Untold Adventures: A Dungeons & Dragons Anthology

by Wizards of the Coast

  BORN OF THE LIQUID ABYSS, THE WORLD KNOWS A NEW AFFLICTION …

  Trace the plague’s inception with James Wyatt’s fivepart prelude novella, The Gates of Madness, available as a free eBook at www.wizards.com/dnd/novels.aspx

  THEN JOIN A CAST OF UNCOMMON HEROES AS THEY RUSH TO UNCOVER THE EXTENT OF THIS OTHERWORLDLY EVIL.

  Dungeons & Dragons

  Untold Adventures

  ©2011 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. WIZARDS OF THE COAST, DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, D&D and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. Other trademarks are property of their respective owners.

  Cover art by Android Jones

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5934-1

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  v3.1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  UNDER THE PLAINS OF RUST

  JOHN SHIRLEY

  THE STEEL PRINCESS

  ALAN DEAN FOSTER

  TALLFOLK TALES

  A TALE OF THE FORGOTTEN REALMS

  LISA SMEDMAN

  THE FOUNDLING

  MIKE RESNICK

  THE FORGE OF XEN’DRIK

  A TALE OF EBERRON

  KAY KENYON

  ARENA OF SHADOWS

  A TALE OF EBERRON

  SARAH ZETTEL

  WATCHERS AT THE LIVING GATE

  A TALE OF THE FORGOTTEN REALMS

  PAUL PARK

  BLOOD OASIS

  A TALE OF DARK SUN

  KEVIN J. ANDERSON

  LORD OF THE DARKWAYS

  A TALE OF THE FORGOTTEN REALMS

  ED GREENWOOD

  DREAMING OF WATERDEEP

  A TALE OF THE FORGOTTEN REALMS

  ROSEMARY JONES

  TO CHAOS AND BACK AGAIN

  JODY LYNN NYE

  THE DECAYING MANSIONS OF MEMORY

  JAY LAKE

  UNDER THE PLAINS OF RUST

  JOHN SHIRLEY

  1.

  It was daylight outside the Nentir Inn, but in this windowless garret it might have been night. The dying warlock’s chamber was lit by a single feeble lamp dangling from the darkened ceiling; it swayed slightly, though there was no reason it should.

  A slender young steward in close-fitting black garments, Gnarl stood just inside the doorway, an empty tray in his hands, wondering what exactly the warlock wanted. He had refused all service but a little broth and wine. The shadows darkening the chamber seemed to have substance, and personality, as if they’d gathered in the room to observe the tiefling’s decline. He was, after all, no ordinary tiefling—Sernos was quite a famous worker of magic.

  “Come closer, young man,” said the warlock hoarsely, shifting on the small bed in the corner of the dank, shadowy room. “And close the door. I have a mission for you …” The tiefling’s rasping voice reminded Gnarl of the filing of old swords. Seeing Gnarl’s hesitation, the warlock scowled, the glow of his crimson eyes quickening like embers blown on a cold night. Trying to prop himself up on his pillows, Sernos gave an agonized grunt and pushed back his hood. Gnarl saw that the tiefling’s head was crowned by horns; his elongated features, always the color of a sunburn, were both noble and infernal.

  Reluctantly, Gnarl closed the door and took a step into the room. He feared a malediction should he refuse to approach. “May I fetch you a tonic?” Gnarl suggested. “For your injuries … Perhaps a soothing solution of the poppy—?”

  “Trying to put me to sleep, boy—so some assassin can slit my throat?” grated the warlock, eyes narrowing to fiery slits. “Has someone paid you to drug me?”

  Gnarl licked his lips. “I am thinly paid, and all gold is welcome, but I wouldn’t take a pot of it to poison a warlock. My papa did not raise a poltroon. I have no wish to be magicked into the Abyss.”

  “It’s curious you should mention the Abyss,” growled the warlock, grimacing in pain as he shifted again. “The wretch who passes for a healer to this inn mentioned you might moonlight as something of a thief. Is this”—he paused to take a shuddering breath—“is this indeed the case?”

  Gnarl cleared his throat. “I prefer the term ‘retrieval specialist.’ I have sometimes journeyed out and about to … cull special objects for guests of the inn—without the knowledge of our proprietor. I … re-appropriate. But never from anyone within these walls.”

