Sacred fire, white and pure, spilled out of the sky above and filled the dark-metal brazier. Erathis’s fire was stronger, more potent than the flames dedicated to Orcus, and it was literally a case of fighting one kind of fire with another. As the sacred flames flared and died out, they took the sickly yellow fire with it.
“Krondor!” came a shout from the path leading into the square. An armored figure, his plate armor fire-black and terribly dented, strode out of the darkness. “Krondor, face me!”
86 ANDOK SUR, DAY
Kalaban couldn’t believe his eyes. Although the body and form had changed, he knew, deep in his own dark soul, that the revenant who had just slain Magroth was his brother, Krondor, back from the dead. He watched in stunned silence as the dark mists of the Shadowfell reached out and pulled Magroth back, presumably to the dread domain of isolated Darani. He struggled to think of what to do next as the young cleric dosed the fire of Orcus with the power of Erathis’s flames. Then, with a sinking conviction, he drew forth his soulsword and called out, “Krondor! Krondor, face me!”
The revenant turned and gave Kalaban a sad, forlorn look. He shook his head. “Krondor no longer exists,” the revenant said. “And Erak has no desire to fight with you this day, Kalaban.”
The revenant turned to the young cleric. He had to be Magroth’s descendant, this age’s heir to the throne of Nerath, because the thing that called itself Erak was bowing before him.
“If you ever need me again and I am able,” the revenant said, “I will be at your side. Until then, walk tall and with honor, friend Falon, heir to Nerath.”
And then, with only a single glance in Kalaban’s direction, the revenant stepped into the shadows and disappeared.
Kalaban stood motionless for a long moment. He saw that the various undead that had been up and running around just minutes ago were either returning to their tombs or collapsing to the ground where they stood. Whatever foul plan Barana Strenk had set in motion was finished. At least for now. The Necropolis of Andok Sur was returning to its ancient sleep and would soon be just as they had found it. Silent. Dead.
He was sorry that he had lost the small glass vial and the strange substance inside it, but a part of him was also relieved that the thing was gone. He knew that it had cast some kind of spell on him, and it had been a spell that grew stronger with each passing day. Truth be told, Kalaban didn’t think he could have tossed away the vial. It wanted him, and he had been very close to giving himself to the strange substance. Luckily, the woman warrior had taken the decision out of his hands. Now the captivating stuff was at the bottom of a crevasse with the body of the green dragon. Now that it was no longer in his possession, he felt no compulsion to go back and retrieve the stuff. He decided it was better this way.
The knight-commander looked from the young cleric to the dwarf ranger moving to stand beside him. He noticed that the stoneguard was also plodding over to take a protective position near the young man. Kalaban decided that that was good. He had enough of plots and battles to last several lifetimes, and for today at least, he was done. Without a word or a glance back, he walked into the darkness. He was free, and it was time to find his own place in this world.
87 THE OLD HILLS, DAY
Barana Strenk, death priest of Orcus, shrank back as the sky above suddenly flared with pure, white light. The holy radiance poured down into the cavern that held the ruins of the Necropolis of Andok Sur, momentarily driving back the shadows and disrupting the ritual that Magroth had been performing. Barana shielded her eyes from the blinding light and stretched out with her other senses to understand what was happening. It was always one god or another that decided to get in the way of her master’s plans. Usually it was the agents of the Raven Queen who worked to undo their accomplishments, but this didn’t feel like the work of the Lady of Fate and Winter. For one thing, it was much too bright.
“Erathis,” Barana said the name as though it was a curse word. “The blood of Nerath still lives.”
She crept back to the side of the chasm and peered down into the returning darkness as the light from above faded. She saw that the sickly yellow glow from the center of the necropolis had also been extinguished. The ritual had been stopped as easily as she could stamp out a burning ember. Magroth had failed. She had failed. There would be much to answer for in the days ahead. Much to endure as she begged and pleaded for her life.
