The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel

by Bill Slavicsek

  “Arise, my champion, the woman’s voice said to me as I awoke within the stone coffin in a graveyard outside of the town of Winterhaven,” Erak said in a far-away voice. “You have work to do.”

  “He doesn’t remember anything more than that,” Shara said, putting her hand atop Erak’s.

  “I know that I am here to do something, and that it involves Shara and you,” Erak added. “Beyond that, my memories are jumbled images, feelings of pain and death and a place of peace. I don’t think I wanted to return to this world. But I don’t think I had a choice in the matter.”

  Falon thought about what the revenant had said. “Darrum and I are on the run,” he decided to tell them. “Undead creatures have tried to kill me twice in the space of just a few days. We think it has something to do with my bloodline, but I only just learned about my heritage so I’m a bit lost as to what to do or where to go next.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Shara asked.

  “I think it leaves us in the revenant’s hands,” Falon said, looking hard into Erak’s eyes. “I think we need to help you figure out what your mission is and then help you complete it. It’s not like I have anything better to do at the moment.”

  Uldane looked around the table, an expression of sheer incredulity on his face. “And they call me impulsive,” he said.

  Falon ignored the halfling. “All right, Erak,” he said. “What do we do next?”

  40 FALLCREST, THE GLOWING TOWER, DAY

  Albanon stared at the ancient wizard Nimozaran with an expression that was halfway between shock and horror. He knew that the old man was jealous of Moorin, but to accuse Moorin’s apprentice of such a heinous act was beyond Albanon’s comprehension.

  “You think I killed my master?” Albanon asked, finally finding his voice.

  “Let’s not make this any more difficult than it needs to be,” the Lord Warden said, motioning for his guards to surround Albanon and Roghar.

  “If I really killed Moorin,” Albanon said, looking directly at Nimozaran, “really was able to defeat the greatest wizard in the Vale, what do you think you’ll be able to accomplish with a handful of guards and a decrepit old mage?”

  “Impetuous youngling!” Nimozaran said, stamping his wizard’s staff on the ground. “If it must come to a battle arcane, know you that I am more than a match for your rudimentary skills.”

  “The apprentice didn’t kill anyone,” Splendid said, sounding rather annoyed that the commotion was interfering with her nap on Albanon’s shoulder. “A foul creature from someplace else entered the Great Moorin’s tower and slew the Great Moorin in a terrible battle that I was forced to watch from the inside of a cage.”

  Everyone turned to look at the pseudodragon that was draped around Albanon’s neck. It appeared to be extremely tired, and its scales glistened in the afternoon sun.

  Nimozaran’s apprentice, the halfling Tobolar, peered from around his old master. “Of course the drake would say that,” Tobolar said. “It makes sense that it would defend its master. It is his pet, after all.”

  “I am no one’s pet,” Splendid roared, making her voice louder than Albanon imagined possible. “And Albanon is no one’s master.”

  “Even so, I saw the blood and poor Moorin’s body with my own eyes,” the Lord Warden said. “Until we can sort this out, I really think that you and your friend should come with us.”

  Roghar assessed the situation. Then he made a decision. “I shall not see another injustice done this day,” the dragonborn shouted. Albanon noted that Roghar’s voice was much, much louder than Splendid’s. “Bahamut, aid your humble servant this day!”

  Bright light burst from Roghar’s sword, spreading out and blinding the Fallcrest Guard as well as the two wizards standing with them. Roghar grabbed Albanon by the scruff of his mantle and tossed him on to Tempest’s horse.

  “Time to go, my friend,” Roghar said. “We must be free if we are to save Tempest from the monster that killed your master.”

  Albanon nodded, and the two of them spurred their mounts into motion. Splendid took to the air, flying directly at Nimozaran and Tobolar. Both wizards dodged the tiny winged creature, dropping to the ground to avoid her slashing, stinger-tipped tail. The pseudodragon turned the attack run into an escape, flying wide around the close-packed trees surrounding the Glowing Tower to meet up with the horses as they pounded toward the eastern gate. The Wizard’s Gate. It seemed fitting somehow that Albanon was going to leave Fallcrest, perhaps forever, by exiting through the Wizard’s Gate.