  “The proprietor—ah, Zemoar!” said the warlock, glancing toward the door. “I am especially concerned you do not tell Zemoar about this. I mistrust elves, and half-elves. If you wish to undertake this quest for me, say nothing to anyone about it—except to those who might accompany you.”

  Gnarl bowed—slightly. He didn’t like the sound of the term “quest.” It implied long distances and unknown dangers. Truth be told, Gnarl was not half so good a thief as he supposed himself. But admitting failure was becoming painful to him. He had failed at being an apprentice to his uncle, a low-level wizard, though he’d gotten something of an education. He had earned only a pocketful of gold as a “retrieval specialist”—he could not afford to quit his day job. Still …

  “Quests are risky,” Gnarl said. “That’s on one side of the scales. What enticement’s on the other? What balances my risk?”

  “Wealth!” the tiefling hissed. “Wealth and land; shining castles and supple maidens to grace them. All can be yours, boy, if you undertake the task I set for you. The journey entails a trifling risk or two, but if you do as I say, you shall have your just desserts, and I shall have my own heart’s desire. You will no longer concern yourself with pouring pots of ale for belching merchants and—inevitably—emptying pots of piss!”

  Despite persistent rumors to the contrary, Gnarl was not entirely without common sense. It was true that one balmy evening he had “borrowed” a fine, silken costume from a snoring grandee at the inn and disguised himself for entry into the masquerade at the Kamroth Estate. He’d intended to try his hand, as it were, at pick-pocketing the celebrants—but he was sidetracked by Armos Kamroth’s drunken mistress. He narrowly escaped from Telia’s clutching hands—and the mailed fists of the enraged Kamroth—but the getaway entailed Gnarl sprinting through the cobbled streets naked from the waist down. His harlequinade mask protected his identity until a couple of milkmaids recognized other distinctive features. His reputation as a slick operator had suffered grievously.

  He was older now—all of three months older—and was moved to caution. “Sir, you are a great worker of magic—you must know someone better qualified.”

  The warlock grunted. “I threw the seeing bones—they see you as favorable. Of all those I could reach from here, only you might succeed …” He broke off, his face twisting into a contortion that made Gnarl wince with sympathetic pain. “There is no one else suitable. Hence”—the warlock paused to gasp before continuing—“hence, your epochal opportunity
. I am crippled, and I am dying—I have little time. You know me as Sernos. But I have chosen a greater name. Time runs short … that name must be fulfilled soon. Look here.”

  He swept his bedclothes aside. Gnarl saw that all of the warlock’s body, below the breast, down to his knees, was tightly encased in metal, the interlocked plates incised with runes. It was like a partial suit of gray armor—one that was far too small for the tiefling. Beads of blood and purulence showed where metal compressed flesh; hideous purple swellings, like grotesque flower patterns in relief, marked his skin above and below the tightening metal sheath. As Gnarl watched, stomach twisting at the sight, he saw the enchanted sheath of gray metal contract further, moving of itself, the metal squeezing tighter by a few hairs’ width, making a little crick sound that had a certain smug satisfaction about it.

  “There,” groaned the warlock, “you see my bane, my curse, and what may soon be my end. It is Ermlock’s Grip, the malediction of a certain hateful wizard, who has hidden himself somewhere in this very settlement. The villain wishes me to die slowly, thinking of him all the time. Seven days are required for Ermlock’s Grip to finish its squeezing. In three days and a half, it will squeeze out the final drops of my blood like the last wine from a wineskin. Already blood starts from my ears!”

  “But surely a powerful warlock such as yourself—”

  “Do you not think I would remove Ermlock’s Grip if I could?” Sernos growled. “It is fixed in place with potent magical seals. The first blacksmith to attempt to remove it will die instantly—and horribly.” He made a tiefling sign of disgust with his fingers. “I was overconfident—taken by surprise as I traveled through Harken Forest. A harpy, hired by my enemy, swooped down and dropped a purple orb containing the spell—the orb struck me square. Once struck …” He sighed, and let his head drop back onto his pillow. “I scarcely made it to this bed; I can go no farther. My powers are at an ebb. But I have knowledge of a secret under the Plains of Rust, deep in the Abyss.” He pointed a talonlike finger at Gnarl. “Activate the magical device you will find there, in a place I will describe, and your glory will come, Gnarl—and so will mine. The device will set up mystic reverberations that will undo this spell, unbuckling Ermlock’s Grip, while opening up the realm of Glorysade—a realm of order that you, Gnarl, will rule, safe from the eruptions of chaos.”

