The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel

by Bill Slavicsek

  The halfling-thing was after something or someone it called “the Voidharrow.” She had no idea what that could be. Or why the halfling-thing wanted it. It didn’t matter, really. She just stored the information away so that she would remember it should the need arise. That was how Tempest approached most aspects of life. She noticed everything, remembered everything. And then, when the moment was right, she exploited what she knew to her benefit. She would get a chance to make a move against this foul creature, and when she did she would use everything she knew to make that move count.

  Tempest imagined that they were in a large, underground space. The minotaur statue suggested that they were somewhere beneath Thunderspire Mountain, in the ruins of the ancient halls of Saruun Khel. That was just a guess on her part, but it felt right. She could practically feel the mountain pressing in on them from the darkness all around. Of course, Thunderspire Mountain was a big place. They could be anywhere within the ancient labyrinth that had been carved in the distant past from the living stone itself. If nothing else, however, she believed she knew more about where they were than the halfling-thing did.

  Suddenly the halfling-thing’s small, strong hand was once again wrapped around Tempest’s slender throat. It pushed her head back against the stone, pressing so hard that she thought it meant to push her skull right through the solid wall.

  “The wizard lied to me,” the halfling-thing said, the words flowing out of the darkness like the lashes of a whip. “The Voidharrow is not here. The Voidharrow has never been here. I was deceived.”

  “Oops,” Tempest said, managing to force the word out through her constricted throat.

  “They cannot come for you,” the halfling-thing said, ignoring Tempest’s flippant response. “I have broken the magic circle. This vessel is failing, however. I need a new form.”

  The halfling-thing pressed its cracked lips to Tempest’s ear. She shuddered at the touch as it whispered, “Your form will have to do.”

  Tempest tried to struggle, but the halfling-thing held her tight. She couldn’t see in the darkness, but she felt something cold flow from the creature’s hand and begin to crawl up her neck.

  “No, please,” Tempest said, trying to turn away or shake off the cold substance.

  But the halfling-thing was relentless, and the cold substance continued to flow, climbing toward her mouth, her nose, her eyes.

  That was when Tempest screamed.

  PART

  TWO

  37 THE WITCHLIGHT FENS, NIGHT

  Kalaban entered the vaulted room beneath the circle of standing stones. The place had once served as the audience chamber for some infernal priest of Bael Turath, and it was decorated as was befitting of those who had long ago made a pact with devils. At the front of the chamber, set on a raised dais, was a throne fashioned of skulls and ornate stone. Magroth the Mad Emperor sat on the throne, holding the limp form of a goblin across his lap. He casually supped blood from a tear in the goblin’s throat. The knight-commander had acquired the disgusting creature in the swamp above, just as his liege had ordered. Kalaban had hoped that Magroth would have finished while he was outside making one more sweep of the area, but he knew that the Mad Emperor preferred his meals to be slow and leisurely.

  Apparently, that preference extended to the meals dictated by his newly acquired blood curse.

  The stoneguard golem stood nearby, straight and silent, almost a part of the chambers of stone that had been built beneath the swamp. Kalaban marveled at the engineering and magic that was required to pull off this miracle of construction. The humans and tieflings of ancient Bael Turath were truly skilled. He was surprised that their empire eventually fell and made way for Nerath. Surprised, but not disappointed.

  Magroth watched the knight-commander as he approached. With a long, lingering lick, the Mad Emperor gulped a final, congealing wad of dark fluid from the open wound at the goblin’s neck. Then he tossed the body away as he might the gnawed core of a fire apple.

  “Does my feeding disgust you, knight-commander?” Magroth asked, a cruel smile playing across his blood-coated lips. “It disgusts me. Having to settle for a lesser creature such as this to sustain my … hunger.”

  Kalaban refused to be drawn into this particular conversation, but he wished that Magroth would stop staring at him so intently. “What is our next move, my master?”