No matter. Lord Orcus would not destroy her for this failure. Not while she still had something to offer the Demon Prince. Not while there was still a way for her to make amends for this momentary setback. She took comfort in that truth, even as she contemplated the torments that would be heaped on her before she was released to take up the next mission for her master.
Barana conjured up an image of the revenant, picturing the Raven Queen’s creature that called itself Erak. He would pay for each scar inflicted on her, for each torment she was subjected to. The death priest swore to Orcus that there would be a reckoning with the Lady of Fate’s champion, and she relished the thought of dealing with the creature personally.
Then she recalled the young and innocent face of Magroth’s descendant, the cleric of Erathis named Falon. She burned the memory of the blood of Nerath into her mind, for she also promised to deal with him before he could cause more trouble for her master. She remembered the prophecy of the Felish Oracle. “The blood of Nerath shall grievously wound the Demon Prince of Undeath, perhaps even kill that which cannot die.” That particular stanza had made Barana’s blood run cold when she had first encountered it. She vowed that she would end the royal line of Nerath before she allowed such an event to come to pass.
But not today.
She heard the rattle of bones and flapping of wings that always signaled the presence of her master. Behind her, a swirling portal of shadow irised open, and a blast of stale, dead air blew past her. She turned and fell to one knee before the gaping hole in space.
Barana started to speak, to offer some sort of excuse, but she found no words that would justify the events of the day. So she simply said, “I have failed you, Lord Orcus.”
A great taloned hand, its palm easily as wide as she was tall, reached out of the swirling blackness. It paused above her, as though deciding whether to slash her to ribbons or bash her into a bloody paste. Instead, the fingers curled around her and lifted her from the ground.
“I am ready, my master,” Barana said.
The taloned fist, with Barana firmly in its grasp, slowly pulled back into the swirling blackness. For better or worse, Barana thought, she was going home.
88 THE OLD HILLS, LATE AFTERNOON
It took the companions hours to extract themselves from the ruin-filled cavern and make their way back to the safety of the Old Hills. Luckily, as soon as Falon had extinguished the sickly fire burning in the brazier before the temple of Orcus, the hordes of undead lost cohesion and their sense of purpose. Many collapsed right where they were standing, as though whatever dark magic had animated them had simply been snuffed out. The rest wandered away, returning to their tombs or finding other dark recesses in which to hide. What had started as a battle the companions couldn’t win had become no battle at all. And for that, at least, Shara was grateful.
Sometime during the climb back to the surface, Erak had whispered a good-bye to Shara, and then he stepped into the shadows and disappeared. She was sorry to see him go.
“I’m not entirely sure what happened down there,” Falon admitted. “Erak killed Magroth, but he seemed to have had some kind of history with the Mad Emperor.”
“Perhaps he’ll return one day and clear up all the mysteries,” Darrum suggested.
“I know what happened,” Uldane said, tossing a large gold coin into the air, catching it, and tossing it again.
“Please enlighten us, brave rogue,” Tempest said, smiling at the halfling.
“It was my lucky coin,” Uldane explained. “Actually, Jarren’s lucky coin, but he gave it to me to hold on to. Anywa
y, as long as I had the coin, I knew nothing too bad was going to happen to us. It’s magic.”
“Well,” Shara said, a smile playing across her lips, “Jarren always thought so. I think he’d be glad to know that it served you so well, my friend.”
Shara looked over the group. Falon and Darrum stood together, checking to see if their horses were all right as the stone golem looked on. Uldane stood next to Albanon, gently petting the pseudodragon wrapped around the eladrin’s arm. Roghar and Tempest, meanwhile, had rounded up the rest of the horses and were leading them back to the larger group.
“What now?” Falon asked.
Shara waited, but no one offered any suggestions. With Erak gone, she guessed it was up to her to lead this unlikely group. “Let’s return to Fallcrest,” she said at last. “We could all use a hot meal and a warm bed.”
Albanon nodded. “I have some business to take care of in the town, anyway,” he said softly. “I need to take care of Moorin’s affairs, close up the tower.”