  Now he had Gnarl’s attention. Glorysade. Could there be truth in it? “I have heard a little of Glorysade. It’s just a legend. My uncle mentioned it to me …” The tiefling hesitated. Then he asked gruffly, “And what have you heard?”

  Gnarl shrugged. “That there are dark deep places in the Elemental Chaos—the Abyss, for one. And somewhere is hidden an artifact that can bind together a part of the Elemental Chaos, forge it magically into an order that will make a man lord of a new realm. Glorysade. My uncle told me my destiny might be mingled with Glorysade—if it were true …”

  “The tale is true! You have heard of me—you know I was once a warlock of power. If you will only trust me.”

  Gnarl cleared his throat. “Ah, trust.” He smiled apologetically and made a gallant flourish with his hand. “A term resonant of reliability, assurance, certitude—how I’d love to feel all of that! But ‘trust’ also raises the possibility of the opposite … mistrust. Unreliability. Lack of assurance—”

  He could hear Sernos gritting his fangs. “Set aside this affected glibness and give me your answer! Think of your life as it is now—and think of what it could be! Yes, yes, you must trust me—but if you trust no one, you will never cease having to empty chamber pots in this ramshackle inn! Will you undertake the mission—or won’t you?”

  Gnarl was a person of outsized ambitions, which was why he’d left the sleepy hamlet Desul Torey and the doubtful protection of Baron Stockmer. But this—should he risk it? He’d never entered the Abyss—the Abyss was itself a legend, and the legend was a grim one. But if Glorysade was real—if he could transform the Chaos into a land over which he could rule—it would be worth the risk. It was true, after all, that Sernos was a famed warlock, well known in Fallcrest—and Glorysade seemed to Gnarl a name that tingled with destiny, just as his uncle had said.

  He was known for grandiose speaking—and impulsiveness. He said, “Very well. Blow the trumpets of Glorysade! The time for rejoicing is here. Gnarl the Cull will undertake the mission!”

  “Then—there is much more I must tell you. A certain dwarf and his adopted sister are visiting Fallcrest …”

  2.

  “Young fellow, whenever they say ‘mission’ or ‘quest,’ ” declared Rorik the dwarf, clanking his tankard down on the oak table, “watch out! What they really mean is ‘a miserable, unrewarding trudge through the Nine Hells.’ ” Rorik gave a contemptuous snort and set about braiding his long red beard. They were silent for a moment—the muted roar of the falls could be heard outside.

  Gnarl leaned against the open doorway of the dwarf’s rented hut and looked questioningly at Miriam, who lounged in a rude chair across from Rorik. She was drinking ale as enthusiastically as Rorik.

  Gnarl’s gaze lingered on her: she was lithe, with long raven-wing black hair; her comely features were mostly human but she had the pointed ears and arched eyebrows of a half-elf. Rorik, in previous dealings, had told him something of her. She was the daughter of rangers killed in a skirmish with hobgoblins in the Dawnforge Mountains. A mere girl of seven, she’d fled into a cave. Dwarves found her, a starved child wandering in the mazy tunnels, and took her into their city of Hammerfast where she was adopted by Rorik’s family; a rare thing, as the clannish dwarves were known for fierce loyalty to their own kind.

  Gnarl had not been surprised when the warlock had recommend Rorik to accompany him—the dwarf artisan was known for his skill with magical items—but he’d never met Rorik’s adopted sister before, and it seemed strange that Sernos had suggested they take this sinuous beauty along. True, a dragonhide quiver of arrows hung on the back of her chair, the longbow leaning against the wall within reach. She wore a dragonhide kilt and a warrior’s tight-fitting top of chain mail—but her long, tanned arms and legs were bare, and her fingernails were painted with flecks of crushed jade. She turned him a cool appraisal with her dusky olive eyes, then returned her attention to her ale, draining the brass tankard. When she moved, he glimpsed emerald lights in her hair.

