As had happened whenever Shara felt the battle lust rise within her, everything around her slowed and came into precise focus. She was hurtling through the air in what she perceived to be slow motion, following through with a strike that she knew with certainty would be a death blow to the already heavily wounded dragon. She also saw the glass vial and its fascinating contents. Part of her was drawn to the strange, glowing substance in a way that she didn’t understand. It was almost like the charm the dragon had used on her just moments before. Still, she was able to compartmentalize the sensation, to save it for later. If there was a later.
Shara’s blade cut into Vestapalk’s abdomen, drawing forth a great gush of blood and organs. The glass vial, meanwhile, swinging like a pendulum at the end of its chain, shattered against one of the dragon’s torn scales. The glowing red substance, thick and viscous, splattered into the dragon’s wound and on to Shara’s sword. Vestapalk howled in terrible pain, finally releasing its grip on the undead warrior.
For Shara, everything seemed to stop. She could see the entire situation, and she knew that although she might have dealt Vestapalk a death blow, her own death was surely inevitable. The gravely wounded dragon was already falling, its wings refusing to work as it howled in pain. Shara was falling, too, with no hope of catching the crumbling edge of the newly opened chasm beneath them. At the same time, the undead warrior pushed aside the dragon’s flailing talons and prepared to leap clear of the dying creature.
Shara couldn’t help but look at the glowing red liquid with the streaks of silver and the specks of gold. It was flowing into the dragon’s wound, mixing with the dying dragon’s own blood. There seemed to be so much of the substance. How had it all fit within that small vial, she wondered? The portion of the substance still on Shara’s blade was moving—flowing toward the sword’s point and then somehow flinging itself through the air to join with the larger mass of the substance pooling around the dragon’s torn scales and bleeding wound.
Shara saw all of this, and then she was falling. Something heavy slammed into her before she dropped into the chasm and knocked her back on to solid ground. She rolled once, bounced, and then hit the ground hard, coming to rest on her back. The undead warrior, rolling and bouncing alongside her, had somehow thrown himself from the dragon’s opened paw and collided with her on his way to safety.
Her head reeling and the breath knocked out of her, Shara barely registered that Albanon and Tempest had moved back to the edge of the chasm and were hurling whatever offensive spells they had left after the falling dragon. The undead warrior, battered and beaten, grabbed her hand and helped her to her feet. Since he was already dead, she couldn’t decide if he was badly hurt or not, but he didn’t seem too worse for wear.
“Death knight,” Roghar said, addressing the undead warrior as he recognized exactly what kind of creature it was.
“Paladin,” the death knight said, nodding once with a mixture of wariness and respect in his tone and movements. “The dragon is gone. Truce?”
Roghar looked around. “Agreed,” he said.
That was when Uldane leaped down from the top of a nearby stone vault. “Zombies!” the halfling cried exuberantly.
The death knight looked down into the chasm, an expression that Shara took as something like loss or regret passed over his skeletal face. Then he turned to Shara. “I thank you for the aid you offered me against the dragon,” the death knight said. “I shall leave you to deal with the lesser undead on your own. Farewell.” And with a slight bow, the death knight turned and started to run toward the fire burning at the center of the necropolis.
Shara sighed heavily. Then she smiled. “Looks like we have a bit more fighting to do,” she said, and she hefted her greatsword and let out a battle cry that rocked the necropolis.
82 ANDOK SUR, DAY
Darrum met the charge of the four-armed skeleton, countering each scimitar strike with one of his twin warhammers. The stoneguard, meanwhile, continued to make short work of the lesser skeletons, smashing them apart with each swing of one of its massive fists.
The four-armed skeleton never spoke. Darrum wasn’t even sure if it could. But the dwarf could feel the hatred and contempt that the powerful skeleton had for him. It was evident in the angry slashes of its scimitars and the casual way it blocked each of his own hammer strikes. Darrum glanced back to see what the golem was up to and noticed that it had defeated, at least for the moment, what was left of the horde of skeletons.