  “Hmmph,” Magroth grunted, eventually looking away from Kalaban. “We have two things we must accomplish before we seek the Necropolis of Andok Sur. I must first find out all that I can about the place, which means that we must find a repository of ancient documents. There must be something I can do to alter this one-sided deal I have struck with the Prince of Undeath. There must be!”

  Magroth fell silent, as though lost deep in thought. Kalaban waited, counting to one hundred as he had been taught to do when he had first entered the service of the crown. Still Magroth remained quiet, staring into the distance. The knight-commander hated to interrupt, but he was even more afraid that Magroth wouldn’t emerge from his contemplation any time soon. His liege was acting even more strangely than he was inclined to since he had donned the Orcus medallion. In addition to the blood hunger that had overcome Magroth, adding vampirism to his list of undead traits, he had grown meaner, more inclined to snap at Kalaban, and he easily drifted into these periods of disturbing silence.

  “My lord?” Kalaban asked, “The second thing we must accomplish?”

  Magroth blinked, turning his milky white eyes toward Kalaban. For a moment, he seemed almost surprised to see the knight-commander. Then his countenance became dark, angry. “Every time you interrupt me,” Magroth said, his voice cold, “you hinder my ability to overcome this damned medallion and the hold it is trying to establish upon me. I should have seen it, but I was blinded by the promise of power that the medallion held. I have accepted that power, oh yes I have. But the power comes at a price, and I am trying very hard not to have to pay that price. Do you understand this, my impatient companion?”

  Kalaban was at a loss as to how to respond to Magroth. He didn’t know what he could say that wouldn’t increase the emperor’s anger and displeasure. Instead, he stood straight and still, letting one hand slip into the pouch at his belt to stroke the glass vial resting within. He could feel the strange substance within the vial as it shifted and flowed, reacting to the touch of his fingers along the sides of the cool glass. A part of him wanted to break the vial and feel the translucent red substance on his skin. That part of him wanted to do this very, very badly. But Kalaban refused to give that part of himself its freedom, at least for the moment. Instead, he contented himself with the feel of the glass and the nearness of the substance that seemed to him to be almost alive.

  “I said, do you understand this?” Magroth asked again, this time with a threatening timbre in the tone that broke whatever daydream the knight-commander had fallen into.

  “No, my lord,” Kalaban stammered, coming back to himself and quickly withdrawing his hand from the pouch. “I didn’t understand. But now I do. I shall not interrupt your thoughts again.”

  “Hmmph. Don’t make promises we both know you can’t keep. The second thing we must deal with? The thing you just had to know about right now? That’s easy. I’m surprised you couldn’t figure it out yourself. Well, no, not really surprised. You never were the brightest of my personal guard, were you, Kalaban?”

  Magroth leaped from the throne and began pacing around the stone chamber. “Along the way, either before we complete our research into Andok Sur or immediately thereafter, we must find this troublesome descendent of mine. The one that Orcus and his priest are so adamant that I destroy. We must find him and see why he concerns them so. And then … I imagine that his blood shall taste far sweeter than the fare I have thus far been forced to sup on. Don’t you agree, knight-commander?”

  Kalaban swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t know, my emperor.”

  Magroth laughed. “You wouldn’t know!” The emperor lau
ghed even harder, and the sound of it filled the stone chambers beneath the Fens. The sound was full of mirth, but there was also a strong undertone of madness that troubled Kalaban far more than any of the threats the emperor had made against him.

  For if Magroth succumbed to his madness, what hope would Kalaban have of ending the undead curse that had plagued him since his brother had assassinated the emperor and he, in turn, had struck his own brother down?

  38 FALLCREST, DAY

  Albanon was exhausted by the time he and Roghar could see the walls of Fallcrest on the horizon ahead of them. Even Splendid was tuckered out. She was curled around his neck, her head resting on one shoulder, and she was snoring lightly in his ear. Only Roghar seemed unaffected by the two long rides—the first from Fallcrest across the Moon Hills to the ruins of Kalton Manor, the second back again. He rode straight and tall in his saddle, his eyes fixed on the town they were riding toward. Only the dragonborn’s expression, a mix of anger and worry, reminded Albanon that the paladin cared for their missing friend at least as much as the young wizard did. And probably more, since Roghar and Tempest had been friends and adventuring companions for much longer than the day or so since he had met them at the Blue Moon Alehouse.

