The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel

by Bill Slavicsek

  Albanon hurled a couple of arcane bolts into the oncoming horde as he turned to run. He couldn’t help but wonder how they were going to get away when it seemed like the entire necropolis was regurgitating its undead. Without finding any answers, he followed Roghar and Tempest along the twisted, cobble-stone path.

  77 ANDOK SUR, DAY

  Uldane moved silently between the cracked and slanted stones as he sneaked toward the kobold wyrmpriest. He owed the kobold for the last time they met, and this time he planned for a different outcome. The wyrmpriest was less than twenty feet ahead of him. It was concentrating completely on the battle between the green dragon and the armored warrior and Shara, obviously looking for an opening to launch its own attack against the dragon’s foes.

  Green energy began to coalesce around the head of the wyrmpriest’s staff. Uldane planned to strike before the kobold had a chance to unleash the poison orb. The halfling didn’t know who the armored warrior was, but anyone fighting against Vestapalk was a friend in the halfling’s eyes. And friends don’t let other friends get shot in the back by cowardly kobolds.

  Uldane covered the last few feet as silently as he had the entire distance. He plunged his short sword into the kobold’s back, inflicting a deep cut that continued to bleed even as he drew out his blade and leaped to the side in anticipation of the kobold’s next move.

  The wyrmpriest howled in pain, spinning and firing its orb of poison wildly into the space where Uldane had been standing just a moment before. It splattered harmlessly against the side of one of the pillars of cracked stone.

  “Missed me,” Uldane said, hurling a dagger at the kobold.

  “You!” the kobold managed to say just before the dagger buried itself in the creature’s right shoulder.

  “Any last words, kobold?” Uldane asked as he tightened his grip on his sword.

  The wyrmpriest, seriously wounded, widened its eyes in sudden fear. Uldane didn’t expect that reaction. Even when he was winning a fight, few things ever appeared to be truly afraid of him. Something about his smile, he imagined. Or his size. But the kobold was clearly frightened about something.

  “Undead,” the kobold said, and it pointed behind the halfling.

  “Oh, come on! I haven’t used that old trick since I was a toddler. Do you really expect me to turn around and give you a chance to either run away or attack me while my back is turned?”

  “I expect them to kill you while I flee, yes.”

  “Them?”

  Uldane couldn’t help it. Now he was curious. He turned to see a swarm of zombies climbing out of the nearest stone vaults and shambling toward him.

  “Undead. Right.” The halfling started to hack at the nearest zombie before it could grab him.

  “Good luck,” the wyrmpriest said as it slipped into the shadows.

  Uldane couldn’t even think of a clever retort as he weaved and dodged among the zombies, trying to hack them to pieces before they could grab him.

  He didn’t have high hopes that this was going to end well for him, but as always, Uldane gave it his best shot.

  78 ANDOK SUR, DAY

  Falon followed Erak and Darrum directly into the center of the necropolis. There didn’t seem to be any reason to try to be stealthy, as the loud, plodding stoneguard accompanying them made the sneaky approach impossible to pull off. Getting to the open square in front of the Orcus temple was easy enough, despite the rumbling earthquake and the recently raised army of undead spilling into the cobbled paths around them. It was as though these newly risen undead, confused and disoriented, were simply allowing them to pass by. The light of the fire burning before the temple was like a beacon in the darkness, drawing the three companions and the golem directly toward its glow. The light cast by the flames was a sickly yellow seemingly ripe with what felt like evil to the young cleric of Erathis. That was the only word that came to mind when he gazed into those flickering flames.

  The undead never ventured on to the path they were traveling. Instead, the hordes of skeletons and zombies, as well as the occasional pack of ghouls, spread out into the darkness, away from the spires of the temple that Falon could see peeking above the closer hills of burial vaults and oddly stacked mausoleums. Even though he expected it, none of the undead so much as glanced in their direction, let alone moved to try to stop them from approaching the sickly light and the looming temple.

  It was as though they wanted them to pass, to reach the unholy fire and the doors to Orcus’s temple.

  “Does this feel like a trap to either of you?” Falon asked Erak and Darrum.