“Go,” Darrum shouted at the golem, hoping the construct would understand him and follow the order. “Go help Falon!”
The dwarf ranger turned his attention back to the scimitar-wielding skeleton just as one of its blades got through his defenses and slashed across his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if the golem was following his command or not, but he could hear its powerful footfalls fading into the distance. It was heading back toward the flaming brazier. At least, Darrum hoped that that was where it was going.
Of course, that meant that Darrum was on his own against the powerful skeleton. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for one last push against the creature.
“All right, you monstrosity,” Darrum said with conviction. “Let’s see how you fare against the last of the Imperial Shields. For Nerath!”
83 ANDOK SUR, DAY
Falon struggled against the freezing-cold fingers of ice that were wrapped tightly around him, but he couldn’t break free. He was held fast as Magroth brought the sharp dagger closer. If he didn’t think of something quickly, he was going to feel the sting of that blade, and he didn’t expect the Mad Emperor to stop with just a slight nick of his finger or cheek. He looked around, but Erak was still missing. Maybe he had deserted them, despite the pledge he made back in Fallcrest. And Darrum and the golem were fully engaged with a legion of skeletal warriors. He could expect no immediate help from that front, either.
“Why blood?” Falon asked, hoping to distract Magroth. “And why mine?”
“Why not?” the Mad Emperor cackled, resting the cold blade of the dagger against the side of Falon’s face, its tip uncomfortably close to his right eye. “I jest, of course. You really don’t deserve an explanation, but I do so love to hear myself talk.”
Magroth moved closer, pressing his forehead against Falon’s so that he could speak softly and still be heard above the clang of swords and the pounding of warhammers. Falon could smell dried blood in the Mad Emperor’s mouth, and he couldn’t help but notice the unusually sharp fangs that gleamed when he smiled.
“There’s this prophecy, you see,” Magroth explained, pressing the edge of the blade deeper into the side of Falon’s face. The young cleric could feel the blade, ever so lightly, cut into his flesh. “It concerns the living blood of Nerath. You. This prophecy says that you will disrupt the grandiose plans that Orcus the Demon Prince has concocted for this era. I’ve been sent to remove you from the equation.”
Falon swallowed hard, trying to maintain as calm an air as he could despite the circumstances he found himself in. “Why would you agree to help a demon prince? Why would you want to kill your own descendent?”
“You are nothing to me, boy,” Magroth admitted. “A means to an end, nothing more. You see, Lord Orcus and I have a long relationship. Unfortunately, every deal I ever made with the Demon Prince has ended badly for me. I expect this current arrangement will wind up following that same weary path. So I’ve decided to change the deal. I’m performing the ritual he gave me, just as I was commanded to do. And I’m going to kill you, just as the deal demands. But I’ve made a few … improvements … to the spell. By using your blood, I can change the results of the ritual. Not only will this city of the undead bow before me, but I will also ensure, through the use of your blood, that Orcus is banished from this reality for a thousand years. With that done, I will be free from the curse that haunts me, free from the commands of the Demon Prince of Undeath and able to chart a new course for this world. Nerath shall rise again, and I shall
be its emperor!”
“Deals? You made multiple deals with the demon prince?”
“Yes, boy, haven’t you been listening?” Magroth almost shouted. “I wasn’t much older than you are now when I first offered my soul to Orcus. What did I care? I wasn’t really using it and I had an empire to win! Orcus gave me the power to turn Nerath into a great nation, and I was immune to harm from anything related to the natural world. So what if I had to pay a tithe in blood every ten years? That’s what wars and backwater settlements are for, after all. But after I was killed—assassinated by one of my own trusted knights—I suspect that my descendents failed to honor the deal I had established. Really, I’m surprised Orcus allowed Nerath to last as long as he did after I died.”