  “What a way to end my apprenticeship,” he said, a hint of sadness in his voice.

  “Better than spending the rest of our lives, however short those may be, in a jail cell,” Roghar said.

  In that regard, they were both in perfect agreement.

  41 THE SEVEN-PILLARED HALL, DAY

  The magic circle inscribed around the bronze minotaur statue glowed brightly as Kalaban, the golem, and his master Magroth appeared out of thin air. They appeared in a large natural cavern, atop a rise of rock that made this one of the highest points within the enclosed space. Stairs were carved into the rock, leading down from the circle to ground level. Kalaban noticed a river running through the center of the cavern, and a tower of stone was built into the rock wall directly across from where the outstretched arms of the minotaur statue were pointing.

  “That is the Tower of Saruun,” Magroth said, indicating the structure that Kalaban was already studying. “The documents I seek, if they exist at all, shall be found there.”

  Buildings made of stone and wood were laid out throughout the huge chamber. Some were freestanding, but others were built around the seven massive pillars that stretched from floor to ceiling, or into the walls of the cavern itself. The entire place was lit by hundreds of lanterns hung from the cavern walls and buildings. The light of the lanterns provided some illumination, but it did nothing to eradicate the crushing darkness of the place.

  Magroth had consulted the many rituals in his spellbook back at the lair beneath the Witchlight Fens that had once belonged to the vampire Sareth. Eventually, he locked himself away and performed a ritual in secret while Kalaban and the golem waited in another chamber. When Magroth emerged, he had found a place to begin his search for information pertaining to the necropolis of Andok Sur. “We must travel to the Seven-Pillared Hall,” Magroth said, visibly shaken from consulting with whatever entities his ritual had called up. “There, the Mages of Saruun shall aid me in my quest—or we shall destroy them and take what we need from their ruined tower.”

  And so Magroth opened a portal and they had all stepped through, into this town built within an underground cavern. Kalaban was about to lead the way down the stairs when a powerful looking ogre marched up the stone steps toward them. The ogre was followed by a handful of toughs, including a pair of humans, a dwarf, and a half-orc. They were all armed and clearly subordinate to the ogre. The ogre stood nearly ten feet tall. He wore a relatively clean tunic stitched together from a variety of hides, leather pants, and well-made boots. Unusually large, sharp teeth jutted from the ogre’s lower jaw, and he wore seven silver rings in the lobe of his pointy right ear. A greatclub fashioned from what appeared to be the trunk of a small tree hung across his back. He looked remarkably bright, as far as ogres went, and that made Kalaban wary.

  “Which one a youse wants ta tell me who ya is and why ya appeared in da Mages’ circle?” the ogre asked in an almost bored tone.

  Kalaban started to reach for his weapon, but Magroth stayed his hand with a gentle touch to his arm. “Now, now, Kalaban, there’s no immediate need for bloodshed,” Magroth said, favoring the large ogre with a friendly smile. “Good sir, we meant no harm. I am Magroth, a humble wizard, come to this place to seek the help and guidance of the Mages of Saruun.”

  “If he’s a humble wizard then I’m the king of Hammerfast,” said the dwarf. “They have the smell of undead about them, Brugg.”

  The ogre, who was apparently called B
rugg, nodded. “Clearly, we got here a couple a zombies,” Brugg growled. “The question is, are dey here to cause trouble? Maybe eat some of the townsfolk while dey sleep?”

  Magroth laughed. It was a rich, jubilant sound that made Kalaban’s undead skin crawl. It seemed to have a similar effect on Brugg and his enforcers.

  “You are a clever ogre, aren’t you?” Magroth said, drawing himself up to his full height. Brugg still towered over him, but the ogre seemed to draw back anyway. “We have not come to disrupt nor damage the fine people of this underground cesspool. We will bring this place down on your heads, if we need to, but that isn’t our purpose in coming here. We have come to ask a favor of the Mages of Saruun, and neither you nor your associates will hinder us in that purpose.”