“And prove your innocence,” Roghar added gently.
“Yes,” Albanon said, “that, too.”
As they mounted up, Shara turned to Falon. “I’m not sure they’ll appreciate you bringing a stone golem into the town walls.”
“Hmm,” the young cleric said, “probably not. But what do you think they can do about it?”
Darrum moaned. “I thought we had decided not to call any more attention to ourselves than necessary.”
The companions laughed, and the sound was good.
Shara gave her mount a gentle kick, and she started to ride south, toward the Trade Road. The companions followed after her, glad to leave the necropolis behind them.
89 ANDOK SUR, NIGHT
Tiktag half-climbed, half-fell down the crumbling wall into the crevasse that had swallowed Vestapalk. He hurt all over. That damned halfling had wounded him, and the cuts in his back and shoulder burned as though they were on fire. He hated the halfling. But at the moment, all he could think about was reaching his master’s side. If Tiktag was going to die, then he wanted to die beside the mighty Vestapalk.
The kobold wyrmpriest didn’t need any light to see by. His darkvision allowed him to navigate the blackness of this pit without problem. Vestapalk was sprawled ahead of him, its limbs bent at unnatural angles and its neck twisted so badly that it made Tiktag hurt even more just thinking about it.
The wyrmpriest hobbled over to the green dragon and rested a tiny hand on one massive emerald scale. His poor master was cut even more terribly than he was, sliced by blades and scorched by magic. Its left forearm, head, and neck had been burned badly, and its blood, crimson with strands of silver and flecks of gold, covered its body.
Tiktag paused. Dragon blood didn’t have strands of silver or flecks of gold in it. And it certainly didn’t glow like the thick substance around Vestapalk’s wounds was doing. What was this strange substance? Tiktag slowly poked at the thick ooze with a finger, and the stuff flowed away from his touch. The way it moved startled the kobold, and he stepped away from the dragon.
“Oh, mighty Vestapalk,” the wyrmpriest moaned, “what have they done to you? Why has the Elemental Eye forsaken us? Where is the Herald we were promised? Oh, so many questions, and no answers for poor Tiktag.”
Suddenly, strange veins of glowing crimson with silver undertones appeared around Vestapalk’s closed eye. The veins spread out, covering the dragon’s snout and working their way between the scales along its neck.
“What’s going on?” the wyrmpriest asked, not really expecting any answer.
And that’s when Vestapalk’s eye snapped open and focused on him.
“Master?” Tiktag asked as he watched the veins of glowing crimson and silver continue to snake their way along the green dragon’s massive form.
90 THE LABYRINTH, TIME UNKNOWN
Nu Alin flowed across the dark, stone floor. His entire being was wracked by terrible pain. He wasn’t supposed to be exposed like this, outside of a vessel, and he could feel his liquid crystal substance beginning to lose cohesiveness and form. He was coming to the realization that he was going to die here, beneath Thunderspire Mountain, when he had finally gotten so close to recovering the Voidharrow.
Suddenly a flash of recognition rippled through his oozelike body. He hadn’t felt such a sensation since the ritual they had performed so many centuries ago. Could it be? He stretched out his senses, trying to get a clearer feeling. Yes, yes! The Voidharrow was free!
Nu Alin felt a renewed sense of purpose. The Voidharrow needed him. He couldn’t just die down here in the darkness. Not now. Not when the Voidharrow was finally free.
He flowed across the cold stone, moving faster as he sought any living thing that could serve as a vessel. He lost all track of time and distance, but eventually he felt the heat of a torch radiating from the passage ahead. Nu Alin flowed up the wall and across the ceiling, moving carefully as to avoid detection.
There, in the passage ahead, a single gnoll stood guard. The humanoid hyena stood beneath a dimly burning torch. It carried a longbow, one arrow nocked, while a hand axe hung at its side. The gnoll seemed bored, almost ready to doze off in this lonely section of the Labyrinth.
Yes, Nu Alin decided, this form will do.
