Kalaban glanced back at a dented helmet near the doorway. As he watched, glowing embers sparked within the helmet, appearing to be flaming eyes. The helmet slowly floated off the ground, as did other pieces of armor. The pieces of armor drew together, each clanging into place and held there by a fiery red glow that infused the entire form. Kalaban scanned the room, noticing that three such animated suits of armor had assembled themselves. They each wielded a flaming greatsword, and they moved into a battle formation that appeared every bit as formidable as any the knight-commander had ever devised.
Kalaban drew his own weapon, a long sword with a gem-encrusted pommel that had been a gift from Magroth many centuries ago. It held its own enchantments and had become a soulsword when Kalaban had died, and the death knight was well-practiced in its use.
“Helmed horrors, my liege,” Kalaban warned, placing himself between his emperor and two of the three animated constructs.
Magroth laughed. “Worry not, Kalaban,” the emperor said, “these ancient guardians know who I am.”
The emperor examined the third animated suit of armor and rapped his knuckles on the ancient metal. He nodded his approval.
A sound toward the front of the ruined keep made Kalaban spin around, and Magroth laughed again.
“Whatever is out there has made my knight-commander as nervous as a chicken on its way to the farm-wife’s cook pot,” the emperor chuckled. “Protect the door. Let nothing in.”
At the emperor’s words, the three helmed horrors levitated into the air and floated through the doorway into the darkness beyond.
Kalaban watched them go as Magroth returned to the inscribed circle. It was about ten feet wide, etched into the flagstone floor. The arcane symbols formed a pattern that, Kalaban knew, could be used as the focus of a teleportation spell that would open a portal between this circle and a similar circle in another part of the empire.
Magroth began to perform the ritual that would activate the portal. First, the arcane symbols began to glow. Then the line of the circle itself pulsed with intense light. The light was dancing now, leaping from symbol to symbol and coalescing in the center of the circle.
As Magroth continued to cast the spell, the first sounds of battle echoed from the dark doorway through which the helmed horrors had passed. Kalaban stepped closer to his master, listening to the clang of metal and the scrape of steel on stone.
A massive crash as armor rained down on the stone floor. The first helmed horror had fallen.
A second crash. Metal bounced off the half-completed wall in the chamber beyond. The second helmed horror had been defeated.
Kalaban raised his sword. It would only be another moment or two before whatever had followed them from the wizard’s tower in Fallcrest came rushing through the doorway. The knight-commander truly had no clue about whether or not he could deal with the thing that Magroth had said was almost a demon. He wasn’t sure if that uncertainty frightened him or excited him.
A terrible rending sound, followed by another crash. The third helmed horror was no more.
“Time to go, Kalaban,” Magroth said, stepping into the glowing circle.
Kalaban hesitated, his eyes fixed on the darkened doorway. A small hand reached through, illuminated now by only the light of the magic circle. The hand was ripped and bleeding, and Kalaban could see exposed bone peeking through the torn flesh. He desperately wanted to know what was following them, but he couldn’t delay any longer. He stepped into the circle, just as the magical energy began to fade.
As Kalaban was whisked from the ruined keep, he tried to comprehend what he saw in the fading light of the circle.
It was a female halfling, torn and misshapen, with crimson-silver liquid oozing from her wounds as well as bright-red blood.
21 THE MOON HILLS, TWILIGHT
Albanon followed Moorin’s murderer south, across the rising and falling landscape of the Moon Hills. He rode on the back of Tempest’s horse, a chestnut mare with a mane of white hair, right behind the tiefling. To his left rode Roghar, seated atop a massive black stallion with a shock of white at its throat. Splendid sat across his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. She was going on and on about how he shouldn’t trust these two so-called adventurers.
“The tiefling smells of pact magic,” Splendid said, “and the dragon born reeks of stale ale and overspiced mead. I’m sure they’re in league with the creature that murdered the greatest wizard who ever lived. I’m sure of it.”