  “Trap might be too harsh a word,” Erak said, never slowing as he approached the light of the fire. “Invitation, more likely.”

  “That makes me feel so much better,” Falon said, and then he cried out and clutched his left wrist.

  “Falon?” Darrum asked, concern evident in his voice.

  “The mark,” Falon said through clenched teeth. “It burns.”

  “So does mine,” called a voice from around the next set of stone vaults.

  The companions turned the bend and entered an open square that was dominated by a huge brazier crafted from some kind of dark metal. In the pale glow of the fire that burned within the brazier, Falon saw a tall, gaunt man—the man from his dream. He was dressed in ornate robes and carried a wizard’s staff. His hair, long wisps of white, framed a narrow face that revealed flesh that wasn’t quite alive.

  “The old adage must be true,” the gaunt man laughed, “relatives can be a real pain.”

  Falon noticed that Erak had slipped into the shadows and literally disappeared. One moment he was there, and the next he was gone. He wasn’t hiding, not the way the young cleric had observed Uldane use shadows to block himself from view. Erak seemed to step into the shadows and fade away. It was unsettling to think about.

  In Erak’s sudden absence, Darrum decided to take the lead. He stepped forward and addressed the gaunt man. “I am Darrum, an Imperial Shield of Nerath,” the dwarf called out. “To whom do we have the pleasure of speaking with?”

  The gaunt man laughed again. It was a chilling sound. “I’m not sure I’d call it a pleasure, but I am your emperor. I am Magroth the First, ruler of Nerath. Now step aside foolish dwarf and let me see my grandson—several generations removed.”

  Darrum hesitated and reached for the twin hammers that hung at his side. Before their civil conversation got out of hand, Falon approached the Mad Emperor. He stepped in front of Darrum and bowed before Magroth.

  “I’m here,” Falon said, rising out of the bow to stand straight and tall before his ancestor. “Shouldn’t you be rotting away in some treasure-filled tomb somewhere?”

  Magroth took a couple of steps away from the brazier and examined Falon from head to foot with a long, penetrating glance. “Eh,” Magroth said, “I see the bloodline must have been corrupted somewhere along the way. You certainly don’t look like the heir to the throne of Nerath.”

  “There is no throne, you old ghost,” Falon said. “Nerath, like you, is long dead.”

  Magroth’s insane smile twisted into a snarl. “And like me, boy, Nerath will soon return. And it will be stronger and more powerful than it ever was before!”

  “Great,” Falon replied, “if you say so. But why involve me? I don’t want anything from you. I don’t care about the throne.”

  “But I want something from you, boy. Something precious. Come closer and we can discuss just what you can do to help me.”

  The undead emperor tossed something into the fire, and the flames flared brightly for a moment as whatever was in the small black pouch was consumed. He was saying something as well, too softly for Falon to hear, but it reminded the young cleric of a chant or a prayer. A ritual! The undead emperor was performing some kind of ritual while carrying on a conversation with him.

  “Falon, be careful,” Darrum warned. He drew forth Dawnfire and Nightstorm, the magical warhammers that the dwarf wielded with such skill and prowess. “T
he stories I’ve heard about the Mad Emperor suggest that he’s not to be trusted.”

  Magroth’s milky-white eyes blazed with fury at Darrum’s words. “Mad Emperor? Mad Emperor!?” Magroth screamed. “You dare insult Magroth the First? You dare?”

  Lightning leaped from Magroth’s long fingers and streaked toward the dwarf. Darrum barely managed to cross his warhammers in front of him, but the magical weapons caught the bolt of lightning and kept it from slamming into the dwarf.

  Magroth waved his hand in disgust, casually dismissing the dwarf. “Kill him,” he ordered, and a small army of skeletal warriors that were marching by changed course and rushed toward Darrum. Falon quickly calculated and determined that there were more of the undead than Darrum could handle. He signaled to the stoneguard that was standing right beside him.

  “Help Darrum,” Falon commanded. As soon as the golem began to move to engage the skeletal warriors, Falon turned his attention to his ancestor.

  Emperor Magroth smiled. “Perhaps there’s a little of me inside you after all, boy,” Magroth said proudly. “Remind me to check after I complete the ritual.”