  Brugg swallowed hard, but to his credit his large hand never strayed toward the handle of his greatclub. He glanced briefly at Kalaban and the golem before his eyes quickly returned to Magroth. He studied the vampire-lich, sizing him up like he might any potential threat that wandered into the hall. “Maybe youse are as tough as youse say,” Brugg said, keeping his composure in the face of what was clearly a superior force. “Maybe youse ain’t. Brugg is nuttin’ if not corgenial ta dose dat come ta visit, right guys?”

  The dwarf, humans, and half-orc enforcers wholeheartedly agreed with their leader, nodding enthusiastically and adding their own words of praise about Brugg and his apparently legendary manners.

  “I appreciate ‘corgeniality,’ ” Magroth said, the smile never leaving his gaunt face. “I appreciate speed and decisiveness even more.”

  Brugg nodded. “If youse wait right here, I’ll see if da Ordinator Arcanis has time ta see ya.”

  “Convince him to make time, please,” Magroth said. “And quickly. We would rather not linger in this hall any longer than necessary, and I’m sure you’d like to see us leave sooner rather than later.”

  “Youse got dat right,” Brugg muttered under his breath as he turned to go. The rest of the enforcers followed behind him without a passing glance at Kalaban or Magroth.

  “That went well,” Magroth said cheerfully.

  “Yes, my liege,” Kalaban replied automatically.

  “Don’t worry, knight-commander. Perhaps I’ll still let you kill the ogre before we depart this squalor-filled cave.”

  “No need to call for blood on my account,” Kalaban said, instantly regretting his choice of words.

  “No,” Magroth agreed, all humor fleeing from his voice. “Not on your account.”

  42 THE GRAY DOWNS, DAY

  Tiktag gratefully slid from Vestapalk’s neck to the grassy earth as soon as the green dragon touched down. The green dragon landed beside the cold, rushing water of the Winter River and immediately set to gulping great amounts of the clear liquid. The kobold wyrmpriest, meanwhile, carefully rubbed at his saddle sores. The long ride had not been very comfortable. He dreaded getting back atop the dragon, but he knew they still had a lot of flying ahead of them.

  “Cast your bones, wyrmpriest,” Vestapalk said, raising its dripping snout out of the river long enough to bark the command. Then the dragon went back to drinking.

  Tiktag knew better than to complain, but he was certainly getting tired of serving as the green dragon’s lackey. The wrympriest was used to being the one giving commands and having others serve him, and this situation with Vestapalk, while initially exciting and even spiritually uplifting, had grown wearisome. He almost wished that he and his tribe hadn’t been singled out by the visionary dragon.

  Almost.

  The wyrmpriest drew a circle with the base of his staff as he began to chant. The circle was about two feet across, drawn in a relatively flat section of dirt near the river. He pulled a small pouch made of hyena fur from his belt, shook it so that the bone fragments within rattled loudly, and continued to chant in a singsong voice. Then he dumped the contents, letting the fragments fall toward the prepared piece of ground. Bone fragments bounced, spun, and came to rest within the circle he had drawn. The fragments were of different shapes—squares, triangles, rectangles, and bits that were irregularly shaped—each carved with a draconic symbol. How the fragments landed, both within the circle and in relation to each other, provided the wyrmpriest with clues and signs that he could interpret.

  He noticed that the dragon was watching him with one large orb, making sure that the casting was true. Tiktag ignored the scrutiny. He shook the fetishes hanging from his staff and then struck the butt of the staff into the ground beside the drawn circle three times.

  Tiktag bent down to examine the pattern of the bone fragments. Each fragment, with its carved draconic symbol, corresponded to a particular aspect of divination related to Tiamat, the evil god of greed, envy, and chromatic dragons. Since becoming a follower of Vestapalk, Tiktag was amazed at how relevant each divination he performed turned out to be. In the past, before coming under the wing of the green dragon, he sometimes had to adjust his interpretations of the signs to fit the questions he asked. But every question he asked at the behest of Vestapalk was answered with a clear, distinct, and totally relevant set of symbols and signs. It was uncanny, and this casting was no different.