Tempest sighed. “I know that the events of last night have been hard on the both of you, but if you don’t stop talking about me like I wasn’t here, I’m going to turn you into a belt pouch!”
They had been riding since just before dawn. After the initial shock of discovering the murdered wizard, Albanon decided that he had to go after the murderer and recover the dead glass that had been taken from the tower. He gathered his spellbook and staff, packed a few personal items into a backpack, and sealed the tower with the warding spells he had learned from Moorin. Splendid decided that she would accompany the apprentice, to make sure he didn’t get into too much trouble. Roghar and Tempest conferred briefly, and then they offered to help Albanon avenge his mentor’s death. The young wizard, relieved by the offer of help, readily agreed.
The pseudodragon complained and warned him against trusting the two adventurers, but Albanon ignored the little creature. They were experienced in matters such as these. At least, they had more experience than he did. He needed them if he was going to succeed in this dangerous quest. After all, the murderer had been able to kill the mighty Moorin. What chance did an apprentice wizard have? Still, Albanon had to try.
Now, just a little more than six hours later, the four companions had covered almost twenty-five miles of countryside and they were exhausted. They were irritable, and the constant complaining and accusations of the pseudodragon weren’t helping anyone’s mood. As they approached the banks of the White River, Roghar called a halt to their travels.
“We need to rest,” the dragonborn paladin said, “or we won’t be of any use when we finally catch up with the murderer.”
He hadn’t said it, but Albanon knew that they were all thinking it: What kind of murderer can outrun horses? Probably the same kind that can kill powerful wizards in their own towers, Albanon imagined grimly. It made no sense, and that made all of them more than a little nervous about what they were facing.
Tempest broke out a waterskin and began to pass it around while Roghar pulled a few pieces of dried meat from his saddlebag. Albanon, suddenly overwhelmed by sheer exhaustion, slumped against a tree that grew beside the river bank. He looked across the river and down into the clearing between the dense trees of the Harken Forest and the swamp known as the Witchlight Fens. The ruins of Kalton Manor sat in the clearing, as quiet and empty as they had been for more than one hundred years.
“Bahamut, bless this quest and give us the strength we need to succeed,” Roghar prayed as he gave each of the companions a piece of the dried meat.
Albanon gratefully accepted the waterskin from Tempest, who smiled at him as he drank deeply. Albanon, meanwhile, couldn’t take his eyes off the ruined structure in the distance. A soft glow emanated from inside the half-finished keep, and he thought he heard sounds coming from the structure as well. He strained to listen, absently placing a gentle hand atop the pseudodragon that had curled up beside him. There was a sound, like crashing metal, coming from within the keep. It was followed by a second, similar sound.
As though someone had knocked over an empty suit of armor.
“Something’s happening down there,” Albanon said.
22 THE IMPERIAL PALACE, IN THE RUINED CITY OF NERA, NIGHT
As the intense glow of the inscribed circle faded, Kalaban found himself standing beside Magroth in the ruins of what was once a grand palace. The palace chamber was slanted, the floor at an angle and the walls askew; the place was riddled with cracks and even gaping holes in some places. Still, despite the
destruction and disrepair, Kalaban recognized where they were.
“The Imperial Palace in Nera,” the knight-commander whispered.
“Of course,” Magroth replied. “Where else did you think we would wind up? But look at this place. Look what has become of my once-grand palace. Time is never kind. And it seems as though there was an earthquake or other disaster, for I believe that the entire building has fallen into the earth. Such a bother.”
The emperor forced his will into his staff, causing the tip to glow with arcane light. The light from Magroth’s staff illuminated the cantered chamber, revealing grand columns and intricate carvings that were still impressive despite the damage the place had sustained. Kalaban looked around, seeing things he remembered as well as new touches that had been added after he and Magroth had died and been drawn into the Shadowfell. There were sounds within the ruins as well. Water dripped from the cracked ceiling, and the stones overhead creaked and groaned with age and the misplaced weight of the slanted chamber. It could all come down on their heads at any moment, he thought.