  Magroth gestured, reaching toward Falon and closing his fist as he whispered a word of power. As his fist closed, a giant hand of ice formed around the young cleric and slammed shut, wrapping him in its chilling fingers. Freezing pain seared through Falon as the icy hand grabbed him and lifted him into the air.

  “Bring my descendent to me,” Magroth said, slapping his closed fist to his chest. The icy hand duplicated the gesture, carrying Falon to where the Mad Emperor stood.

  “Your blood, boy,” Magroth said. “I wish you no ill, but I will have your blood.”

  Falon struggled within the icy grasp, but it seemed hopeless. He couldn’t break free from the freezing-cold fist.

  “With your blood, I may actually be able to end the curse and restore glory to Nerath,” Magroth said, letting his insane smile stretch wider still. “Let’s see if this works.”

  Falon could only watch as the Mad Emperor drew a wickedly sharp dagger from the folds of his robes.

  79 THE OLD HILLS, DAY

  The horses waiting at the top of the gaping hole that overlooked the cavern suddenly became nervous and agitated. They scattered in all directions, trying to put some distance between themselves and the approaching figure. Barana Strenk smiled. She had the same effect on most living creatures.

  She stepped to the side of the gaping hole and looked into the darkness below. A blazing fire glowed near the center of the cavern, far down toward the rocky bottom of the great open space. The death priest nodded her approval. Magroth had begun the ritual. Soon, the way would be prepared for Orcus’s army of undead. The Mad Emperor would have no choice but to lead the army, just as Orcus had willed it. Magroth was well on his way to completing the three tasks that Orcus had set before him. Before darkness fell, the Nentir Vale would be facing the worst threat since humans had settled the valley. Soon, Orcus would rule this land. And then the lands around it. And then the entire world.

  Barana extended her senses, feeling for the life force of the one that was prophesied to disrupt the plans of Orcus and set the stage for the Demon Prince’s downfall. There, near the blazing fire, she could feel the living blood of Magroth’s descendent. He wasn’t dead yet, and that momentarily troubled Barana. Then she thought about how powerful, how determined the Mad Emperor was, and all troubling thoughts left her.

  The young cleric with the royal blood would be dead soon enough, and then nothing would be able to interfere with Orcus’s grand plans for this world.

  Nothing at all.

  80 ANDOK SUR, DAY

  Darrum swung Dawnfire and Nightstorm in great, sweeping arcs. Each swing shattered bones and momentarily cleared a section of space around the dwarf, but more skeletons immediately moved in to replace those that had fallen. Worse, even the skeletons that Darrum shattered with his magical warhammers weren’t destroyed. He could see the bones drawing back together and repairing themselves even as he fought to take down more of the undead.

  “I’m getting really tired of fighting things that are already dead,” Darrum grumbled.

  The stoneguard plowed through the mass of skeletons beside him, rolling over them like the great boulder of rock that it was. Falon had commanded it to help the dwarf, and that was just what it was doing. As strong as Darrum was, the stone golem was stronger. Each strike of the golem’s massive fists pulverized the bones they hit. It would take a lot of time and effort for those skeletons to return to the battle.

  “We should finish these things off in a matter of moments,” Darrum said as he dropped another four skeletons with a swipe from Dawnfire.

  The remaining skeletons clattered to the sides of the path, making room for a new combatant.

  “This can’t be good,” Darrum muttered, trying to figure out how they could disengage from the skeletons and get back to help Falon.

  The decrepit skeletons that remained positioned around them seemed to defer to the combatant striding forward. It was another skeleton, but it was slightly taller than the rest, and its bones were thick and solid. It had an extra pair of arms, positioned on an extra set of ball joints located in the pits of its first pair of arms. Each of its four hands held a wicked scimitar, and it twirled the blades in a way that suggested it knew how to use them. It crossed each pair of blades, letting the steel sing as it pulled each blade across the other. Obviously, the four-armed warrior was no ordinary skeleton.

  “Right,” Darrum said, realizing he wasn’t going to be able to get back to Falon as soon as he had hoped.