EPILOGUE
IN SHADOW, TIME UNKNOWN
Erak flowed among the shadows, letting the quiet soothe his troubled thoughts. He didn’t know how long he floated like that, or how long the presence had been with him. He just knew that at some point he wasn’t alone any more.
The sound of a thousand fluttering wings suddenly surrounded him, wrapping him in peace and a feeling of total security. In addition to the sound of wings in the darkness, there was a chill in the air, like the approaching winter.
“Are we done now?” Erak asked, speaking to the darkness.
He waited, feeling the Lady’s presence all around him. The feeling was good.
“Can I go back to the quiet and the peace? Can I return to the deep shadows?”
Not yet, my champion, the chill wind seemed to whisper, caressing him with its winter-cold touch.
Not yet. There is work to do.
The End …
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bill Slavicsek is the Director of R&D for Dungeons & Dragons and Book Publishing at Wizards of the Coast. He is the author or game designer of many titles, including Dungeons & Dragons for Dummies, A Guide to the Star Wars Universe, the D&D Eberron Campaign Setting, the Castle Ravenloft board game, and the D&D super adventure, Revenge of the Giants.
Bael Turath
“Flee,” the Chained God whispered. “Now.” He filled this thought with the image of the Living Gate, the tiny fragment of its substance that lay hidden in the ruins of Bael Turath, and sent those thoughts through the void, along the fragile connection between himself and his mortal servant. “Now!” he roared.
His voice echoed in the void, and the whispers of the Progenitor rose around him. “Now,” it said, slithering in the utter darkness. “Free.”
The Chained God gazed around at the red liquid crystal that swirled and undulated around him. “You will go before me to become the Living Gate,” he said. “To open my way to freedom.”
He formed a hand from the darkness of his substance and lifted a portion of the Progenitor’s substance. Tiny droplets of the red liquid trailed from his hand, shimmering in their own light. The fluid in his hand coiled around him, seeking something it could infuse and transform, but the Chained God was not flesh or matter. He brought it close and whispered over it, his frozen breath forming patterns of crystals across its surface.
“They will drown in blood,” he whispered, a familiar refrain.
All around him the Progenitor responded, “All will perish.”
Miri walked with her axe clutched in both hands, its thick haft resting on her shoulder, ready to swing at anyone or anything that jumped out at them in the ruins. The jagged spires and crumbling walls of Bael Turath loomed arou
nd her like a nightmare landscape, devil faces leering at her from ancient columns. It wasn’t so much the architecture and its grotesquerie that set her on edge, but a less tangible sense, an awareness of the evil history that brooded over the ruined city. It was within its walls, she knew, that the noble houses of the ancient empire that bore the city’s name had struck their fateful bargain with the powers of the Nine Hells, infusing their blood with a diabolical taint that persisted in the descendants of those houses—no longer human, but a race unto themselves, the tieflings. Such monstrous corruption had left its mark on the city, or at least she imagined it had. It made her flesh crawl and set her nerves on edge.
“The sooner we find this thing, destroy it, and get out of here, the happier I’ll be,” she whispered.
“I know,” Demas said, his voice as clear as a trumpet and almost as loud.
Miri flinched at his volume, afraid of what attention it might draw to their presence. She watched as he turned back away from her, his eyes searching the rubble ahead for any sign he might recognize from his strange and haunting dreams. She sighed. Not for the first time, she wished she understood him better, that she had even a taste of whatever it was that made him always so calm, so sure, so at peace. His walk with Ioun had made him more than human, rather like an angel given mortal form. His pale skin, marked with jagged patterns as red as blood, set him apart from more ordinary men, but the grace and calm that suffused his every word, his every movement, seemed like an image of the divine. When he was moved to wrath or compassion, and Ioun’s power flowed through him to smite his foes or comfort and strengthen his allies, she imagined she could see the eyes of the goddess in his beautiful face, and he walked in the paths she laid out for him, confident and trusting.
The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel Page 29