The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel

by Bill Slavicsek

  This time Magroth focused his will through his staff, unleashing a blast of blue-white power that bashed into the tiefling and then held her firmly in place. The tiefling’s eyes went wide, and she began to struggle wildly to break free of the invisible grip surrounding her. Magroth, meanwhile, motioned at the cracked statue and whipped his hand in the direction of the immobilized tiefling. In response to his motions, the top half of the statue pulled away from the base, splitting along the length of the cracks with a terrible grinding sound. The upper portion of the minotaur statue flew at the tiefling. It barreled into her and then smashed into the wall, burying her beneath what remained of the stone form.

  Magroth turned away from the scene without a second thought and addressed Kalaban. “If you’re done fooling around, knight-commander,” the Mad Emperor said, “we really need to get a move on. My accursed descendent should be right behind us, and I don’t want to have to deal with him until we reach Andok Sur.”

  Kalaban recovered his battered helmet. The wounds to his head were already repairing themselves thanks to his undead nature. “That was the halfling-thing that followed us to Kalton Manor,” the knight-commander said.

  “Really?” Magroth asked, looking back at the pile of shattered rock. “My, her persistence is almost a match for her sudden growth spurt.”

  Then, his interest in the subject apparently abated, Magroth resumed his march to the northeast, in the direction of the Old Hills. Kalaban and the stoneguard began to follow him, but Magroth raised his hand.

  “Not you, golem,” Magroth said. “Stay here and make sure that only my descendent passes this point. The others traveling with him? I want you to destroy them.”

  Magroth resumed his stroll down the Avenue of Glory, and Kalaban followed, leaving the stoneguard alone in the dark passage. They walked for about a hundred feet in silence. Then Magroth spoke in a low, threatening voice.

  “I don’t appreciate secrets, knight-commander,” Magroth said. “You will tell me about this Voidharrow, and then I will decide if your value to me is worth the pain of your deception.”

  63 THE OLD HILLS, NIGHT

  Tiktag held on tight as Vestapalk banked right and began to circle back the way they had come. The cold night air made the wyrmpriest’s teeth chatter, and he still couldn’t look down without his vision swimming and his stomach tightening into a clenched ball. The green dragon dropped its right wing, tilting its entire body so that Tiktag had to dig in tighter to avoid sliding off. He thought he felt rumbling laughter beneath the dragon’s rough emerald scales.

  “The Old Hills,” Vestapalk said, returning to level and drifting above the rolling hills that filled the land south of Lake Nen.

  Tiktag had never been this far from the tribe’s usual hunting grounds around Winterhaven. He wasn’t sure he liked traveling so great a distance, and he certainly knew that he didn’t enjoy flying. Still, he reminded himself of the honor that had been bestowed on him by the green dragon, and he tried to use that feeling of prestige to calm his racing heart.

  “The Herald shall soon reach this area,” Vestapalk said, letting his sharp eyes scan the landscape for some clue about where the Herald would appear.

  It seemed to Tiktag, who had his eyes shut tight, that they had flown a hundred circles above the hills when the green dragon finally exhaled a grunt of satisfaction.

  “There, wyrmpriest,” Vestapalk said. “That oddly shaped hill is no hill.”

  Vestapalk began to descend. This made Tiktag happier than he had been in a long time, but it also raised a question.

  “Why there, Great Vestapalk?” Tiktag asked.

  “I have seen such places before,” the green dragon explained. “When the places that the lesser races build grow old and become abandoned, the land around them moves back in to reclaim what once was untouched. Even as dirt and vegetation covers the worked stone, you can see the shape of construction still evident beneath it—if you have the proper perspective, that is.”

  Vestapalk certainly was impressed with himself, Tiktag thought. It was good to be a dragon, he supposed. No one ever showed any respect to kobolds, but to dragons? They were feared. Sometimes Tiktag wished that others feared him. It was true that other kobolds feared him. He was their wyrmpriest, after all. But other creatures? Humans? Dwarves? Kobolds were laughed at, not feared. Tiktag believed that his alliance with Vestapalk would change that. As would the coming of the Herald. Between the two, Tiktag would finally achieve the respect that he so desperately craved.