  Strangely stirred, he looked away from her. Out the open door, the mist of the falls rose, prismatic in the late afternoon sun. An idea was forming. He looked back at Rorik, wondering how he could set the trap.

  “So you see, Gnarl,” said Rorik, shooting him a look of warning from under his bushy brows, “we are absolutely, and completely, not interested in signing on to your mission. Particularly as you mention the Plains of Rust. I doubt you know anything about the place!”

  “Just the little that the warlock told me,” Gnarl admitted. “Not much. I’ve heard of the Abyss—but I know little of that either.” He put on his best look of heroic defiance. “I’m equal to anything that might claw and scrabble in the bottommost pit of any abyss you can name!”

  Miriam covered a smile with her hand at that—but it seemed to Gnarl that his bravado pleased her, too.

  Rorik spat into a brass urn on the floor. “Ridiculous! Oh, yes, many in Hammerfast have dreamed of visiting the Plains of Rust—but it is too dangerous, even for our heroes. If you’d done your homework when you were an apprentice, you’d know it is secreted within the Abyss of the Elemental Chaos! It’s said to be awash in howling ghosts and the vilest demons. Even a casual trip to its fringes would be lunacy. I don’t care who your warlock is. And I don’t have time, anyway—we’re going back to Hammerfast. If you were a clansman, I might consider it. But a young human, a punkling such as yourself—”

  “Punkling!” Gnarl bridled.

  Miriam laughed lightly, catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth. “You’ve offended him, Rorik!”

  “What of it! I scarcely know him! He shouldn’t
be inviting me on suicide missions! It’s true he did get a ceremonial cup back for the clan, once—but I could have done the job myself.” He shrugged, and looked into a clay jug for more beer. “Wasn’t politic for me to do it. I come here for my work—like to stay on the right side of the locals.”

  Gnarl decided to make his move, and damn the consequences. The warlock was dying inch by inch, as the hours passed; Gnarl had sworn to restore him, as well as claim the prize: Glorysade. “You speak of working here,” Gnarl said, with a skeptical oiliness he knew was offensive. “I’ve heard you boast that the local wizards summon you to work special enchantments on devices.”

  “Boast?” Rorik scowled at him. “What do you mean, boast? I am the best worker of enchanted items this side of Hammerfast!”

  “Come, come, only the best work for the local wizards. But dwarves? They know about simple swordmaking, tunneling through mountains—useful skills, in a minor way, but hardly fit for fine work; dwarves haven’t got the insight, the intelligence—”

  Though Rorik was only four and a half feet tall, the little wooden domicile shook when he jumped from the chair to thud to the floor heavily in his armored boots. “You insult my intelligence, punkling?” The hue of the dwarf’s face darkened to match his beard.

  Gnarl was afraid he’d have to run. Rorik was short—but powerful. While Gnarl thought of himself as wiry, others thought of him as spindly, and it was true that the dwarf could easily bowl him over. And easily jump on his chest. And then quite as easily jump on his head.

  Suddenly, Rorik spun around and stalked toward the opposite wall. Hanging beside a shelf was a battlehammer. But just as Gnarl was about to take flight, he saw that Rorik, on tiptoes, was reaching for a box on the shelf instead. He drew down the little silver casket, ten inches by six, and carried it back to Gnarl, the shack trembling with every booted stomp. He snapped the box open. “Look at this!”

  Within, on black velvet, was a many-tool, forged of a precious platinum-based alloy. Its ends divided into gadgets—wedges, sockets, spirals, all angling this way and that. Red and blue gems shimmering with magical energies ran down its length, each gem pulsing in turn. “Do you know what this is?” Rorik demanded. “I’ll tell you! Why, it’s nothing much—it’s only a master artificer’s many-tool, that’s all! This one is especially rare—and doubtless some of the reason your sickly warlock sent you to me. But do you suppose I would risk it in the Plains of Rust? It took seven years to make, by seven toolsmiths, seven hundred years ago! I toil with exquisite precision with this tool! Nothing else will serve!”