“Really, Kalaban, you worry too much,” Magroth said, following Kalaban’s gaze to the ceiling. “The place has been like this for a long, long time, I’d wager. The chances of it deciding to collapse on top of us at this exact moment are … well, pretty good, actually.” Magroth laughed.
In the darkness beyond one of the open doorways, Kalaban heard something large slither across the bare stone.
“The light, my liege,” Kalaban said, “it attracts whatever haunts this place.”
“That’s why I brought you along, knight-commander,” Magroth snorted. “It certainly wasn’t for your witty conversation skills or your constant moaning. Deal with it, Kalaban. I have other things to do.”
Kalaban watched as Magroth headed toward the far wall, searching for the secret entrance to his hidden workshop. “If it still survives,” he whispered, warily turning back toward the shadowy doorway. Kalaban glanced briefly at the inscribed circle, but it was now dark and inactive. He was glad for that. He didn’t relish trying to deal with the demon-thing that had so easily dispatched three helmed horrors back in Kalton Manor. He was still trying to make sense of the crimson-silver substance that oozed from the halfling-thing’s horrific wounds. Wounds that didn’t appear to bother it. And crimson-silver reminded him of the substance inside the glass vial hidden in his belt pouch. What was that creature and how did the crimson substance fit in? Was it simply coincidence? Kalaban didn’t think so, and he certainly didn’t believe in coincidences when it came to matters of life and death.
“Ah, here it is,” Magroth said gleefully as he manipulated concealed switches hidden among the carvings on the wall.
Kalaban turned as the wall slid open, revealing a secret passage beyond. That was when the scavenger in the outer hall, attracted by the sounds and the light, rushed into the chamber. The large, wormlike creature plowed into Kalaban, knocking the knight-commander to the floor. As Kalaban smashed into the stone tiles, his sword bounced from his hand and clattered away.
“It’s just a carrion crawler,” Magroth called as he entered the passageway. “Deal with it, Kalaban.”
Easier said than done, the knight-commander thought gravely. Without his soulsword, he could already feel the weakness come upon him, slowing his reaction time and stealing the strength from his limbs. He had to retrieve his weapon quickly, before the crawler struck again.
Kalaban cursed as the large crawler reared up, exposing a maw of sharp teeth and thick, serrated mandibles, as well as a nest of writhing tentacles growing from beneath the crawler’s maw. Before the knight-commander could react, the tentacles shot out, striking him over and over with their poisonous tips.
Kalaban cursed again as the crawler began to bite.
23 GARDBURY DOWNS, NEAR THE VILLAGE OF WINTERHAVEN, NIGHT
Shara sat before the roaring campfire, acutely aware of the … creature … watching her from the shadows. Uldane was curled up inside a blanket beside the fire, snoring softly. Shara had decided to take the first watch, wary that the wyrmpriest might return or that he might have a way to summon the green dragon, and she didn’t want to be caught sleeping if that occurred. She was also concerned about the thing that called itself Erak.
Erak had helped them against the kobolds, fighting alongside them to overcome the ambush that she had walked right into. She could kick herself for falling for such an amateur ploy. It was because of the anger and the pain. She wasn’t thinking straight, and her inattention had almost cost Uldane and her their lives.
Erak came to her rescue, just as Jarren had so many times before. She had even thought that it might have been Jarren, at least for a moment. After they had defeated the kobolds and the wyrmpriest had escaped, Erak had introduced himself and asked if he could accompany them.
“I have work to do,” Erak had said, and the words chilled Shara to the bone.
She ordered the creature to leave, and Erak had departed. But he didn’t go very far, and Shara and Uldane had both noticed him trailing them from a distance astride one of the draft horses the kobolds had used. Not willing to let the creature follow them back into Winterhaven, Shara decided to set up camp and use the night to figure out what she wanted to do.