  And power. Let’s not forget the promise of power that the Elemental Eye had offered to them. Well, actually the offer was made to Vestapalk, but Tiktag was sure that he would share in the reward. It was his destiny.

  The green dragon landed beside the strangely shaped hill. Now that Vestapalk had pointed it out, the wyrmpriest couldn’t help but see the right angles and straight lines beneath the contours of the hill. Some kind of keep, perhaps? Or maybe the walls of a town? But it had to be a truly ancient place to have been so absorbed back into the land.

  “Find an opening, wyrmpriest,” Vestapalk commanded, lowering its head and neck so that Tiktag could more easily dismount.

  The wyrmpriest looked dubious. He was a mystic, not a tracker or a dungeoneer. What did he know about finding entrances into underground lairs? More to the point, how was he going to find an opening large enough for the green dragon to use?

  Under the watchful gaze of Vestapalk, Tiktag began to explore the circumference of the hill. He walked slowly and carefully, examining every crack and crevice, every depression, looking for—actually, the wyrmpriest had no idea what he was looking for. But he didn’t feel comfortable expressing that fact to the green dragon.

  Around the next turn, Tiktag’s staff punched through a clump of tall grass and brambles. He moved the wooden staff back and forth, realizing that there was a large space behind the overgrown vegetation. He used the staff to push away the brambles so that he could peer into the darkness beyond. Darkness posed no problem to the kobold. His darkvision allowed him to see in the dark as other creatures could see in bright daylight. The depression was shallow, a small pocket within the dirt and stone that made up the hill. The walls of the shallow depression were covered with intricate symbols that the wyrmpriest recognized.

  “Orcus,” Tiktag said, reflexively making a sign of warding.

  “Squeeze inside and tell Vestapalk what you see,” the green dragon urged.

  Reluctantly, Tiktag stepped through the space he made in the brambles and entered the shallow depression. In addition to the symbols that were carved into the walls and low ceiling, there was a small pedestal of black stone. A hollow space atop the pedestal looked like it was waiting for some sort of peg. Or a key. The place made Tiktag uncomfortable. This was a place of death, clearly dedicated to the Demon Prince of Undeath. The kobold wyrmpriest wanted nothing to do with this kind of magic. And there was magic here. Tiktag could feel it like an approaching storm hanging thick on the air.

  “It’s some sort of antechamber,” Tiktag called out. “There’s a pedestal with a hole, but I don’t know what fits into it.”

  “The Elemental Eye has seen true,” Vestapalk said solemnly. “The one that carries the key shall arrive soon.”

  The green dragon turned to find a spot where it could rest and still keep a watchful eye on the small cave. Tiktag watched the dragon walk away.

  “How do you know that?” the wyrmpriest asked.

  “This one does not know it,” said Vestapalk. “This one simply has faith.”

  64 THE AVENUE OF GLORY, NIGHT

  Tempest slowly came back to consciousness. It was like swimming up out of a dark pool. She blinked, but the darkness remained. And there was pain. A terrible, crushing pain. But the alien presence was gone. No, that wasn’t quite right. The alien presence was … sleeping? Unconscious? She could still feel it inside her mind, but it was no longer active or in control. For the moment, at least, Tempest’s body was her own.


  Unfortunately, she couldn’t move. Something heavy was on top of her. It felt like stone. A statue of some sort? Probably. There were certainly enough of them scattered throughout the Labyrinth. It was shattered and broken, but she was trapped beneath the heavy stone. She could move her right arm, and her head wasn’t buried, but the rest of her was pinned. She hurt all over, too. She felt like one massive bruise from her neck down to her toes.

  “Hello,” she called out, but her voice sounded weak even to her own ears, and she didn’t think there was anyone or anything nearby to hear her. She was totally alone.

  In the dark.

  Beneath Thunderspire Mountain.

  With an alien presence that had crawled up her nose and taken control of her body the way she might shove her hands into a pair of silk gloves. She shuddered at the memory.