  “Great Vestapalk,” Tiktag began, using the same tone he employed when preaching to the kobolds of the Greenscale tribe. “The Herald remains before us, along the path we have been following. Better still, this time the signs have shown me exactly where we can find the Herald.”

  The green dragon turned toward the wyrmpriest, its eyes wide with eager anticipation. “Tell Vestapalk what the signs have shown you, wyrmpriest.”

  Tiktag hammered the base of his staff into the solid-packed dirt, rattling the bones that hung among the fetishes at the top of the implement. “The Herald waits for you, Great Vestapalk. The Herald waits within the Old Hills, northeast of the mountain of storm and thunder.”

  The wyrmpriest pointed to the mountaintop rising above the forest that stretched across the horizon. A swirling thunderhead of black clouds and flashes of lightning obscured the peak of the mountain.

  Vestapalk roared. “Then let Vestapalk take flight, little wyrmpriest,” the green dragon said. “The Herald is close, and this one would like to see the Herald with this one’s own eyes.”

  Tiktag quickly gathered up the casting bones, secured the fur pouch to his belt, and wearily climbed back atop the green dragon. He wasn’t sure where all of this was going, and he was more than a little frightened by the implications he was seeing in the signs. But Tiktag was a survivor, and he would find a way to survive the coming changes.

  The wyrmpriest believed that.

  And he held on to that belief even as Vestapalk vaulted into the sky, Tiktag clinging to its neck, and winged toward Thunderspire Mountain.

  43 FALLCREST, THE NENTIR INN, DAY

  Shara found Erak at a table in the inn’s common room. He was sitting quietly, his back to a wall. She sat down beside him and cleared her throat, waiting for the revenant to acknowledge her presence.

  He came out of his reverie slowly, eventually turning his eyes toward her and offering her a slight smile. “Sorry,” Erak said. “I was thinking.”

  “I’ve been thinking, too,” Shara said. “Before this continues, before Uldane and I follow you to who knows where and back again, you have to tell me. Are you Jarren?”

  Erak continued to look into Shara’s eyes, but a profound sadness seemed to spread across his features. After a long moment, he finally said, “I don’t know. I don’t know who I was before the Raven Queen gathered me up and sent me back.”

  Shara sighed. She stood up from the table. “Then why am I following you? Why am I trusting you? I have my own things to take care of, my own dragon to kill. I don’t have time for maybes.”

  She turned to go, disgusted with herself for letting her imagination and her sorrow take her away from who she really was and what she really should be doing. She was grateful that Erak had helped her and Uldane against the kobolds, and she hoped that the youn
g cleric Falon would find whatever it was he was looking for, but as far as Shara was concerned, it was time to go back to Winterhaven.

  “Later,” Erak said suddenly.

  Shara froze. That was the last word that Jarren had said to her before their battle with Vestapalk. “I’m always ready for anything,” she whispered to herself, remembering the words she had said before Jarren had responded with that word. A single word, so full of promise and hope. She recovered her composure and turned back to the revenant.

  “What did you say?”

  “Shara, please. I can’t confirm or deny what I don’t know for sure. But I truly believe that you need to accompany me. Your own quest depends on it. And so much more depends on it as well. Trust me, at least for a little while longer.”

  The woman warrior stared hard at the revenant as she tried to sort through the conflicting emotions now raging inside her. She took a deep breath. Then another. Then she let out a long sigh.

  “All right, Erak,” Shara said at last. “I’ll go with you. But if you’ve lied to me, if you’ve deceived me in any way, or if I find out that you’re nothing more than a monster who is using us all for some foul purpose, I will destroy you. Do you understand that? Can you remember that?”

  Erak nodded.

  Shara turned away and started to stride out of the room. “I hope you don’t disappoint me, Erak.” And then she rushed away so that the revenant wouldn’t see her tears.

  44 THE TRADE ROAD, DAY

  Albanon and Roghar had been riding east, away from Fallcrest, for more than an hour. No matter how many times Albanon craned his head back over his shoulder to look, he saw the same thing. Nothing but empty road behind them. No one was following them. No troop of militia was breathing down their necks. Not yet, in any event.