in the big, bad, partially ruined city of Nera.
The sinister man’s eyes narrowed and a darkness seemed to spread across his sharp features. “Is a tiefling going to lecture me on the ways of devils?” he asked, pointing the dagger at her face. “Return my property to me and maybe I’ll let you live.”
Before Tempest could come up with a proper retort or decide on a course of action that didn’t end with her getting cut, a third participant entered the narrow Warren street. It was the dragonborn she had robed earlier. She must have been losing her touch that both of her marks had been able to track her down so quickly.
“There’s no need to make threats,” the dragonborn said calmly. “Put away your weapon and let’s work our way through this obvious misunderstanding.”
“Back off, dragonborn,” the sinister man said, “or I shall deal with you after I punish the tiefling thief.”
The dragonborn placed a hand on the human’s arm, gently but forcibly lowering it until the dagger was no longer pointing directly into Tempest’s face. Rage twisted across the sinister man’s features, and he spat a curse that surrounded the dragonborn with a dark aura. Then he raised his other hand and a ribbon of twisting darkness burrowed into the dragonborn’s chest. The dragonborn fell back, clutching at his heart as the twisting darkness continued to flow into him.
Tempest, horrified by the sinister man’s attack on the dragonborn, leaped up and barreled into the man. She heard a satisfying cry of pain as her horns slammed into his chest. He was still holding the dagger, however, and he sliced at her with its sharp blade. A line of red appeared on her face, tracing the path of the dagger as it cut across her cheek and barely missed her right eye.
“Now, little thief,” the sinister man said, a spark of anticipation in his eyes, “now you die.”
Before he could plunge the dagger into Tempest, the dragonborn’s clear, powerful voice filled the narrow alleyway. “May the light of Bahamut stay your hand, foul warlock,” the dragonborn shouted from where he had fallen, “on pain of death!” Radiant light flooded the cramped space and the sinister man screamed in terrible pain. He tried to attack Tempest, but more pain seemed to overtake him as he approached her, and the dagger fell from his spasming hand.
Tempest didn’t wait to see what was going to happen next. She caught the dagger before it hit the ground, turned the blade, and plunged it into the sinister man’s neck.
She remembered how she had cried after that. How Roghar had embraced her and held her tight until the wracking sobs had finally abated. Since that chance meeting and fateful day, they had been the best of friends. He had taught her how to fight, providing her with more training than she had gotten on the streets of Nera. She had accompanied him on numerous quests, sometimes on their own, sometimes by teaming up with other adventurers. He had shown concern when she had taken up the mantle of warlock, but he had never turned away from her.
“We fight for what’s good and right,” he told her. “Never forget that and I will always be there for you.”
She had promised him. And she had kept that promise, even when the devil statue offered her the things she had always dreamed about. Roghar was her friend and her rock. As long as they were together, she knew that she would do what was good and what was right.
“Look at those tracks, there in the soft earth,” Roghar said, drawing Tempest out of her memories. “Whatever we’re chasing is obviously on foot.”
Tempest swung down off her horse to examine the tracks. “How can someone on foot stay so far ahead of us? And look at the size of those tracks. They’re small. Are we chasing a child? A halfling?”
Roghar shook his head. “You saw what it did in the tower,” the dragonborn said. “By Bahamut’s platinum scales, we’re chasing some kind of demon.”
Tempest climbed back on to her mount, giving Albanon a smile of encouragement. But she could feel the tension rolling off of Roghar. The paladin was confused, uncertain. And that made Tempest more than a little afraid.
20 KALTON MANOR, ON THE EDGE OF THE WITCHLIGHT FENS, DAY
Kalaban stood among the ruins of the ancient manor. He stared into the darkness within, looking back the way they had come for any sign of the thing that was following them. He had one hand in the pouch on his belt, holding the smooth glass vial so that he could feel the strange warmth that emanated from it. The knight-commander had given the dead glass to his emperor, Magroth, but he had thus far failed to tell his master about the vial of crimson liquid that was run through with streaks of silver and flecks of gold. It was a strange substance, an important substance, and it was all his. He didn’t feel the need to share it with his master.
He and Magroth had departed Fallcrest by the south road to reach one of the borderland outposts that had been established when Nerath’s soldiers first began to explore the Nentir Vale. The outpost they had in mind had been established during Magroth’s original reign, and it was only about twenty-five miles from Fallcrest.
“If the outpost still exists,” Magroth explained, “then perhaps the teleportation circle still exists as well. I need to reach the grand palace as fast as possible, and a travel portal is the fastest means I know. We don’t have much time, and there are tools that I have been without for far too long.”
They had traveled across the Moon Hills, moving at the supernatural speed granted them by their undead status and Magroth’s magic. Kalaban began to sense a presence behind them as they traveled. It was strong and unnatural, and it made the knight-commander more than a little uncomfortable. It was fast, but Kalaban and Magroth had maintained a steady pace and had managed to reach their destination well ahead of whatever the thing was.
“Could the wizard have sent something to track us?” he asked Magroth.
The Mad Emperor studied the horizon, reaching out with arcane senses that were even more sensitive in many ways than Kalaban’s own. He closed his eyes, whispering words of power that Kalaban didn’t understand.
“No, not the wizard,” Magroth said, his eyes snapping open. “I don’t know what that is. It almost appears to be demonic in nature, but it isn’t like any demon
I have ever encountered. Come. Let’s head inside and find that magic circle.”
The outpost was located on a patch of open land just beyond the White River, nestled between the Witchlight Fens to the west and the Harken Forest to the east. Kalaban studied the place with a practiced eye. It was no longer a small outpost, but it was obviously deserted.
A half-finished keep occupied the spot where the outpost once stood. The builders never completed the keep, and from the looks of things they had abandoned the place some time ago. The unfinished keep was little more than a ruin, empty of lords or knights, servants or tenants. The place felt unfinished. Two words were carved into the keystone of the keep in the Common letters: Kalton Manor.
Magroth willed light to glow atop his staff as he boldly strode deeper into the ruined structure.
“This way, Kalaban, this way,” Magroth urged. He wore the dead glass amulet around his neck, and Kalaban couldn’t help but notice how often the emperor’s hand reached up to stroke the smooth stone.
Reluctantly, the knight-commander drew his own hand out of his belt pouch, leaving the glass vial hidden inside. He needed to be ready to defend Magroth in case the ruin wasn’t as deserted as it appeared or if the demon-thing finally caught up to them.
“If my sodden descendent who allowed my empire to fall into ruin had any wits at all—and that is still in question, mind you—then there should be an inscribed circle in the chamber ahead,” Magroth said as Kalaban ran to catch up to him.
The emperor never slowed. He walked into the ruined chamber, moving directly toward the magic circle that was inscribed in the flagstone floor, just where it was supposed to be. Kalaban studied the rest of the half-finished room, noting the cracks in the walls, the partially completed roof, and the scattered pieces of armor spread across the rubble-littered floor. The knight-commander stepped toward his master, but then he paused. Something wasn’t quite right.
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