  Time passed, but Tempest had no way of knowing how much time. The darkness was absolute, unchanging, and there were no sounds in the immediate vicinity to latch on to. She had nothing but pain to keep her company. Pain, and the growing sense of the alien presence inside her. Nu Alin. It referred to itself as Nu Alin. And it was … waking up? That was the only way she could describe the sensation. And that sense of it returning, of once again assuming control of her, that frightened her as nothing she had experienced ever had before.

  Wrapped up in her fear and the growing sense of dread that was welling up inside her, for long minutes Tempest didn’t recognize the approaching sounds as a change in the environment. When it dawned on her that something was making noise, that something was getting closer, she felt a moment of hope. But she quickly squelched that feeling. There was no hope for her. Not while the alien presence was inside her, and especially not when it was reaching a point where it could once again exert control over her. She didn’t want that to happen again.

  “You’re right,” she heard someone say. “I should have noticed the tripwire. Sorry about that.”

  “Sorry?” another voice, angry, deep. “That blade almost cut me in two!”

  “Not even close,” the first voice said. “Darrum, it easily missed you by almost a foot! Now, if you weren’t a dwarf.…”

  Tempest could see light now, faint but growing brighter as it danced closer through the darkness. There were seven figures approaching, each atop a horse and illuminated by two distinct sources of light. One radiated from the shoulder of a halfling. The other glowed at the top of a long staff. She recognized the figure with the staff. It was the wizard Albanon. And riding boldly beside him was Roghar.

  “Roghar!” Tempest called, but her voice barely exceeded the volume of a whisper.

  It was enough, however. She saw that Albanon had heard her. He was pointing excitedly, and he and Roghar were rushing toward her.

  “No,” she pleaded, “stay back. The halfling-thing. It’s inside me.”

  Albanon and Roghar reached her side. The dragonborn got right to work, trying to lift the heavy stones.

  Albanon bent down beside her, expressions of relief and concern that almost made Tempest laugh battled across his angular face. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking her free hand in his.

  “Albanon,” she managed to say. “You have to do what I say. Before the creature takes control again.”

  Now the wizard looked confused, apprehensive.

  “Kill me,” Tempest pleaded. “Now, while you still can.”

  65 THE AVENUE OF GLORY, NIGHT

  Falon listened to the brief exchange. Had he heard the tiefling woman correctly? Did she ask Albanon to kill her? He didn’t quite understand what the halfling-thing that Albanon had described was, but it seemed that the tiefling believed that it was inside her now. How had she gotten trapped under the fallen statue? What had happened here? Falon felt completely unprepared for whatever they were next going to encounter under the mountain.

  “Cleric,” Albanon said to Falon, though his gaze never wavered from the tiefling. “Do you think we can drive this creature out of Tempest?”

  Falon looked young and helpless. “I’m still an apprentice,” he said softly. “I’ve never even heard of anything like this. Your guess is as good as mine at this point.”

  Roghar continued to struggle with the fallen rubble, trying to lift the heavy weight off of the tiefling. He wasn’t getting very far. Shara and Darrum moved to help him as he said, “If we do as Tempest asks, can you bring her back?”

  “From the dead?” Falon sputtered. “I can’t perform that level of miracle. I only ever saw my master attempt such a feat once in my time with him, and he wasn’t able to successfully complete the ritual. This is just crazy.”

  “Please,” the tiefling said again, her voice barely a whisper in the dark passage. “I can feel it growing stronger. I don’t have much time. You need to kill me now. While you still can.”

  Erak walked over to stand beside Albanon. Roghar, Shara, and Darrum continued to strain against the fallen statue, but so far they hadn’t been able to budge it at all. The three positioned themselves to improve their grips on the stone.

  “On the count of three,” Roghar said. “Three!”

  The three physically strong adventurers strained and lifted with all their might. They were able to raise the broken statue enough for Albanon to slide Tempest out from under the crushing weight. Falon could see how badly hurt she was. He wondered if his healing powers would be enough to save her from her wounds.