“Nerath was beholden to Orcus?” Falon couldn’t believe what this terrible creature was telling him. “The great human empire? Built on blood sacrifices and deals with demons?”
“Don’t sound so mortified,” Magroth said. “After all, it worked for Bael Turath and the devils long before I thought of it.”
“This mark on my arm is a curse,” Falon shouted, “and that curse led to Nerath’s destruction and all the pain this valley has undergone since the empire fell!”
“Enough!” Magroth commanded. “Lift your head so that I can make a clean cut along your throat.”
“I shall not give up before the likes of you,” Falon said, his voice clear and strong. “Erathis, drive this abomination before you with holy light!”
The symbol of Erathis, which decorated Falon’s tabard as well as the hilt of his sword, glowed with a light that was pure and white. It expanded in a wave from Falon and burned into Magroth. The undead wizard screamed as the light seared him and pushed him away from the young cleric. The light continued to shine for another moment, and then it released its hold on the Mad Emperor.
“Parlor tricks?” Magroth said, turning the angry white orbs that were his eyes toward Falon. “You hope to defeat me with parlor tricks and uttered prayers to an insignificant god? And you do it with my own sword? I need you alive when I bleed you, boy, but just barely.” The Mad Emperor began to cast a spell of his own, weaving arcane energy around the top of his staff.
Before Magroth could hurl the spell, however, the open square began to shake and rumble. The stoneguard charged Magroth, coming at him like an unstoppable avalanche. Magroth cursed and ordered the golem to stop. “Obey me,” he shouted.
The golem didn’t seem to hear him, or maybe Darrum was right and Falon’s living blood was more potent than Magroth’s undead blood when it came to commanding a stoneguard.
“You just can’t count on good help these days,” the Mad Emperor said. He turned the spell toward the golem. A serpent of lightning leaped from the tip of his staff and smashed into the golem, sending the stoneguard careening into a nearby mausoleum. The entire structure, already weakened, collapsed atop the golem.
Magroth turned back to address Falon. “Now, where were we boy? Oh yes, I was about to hurt you. Very, very badly.”
84 IN SHADOW, WHERE TIME IS MEANINGLESS
Erak watched events unfold through the small opening he maintained between the natural world and Shadow. When he saw Magroth, when he heard the Mad Emperor’s voice, a thousand disconnected images flashed through his mind. He was remembering something, and it was probably important, but he had yet to be able to sort through the cacophony of thoughts echoing behind his eyes. It was disconcerting, and he had to step out of the world for a moment so that he could deal with it.
Now, however, he realized that time was running out. He knew this undead wizard, knew him well. That much was evident in what he could fathom from the constantly shifting images. He knew him and he hated him. Was that a real memory? Or was it a memory planted by the Raven Queen to make sure that he did whatever it was she wanted him to do?
In the end, did it really matter? He had promised Falon that he would be his friend and protector, and right now he wasn’t fulfilling either of those roles very well. He tried to calm his racing thoughts, to sweep aside the confusion and uncertainty. No matter who this creature was or what connection existed between them, Erak had only one course of action left open to him. His honor demanded it.
He had to return to the world and help Falon.
He had to save the heir of Nerath.
With that goal firmly in mind, serving as a fortress against the storm of raging memories, Erak stepped back into the world.
85 ANDOK SUR, DAY
Erak emerged from the shadows behind Magroth. He started to reach for the pommel of his hellsteel blade, when he noticed the dagger sticking out of the Mad Emperor’s back. It was buried deep, all the way to the hilt. Erak remembered that weapon, like a distant memory slowly rising through the murk of centuries. At that moment, all thoughts of other weapons were pushed aside. At that moment, Erak knew that he had to use that dagger. He had to use it again.
Half a dozen silent steps brought Erak to within arm’s reach of Magroth. The Mad Emperor was focused completely on Falon, and he had already hit the cleric with a scorching blast of fire that had partially melted the fingers of ice still firmly wrapped around the young man. Erak reached out, letting his fingers curl around the handle of the dagger. It felt good in his hand. It felt right.