She had heard rumors of creatures such as Erak. Revenants, she believed they were called. When the living had left undone tasks behind at the moment of death, they were sometimes sent back to complete those tasks. The followers of the Raven Queen, the god of fate and death, often preached about such creatures, sent back to the world of the living by their mistress to finish whatever had been left undone. They returned with few, if any, memories of who and what they had been, and they often returned wearing completely different forms. But they returned with a compulsion to complete whatever compelled them back to life.
I have work to do.
What if Shara had been correct the first time she saw him? What if Erak was Jarren, returned in a new body to help her destroy the green dragon but without any of his true memories? Was that possible?
Her beloved.
Shara felt tears begin to well up at the corners of her eyes.
What if it was Jarren?
What if?
She stirred the fire, letting her tears flow and her thoughts go where they may.
Shara sat like that for a long time, remembering the past, imagining the future.
She looked past the fire to where Erak was sitting in the shadows, against a large tree. So still, but so attentive, as though he was guarding them, keeping them safe.
As he had done on the road earlier today. As Jarren had done on every quest they had undertaken.
“Uldane,” Shara said, waking the halfling from his sleep.
Uldane sat up and reached for his sword. “Trouble?” he asked, pushing the blanket away.
“No, no trouble.”
“Then what? Why’d you wake me up?”
“Please, Uldane,” she said, her voice quiet. “Invite our … friend … to join us. The night is too cool not to share our fire.”
24 NENLAST, THE DOCK ON LAKE NEN, NIGHT
Falon sat on a bench near the dock, waiting for Darrum to finish making the arrangements so that they could board the merchant ship Hammerfast’s Boon. He cradled the sword his mother had given him across his lap, once again wrapped tight in oilcloth and hidden from prying eyes. He replayed what his mother had told him in his mind, going over it for the hundredth time as he tried to come to grips with the revelation.
“My grandfather was just a boy, younger than you are now, when the empire began to crumble,” she had explained. “Well, as I understand it, the empire had been falling apart for years. But it was the events of a century ago that finally spelled the doom of glorious Nerath. The emperor, my grandfather’s father, had sent his son away. Names were changed. New identities were forged. It had to be that way. The royal blood had to survive.”
She wiped tears away as she spoke, talking directly to Falon even
though she knew that Darrum was listening. “There may be others out there. Probably are. Cousins and the like. But you, Falon, my son, you are the direct descendent of the last emperor of Nerath. You are the heir to the throne.”
“And this,” she said, holding up the sword, “is Arande, the holy sword of Nerath. Take it, use it. It will not fail you.”
She had hugged him tightly then, holding him close. “Accompany the Shield,” she said, nodding toward Darrum. She turned to address the dwarf directly. “They know that the heir of Nerath is here, so you must take him elsewhere. Perhaps to Argent, or to the Temple of Erathis in Fallcrest. Somewhere safe.”
They had said their farewells, and now Falon was preparing to travel with the old dwarf to who knew where, trying to make sense of everything his mother had told him. He didn’t understand what any of it could really mean. Even if he was the heir to the throne of Nerath, there was no throne to ascend to. The empire was gone, and there was no overarching force governing the Nentir Vale or the lands beyond. That time was done, and Falon had no desire to rule in any event. So why did someone want him dead?
Darrum strolled over, interrupting Falon’s internal conversation.
“Water travel always makes me queasy,” Darrum complained. “Never liked it. But I got us passage on the dwarven merchant ship. They’ll take us across the lake and down the Nentir River, to Fallcrest. Hopefully, by that time I’ll have figured out what we’re going to do next.”
Falon nodded and rose, hefting his pack and the oilcloth-wrapped sword.
“Don’t look so glum,” the old dwarf said, “it’ll be an adventure.”
Yeah, thought Falon, remembering the tales his grandfather used to regale him with. That’s what I’m afraid of.
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