  “Tempest’s death is not something I wish to contemplate,” Roghar said, “but I will not see her controlled by this foul invader, either. Perhaps divine magic can be used to cast it out. Both I and the young cleric have some aptitude in this regard.”

  “Albanon,” Erak said gently, “you saw this creature in action. I did not. What is your estimation? Is it as powerful as the tiefling fears?”

  Tears welled in the eladrin’s eyes. The pseudodragon curled around his neck had remained surprisingly silent. Finally, Albanon said, “Yes. It killed the great wizard Moorin. It’s as powerful as that and more.”

  Erak nodded, and in one swift motion that Falon could barely follow, the revenant drew his hellsteel blade and plunged it into the tiefling’s midsection. Tempest opened her mouth and screamed. It was a sound that chilled Falon to the bone, because it seemed to be two screams being loosed simultaneously from the same set of vocal chords. The sound was unnerving.

  “Falon, Roghar,” Erak commanded, “prepare yourselves. When we see the creature’s true form, use your magic against it. Then you must heal the tiefling as quickly as you can. And whatever you do, don’t let the creature get near you.”

  Two things happened very quickly then. First, Falon saw a crystalline substance flow from the tiefling’s open mouth and nose. It was translucent red in color, though it had strands of silver and flecks of gold floating within the thick liquid. As the substance poured forth from the tiefling’s dying body, great echoes of heavy stone striking heavy stone resounded out of the darkness ahead. A large form, like a man in granite armor, barreled out of the darkness and plowed into Roghar and Shara, knocking them to the ground. Darrum had managed to leap out of the stone creature’s path, and Uldane moved to help him against the monster.

  Falon decided that the others would have to deal with the golem or whatever it was. He had to concentrate on the strange crimson substance that even now was flowing toward Albanon. “Erathis, aid your servant,” Falon prayed, pointing the sword of Nerath at the fast-moving substance. A lance of radiant light flew from the tip of Arante’s blade and burned into the crimson-silver substance. Smoke rose from the spot where the light struck, and the radiance rippled throughout the substance as a lingering afterglow. It never stopped moving, despite the wound, but it instantly changed direction. Like a thing alive, like a thing with a cruel and calculating intelligence, the substance flowed away from Albanon and directly toward Falon.

  “That’s it, cleric,” Erak said as he leaped to join the battle against the golem, “you’ve got it right where you want it.”<
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  Falon gulped as the substance flowed closer. It was a fast-moving puddle, about the size of a large dog. Before it was on top of him, Falon began to recite a new prayer. But before he could bring the power of his calling to bear, a portion of the substance extended and struck Falon in the midsection with a surprisingly powerful blow. It knocked the air out of him and sent him stumbling backward. Even as he tried to recover, the substance was on him. It was flowing up his leg, extending crude crystalline appendages toward his face.

  It meant to enter him, through his nose and mouth, the way it had the tiefling.

  Falon tried to focus, to hold back his growing fear and revulsion.

  And then the crimson substance was flowing up his neck and chin.

  66 THE AVENUE OF GLORY, NIGHT

  Shara heard the great lumbering creature approaching before she saw it. By the time it slammed into the circle of light around the companions, it was too late for Shara to do anything other than prepare herself for the inevitable crash when the fast-moving, massive stone figure met armor and human flesh. The thing was shaped like a man, but the proportions were exaggerated. Its arms were too long, its body too broad, its feet too wide, and its head too small for it to be a human in a suit of stone armor. It had to be some sort of golem, and that was Shara’s last thought before the creature plowed into her and Roghar and sent the two companions flying.

  Shara rolled as best she could, but she still had the breath knocked out of her and her head rattled by the impact. She tried to stand up, but when she put weight on her left leg it collapsed beneath her. Her ankle had been twisted and she could feel it swelling up inside her boot. She hoped that was all it was. She hated when she broke bones, or at least when she broke her own bones. The thought of it, her leg bones snapping, perhaps a jagged edge breaking through her skin, made her feel a little queasy.