  “Tell me again,” Roghar said, his voice strong but with an undercurrent of anger that Albanon knew was at least partially directed at him. “Where did you send Tempest and that creature?”

  Albanon sighed. “Roghar, we need to examine my master’s library. We need to figure out what the creature is and how we can defeat it before we.…”

  Roghar cut him off. “Tell me again!”

  “I opened a portal to the Labyrinth beneath Thunderspire Mountain. I figured that the maze of tunnels and the various creatures that live down there would at least slow the halfling down and get it away from us.”

  “You sent Tempest into the Labyrinth?” Roghar asked, his voice low. “Alone?”

  “No, I sent the creature,” Albanon protested. “I didn’t think.…”

  “Ah, and so the apprentice reveals the true problem,” Splendid purred, her eyes still closed as her head rested on Albanon’s shoulder.

  “Roghar, I’m sorry,” Albanon said, promising himself for the hundredth time that he would find a way to make this right.

  “I am not the one who requires an apology, elf.”

  “Eladrin,” Albanon whispered.

  As they approached the King’s Gate, the southern entrance to Fallcrest, Albanon noticed that Sergeant Gerdrand of the Fallcrest Guard was stationed in the gate’s one remaining tower. The other tower and much of the southern wall had been destroyed in the Bloodspear War, and only the most rudimentary repairs had been made in the ninety years since. Gerdrand had about a half dozen guards with him, which told Albanon that the town was on high alert.

  Albanon took a deep breath, trying to clear the fuzziness from his exhausted brain. Although eladrin didn’t sleep, they did need to enter a meditative state they called “the trance.” It had been more than two days since Albanon had last spent time in the trance, and he could feel how his deprived body was reacting.

  Albanon rode up to the King’s Gate. “Hail, Sergeant Gerdrand,” he called.

  The usually quiet Gerdrand grunted as he watched Albanon and Roghar approach. “The Lord Warden is worried about you, apprentice,” the sergeant said. “I suggest you head up to the Glowing Tower and present yourself. Now.”

  Albanon was only slightly surprised that the Lord Warden had already determined that something was amiss at the Glowing Tower. He didn’t think that the town guard could get through the wards he had put in place when he and Roghar and Tempest had departed to track Moorin’s murderer, but if Faren Markelhay, the Lord Warden of Fallcrest, had tried to communicate with Moorin and had received no answer at all from the tower, he would certainly be curious as to where Moorin and his apprentice had disappeared to without so much as a note of explanation.

  Albanon and Roghar rode through the Lower Quay and across the small bridge that spanned the Moonwash, heading to the road that would take them up the bluffs and to the Glowing Tower. The people of Fallcrest stared at them from house porches and building windows as they rode by, an eladrin wizard and a dragonborn paladin. Albanon knew all of these people. He had lived among them for almost seven years. But today they seemed distant, nervous, perhaps even a little bit afraid. It was probably Albanon’s imagination, along with his weariness, that was transferring his own feelings to the people around him. There’s no way that anyone had gotten past the wards he put in place. They could have no idea about what had happened in the Glowing Tower.

  Of course, that’s probably what Moorin thought before the tower was invaded and he was killed.

  “Relax, my friend,” Roghar said. “You squirm as though you are guilty of some terrible crime.”

  Albanon looked into Roghar’s eyes. “Aren’t I?”

  The dragonborn looked away, appearing slightly guilty himself. “No, Albanon, no. You made a mistake, and I’m angry about it and worried about Tempest. But a crime? No. Not that.”

  Roghar’s words made Albanon feel a little better, but he still had to figure out how to make everything right. He had to figure out how to get Tempest away from the halfling-thing without getting them all killed.