  81 ANDOK SUR, DAY

  Shara remained just beyond the reach of Vestapalk’s claws, but that also left her more than a few steps away from delivering sword strikes of her own against the dragon. The green dragon held the undead warrior in one taloned claw, and Shara could see that the talons had pierced the warrior’s armor in three places. He had dropped his shield at some point in the battle, but he still maintained a grip on his long sword. Unfortunately, the sword and the hand that gripped it were trapped beneath the dragon’s crushing talons.

  Another rumble shook the cavern, opening steaming cracks along the floor and raining dust and small stones from above.

  Shara wanted to scream in frustration! She was so close to her goal of killing Vestapalk, of avenging the deaths of all of the people the dragon had killed around Winterhaven, including her friends, her father, and her beloved Jarren, but she couldn’t take down the dragon by herself. She wasn’t that good or that powerful. She wasn’t sure if anyone was. But part of her wanted to rush at the foul creature, anyway, no matter how slim the odds.

  “Face me, Vestapalk,” Shara called. “Drop the undead and see if you can stand against my blade and my fury!”

  The green dragon seemed to smile, though it didn’t actually have the facial structure to accomplish such a gesture. It looked down at the weakly struggling creature it held tightly in one clawed fist.

  “Vestapalk wonders what undead meat tastes like?” the green dragon said. “This one wonders if it tastes like carrion.”

  The dragon raised the undead warrior toward its tooth-filled maw, apparently intent on taking a bite. Shara tried to rush in and slash with her greatsword, but Vestapalk easily held her at bay with a swipe of its tail. The tail strike missed its mark, but it still made Shara dodge and back off to avoid a bone-crushing hit.

  As soon as the dragon opened its mouth and started to bite, however, the undead warrior called forth a burst of black fire. The unholy flames spread out from the undead warrior’s body, engulfing the dragon’s arm, head, and part of its neck in the necrotic fire. Vestapalk roared in pain as the fire charred and blackened its emerald scales, but the dragon didn’t let go of the undead warrior.

  “Face me, you abomination!” Splendid roared as she flew straight toward Vestapalk’s head.

  The green dragon instinctively tried to bite the tiny dragon, but Splendid darted away from
the snapping jaws.

  Next, Albanon and Tempest rushed out of the darkness behind Shara to stand beside her, each taking a position to her left and right. They hurled arcane spells at Vestapalk, striking in unison with darts of force and eldritch blasts. These attacks further frustrated the green dragon, but they were little more than minor annoyances in the grand scheme of things.

  Roghar appeared then, though he was facing back the way the others had come from. The dragonborn backed up until his armored shoulders were touching Shara’s. “A lot of dead things are about to join us,” Roghar said. “We’re about to be trapped between the dragon and a horde of undead.”

  Worse than that, Shara realized. They were clumped too close together. The four of them made a perfect target for the dragon’s gaseous breath. She looked into Vestapalk’s emerald eyes and saw that it had realized the same thing. It prepared to breathe.

  That was when another powerful rumble rolled through the cavern. Great monuments of stone, already slanted at dangerously unstable angles, began to topple over. One of the nearby mausoleums, its walls cracked by the same force that had opened its heavy doors, collapsed in a cloud of rising dust. At the same time, the ground the dragon was standing on split open and fell away. Vestapalk began to fall into the collapsing ground only to save itself by furiously flapping its powerful wings.

  Shara stood at the edge of the newly opened chasm even as Albanon and Tempest threw themselves backward to avoid sliding in. The woman warrior held her greatsword at her side, its long blade parallel to the floor. She leaped at the dragon, bringing the blade around to open the creature’s belly with one mighty strike. The dragon tried to defend itself, using the undead warrior’s body as a shield. Shara’s blade sliced through the undead warrior’s belt pouch, narrowly missing cutting into the warrior himself. She briefly registered that her blade had ripped something free from the warrior’s belt pouch. It was a small glass vial, full of a glowing red substance that was run through with veins of silver and flecks of gold. The chain attached to the metal cap that sealed the vial had caught on the edge of the blade, and it was now swinging on a collision course with the dragon.