And when his fingers closed around the grip, Erak remembered everything.
Krondor had not only grown disillusioned with Emperor Magroth, he had grown fearful of the man and what he was planning to do with the empire. Krondor had used his position and proximity to the emperor to uncover the secrets that others whispered about in the backrooms of taverns and the lower chambers of the many imperial palaces scattered throughout the land. He had discovered that Magroth secretly worshiped the Demon Prince Orcus, and the very thought of it made Krondor’s blood run cold. This man, this empire that Krondor and his brother had pledged their lives to, they were built on blood sacrifices and unholy pacts with demons. That was why Magroth was untouchable. Why even grievous wounds did little more than inconvenience the man. He was protected by his dealings with the Demon Prince of Undeath.
It took many months, but eventually Krondor found the answer he was seeking. A wandering mystic devoted to the Raven Queen offered Krondor one way to end the nightmare he had found himself a part of. “If you pledge yourself to the Raven Queen and take on the aspects of Shadow,” the mystic explained, “you will be able to overcome the foul protections that shield your emperor.”
Seeing no other solution, Krondor agreed. Then, keeping his plan hidden from even his beloved brother, Kalaban, Krondor waited for the right moment, the right opportunity to strike. It would mean assassinating the emperor of Nerath, breaking every vow he had ever made. But Krondor believed that those vows had been made under false pretenses. His emperor had lied to him, deceived him, and had killed thousands of innocent people just to expand his own power. Krondor could no longer be a part of that. Moreover, he had to put a stop to it.
His honor demanded it.
On that fateful day in the city of Darani, on the steps of the imperial palace, Krondor listened as Magroth condemned hundreds of children to death. He could not allow that to come to pass. He would tolerate no more blood being spilled to sate the foul Orcus, not while he had a way to stop it. Krondor slipped his dagger from its sheath and plunged it once, twice, three times into Magroth’s exposed back. As the Mad Emperor stepped away, Krondor let go of the blade’s handle. It remained stuck in Magroth’s back as he staggered down the steps.
“This … is … not … possible …” Magroth sputtered, spraying crimson droplets with every hard-fought word. “No natural power … can … harm me …”
“I am no longer natural,” Krondor spat, “and your reign of evil ends today!”
Before Krondor could draw his sword, Kalaban’s blade struck. It slipped between the plates of armor at his side, finding soft flesh and sinking deeply.
“Brother.…” Krondor tried to say, but the word never came out.
He fell to the stone steps, and a deep and lasting darkness overtook him.
“I was Krondor,” Erak said, drawing the dagger from Magroth’s back with one swift motion. It emerged with a sound like a cork being pulled from a bottle.
Magroth turned, surprise evident on his sunken, skull-like face. “Krondor? You?”
Erak looked at the old wizard with a mixture of pity and contempt. “Now I am Erak, champion of the Raven Queen,” the revenant stated simply.
Then he plunged the dagger into Magroth’s heart.
The Mad Emperor’s eyes grew wider still. “Not again,” he said, and as his knees buckled underneath him, a dark and heavy mist swirled around him. The mist swallowed Magroth, drawing him back to whatever dark hole he had crawled out of that had set this entire situation in motion.
The icy fist holding Falon simply faded away as soon as Magroth disappeared. Falon fell to the ground, gasping. He looked up at Erak. “Thank you,” he finally managed to say as he began to stand up.
“My liege,” Erak said, bowing slightly. He turned to the brazier. “Now that Magroth is finished, we need to douse this unholy flame.”
“Allow me,” Falon said.
The young cleric drew forth Arante and held the holy sword high. “The way is clear, oh powerful and bright Erathis!” Falon prayed. “Extinguish this foul fire with your own holy flame!”
The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel Page 28