  At the top of the bluff, they turned their horses south and found the narrow road that led to the Glowing Tower. As Sergeant Gerdrand had indicated, the Lord Warden stood at the base of the tower with a squad of six of the Fallcrest Guard. Albanon also recognized the elderly human and the halfling huddled with the Lord Warden. Nimozaran the Green was an ancient human wizard who considered himself to be the High Septarch of Fallcrest. Tobolar Quickfoot was his apprentice. In his time as Moorin’s apprentice, Albanon never saw his master treat the old wizard with anything less than respect. He also never saw Moorin acquiesce or bow to Nimozaran, either. He always had the impression that whereas Moorin had been an adventuring wizard before coming to settle in Fallcrest, Nimozaran had never been more than a sage and a scholar, spending most of his career locked away in the Septarch’s Tower that rose atop the hill directly across from the Glowing Tower high on the bluff.

  Albanon saw that the door to his master’s tower was open. Nimozaran must have disabled the wards at the command of the Lord Warden. He brought Tempest’s horse to a halt directly before the Lord Warden and the High Septarch, and then he slipped out of the saddle and leaped down to the ground.

  “And so the apprentice returns to the scene of the crime,” the old wizard said, straightening his crooked back as much as he could.

  “Albanon,” the Lord Warden said solemnly. “You are to surrender yourself to the Guard. You and the dragonborn.”

  “On what grounds?” Roghar demanded, still sitting tall atop his stallion.

  “Murder,” said Nimozaran.

  39 FALLCREST, THE NENTIR INN, DAY

  Falon and Darrum sat at a small table in the Nentir Inn’s common room, finishing a meal of cold meat, cheese, bread, and wine. Falon had only picked at his food, but Darrum had attacked the simple fare with the enthusiasm of a starving rage drake.

  “Slow down, Darrum,” Falon said. “The food’s neither so good nor so scarce that you need to wolf it down without so much as chewing it first.”

  “You’ll learn to eat as much as you can whenever you can,” the old dwarf said, with his mouth full of food. “When you’re on the road, good meals can be few and far between.”

  Falon broke off another chunk of bread and went back to thinking about the people they had met the night before. Sitting at a table on the other side of the room was the undead revenant that called itself Erak, the woman warrior named Shara, and the halfling rogue Uldane. The revenant claimed to be a knight of the Raven Queen. Not exactly an evil god, but not a bright and shiny example of goodness, either. But then again, neither was Falon’s god, Erathis. Moreover, the revenant had pledged himself to Falon, somehow recognizing the royal blood that Falon himself ha
d only recently learned was flowing through his veins. It all made Falon’s head hurt.

  “So, old dwarf,” Falon asked, taking a sip of wine, “what do you think about Erak and his claims?”

  Darrum fixed his one good eye on Falon as he finished chewing a slice of cold beef. “I’ve heard about revenants,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Even had the good fortune to work with one a few decades back. The Raven Queen is part of the natural order, for every life eventually leads to death. I think that this Erak is on a mission for the Lady of Fate, just as he said, and I think that mission has something to do with you—although I haven’t figured out all the hows and whys of it just yet.”

  Falon nodded, even though he didn’t want to. “Yeah, I’ve been coming around to the same conclusion.”

  “So what do you want to do, your majesty?” Darrum asked, a ridiculous smirk on his weathered old face.

  “I want you to stop calling me that,” Falon said, “and I want to find out what Erak has been sent back to do.”

  Falon got up and marched over to the table where Erak and his companions were seated. He nodded a respectful greeting to Shara and Uldane, and then he sat down in the empty chair beside the revenant.

  “Can you tell me about your mission?” Falon asked the revenant.

  Erak sat back, letting his gaze wander from Falon to Shara to Uldane and back again. He acknowledged the old dwarf as Darrum wandered over and pulled up a chair from another table. Then he tilted his head, as though trying to remember something important.