by T. H. Lain
From the creators of
the greatest roleplaying game ever
come tales of heroes fighting
monsters with magic!
By T.H. Lain
The Savage Caves
The Living Dead
Oath of Nerull
City of Fire
The Bloody Eye
Treachery's Wake
Plague of Ice
The Sundered Arms
Return of the Damned
The Death Ray
THE DEATH RAY
©2003 Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Cover art by Todd Lockwood & Wayne Reynolds First Printing: October 2003 Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2003100843
987654321
US ISBN: 0-7869-3030-6
UK ISBN: 0-7869-3031-4
620-17992-001-EN
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Prologue...He closed his eyes just before his chin hit the cold marble floor, smashing his teeth together and cracking at least one tooth. His hands, numb at the ends of shaking, flailing arms followed soon after, though he'd meant for them to hit the floor first and save the teeth. Thick, hot, coppery blood covered his tongue. When he opened his mouth to draw a deep breath into protesting lungs, he coughed, sending a spray of blood and chips of teeth fanning across the floor in front of him.
"Get up," he grunted to himself, trying to ignore the terrified quaver in his voice. "For Fharlanghn's sake, get up and run!"
He got to his feet, stumbled once, then ran. His knees shook so badly he could make barely half the speed he knew he was capable of, and the rhythmic shudder of the floor didn't help. His racing, terrified mind went back and forth between the urge to run faster and the need to sacrifice some speed in order not to fall again.
The floor shuddered again, and a dull boom rippled through the high-ceilinged hall. The memory of a brief glimpse of the behemoth chasing him was all he needed to make his legs finally move faster. The air tossed his long, clean hair behind him as he ran, moving alternately through shadow, candlelight, shadow, and candlelight as he passed the gilded sconces set along the walls.
He coughed again. Blood dribbled from his chin and onto his expensive, silk tunic. The rapier tapping against his left leg as he ran was more a piece of jewelry than a weapon, and he had no illusions about either its strength or his own swordsmanship. The thing chasing him would surely snap the fine blade like a dried twig.
He passed the huge, double doors that closed off his parents' private suite and kept running. He knew no one would be there. The house was empty, save for a skeleton staff of servants and maybe half a dozen guards who he was sure were already dead. The family was gone to the country for the warm summer months, when the smells of the Trade Quarter grew strong enough to fight the prevailing winds and descend upon the collection of fine manor homes on the Duke's Island.
Though he remembered insisting that he stay behind, as he ran through the grave-quiet corridors, the heavy air disturbed only by those thunderous footsteps, he couldn't recall why. There was a girl or two in the winding alleys of the Merchant's Quarter, to be sure but he couldn't have been willing to sacrifice himself for any of them.
Of course, he'd had no idea an enormous, heavy-footed monster would come to kill him.
"It can't be me," he whispered, streaks of blood punctuating each word, splashing back up into his face to trickle through his neatly trimmed goatee.
Why in all the planes would this thing come to kill him? He'd made it a point, as his father always advised, to steer clear of wizards, gnomes, and other dangerous types. He kept his dalliances discreet and was careful to avoid women with jealous husbands or protective brothers. As he ran through the tall-ceilinged maze of his family's city house, he couldn't think of anything he'd ever seen like the horror that was chasing him, and there was no reason for it, though...
...though he wasn't the only one.
"Gods," he breathed as the thought came to him.
There was a door hanging ajar and he slid to a stop in front of it—overshot it actually but he stumbled back to slip into the chamber beyond. It was his father's library.
As he crossed the wide room at a run, he recalled the news of the past few weeks. Young men, men he'd known his whole life, from important families, had been found dead. There were as many "official" causes of death as there were rumors. His family had left before the first of them was killed. They didn't know—none of them knew—that there would be any danger. Could the other young men have been chased down and murdered by this thing? To what purpose?
He came to the foot of a wrought iron staircase and tripped again as he stumbled up the first few steps. Catching himself, he ignored the bruising shock to his forearms and scurried up the stairs, cringing at every step as his boots clanged on the delicate latticework.
His father's library was four stories tall, a huge gallery easily seventy feet in height. The stained glass ceiling looked dull under the midnight sky but in the daylight it was the envy of the finest families in New Koratia. Imposing bookcases lined all four walls with galleries circling each level. There was only one way into the room—the way he'd come—and only one way up. The wrought iron staircases matched the railings that circled the galleries. He used the railings to pull himself along, grasping for an opportunity to put distance between himself and those horrid, stomping footsteps.
He would be trapping himself in the upper reaches of the gallery, he knew, but it was the only place he could think of to hide. The thing chasing him would be too heavy to climb the stairs and too big to fit between the tight rows of heavy bookcases made even heavier by the thousands of books jammed onto them. If he could get high enough up and deep enough into the library, he could hide long enough to think of something—perhaps long enough for help to arrive or for the thing to tire and go away.
The booming sounds came more quickly, almost on top of one another, and increasingly loud. It was moving faster and getting closer.
More from panic than from any sort of plan, he made for the fourth, uppermost gallery. There, the room widened again, and the bookcases were arranged in rows barely t
wo feet wide. The bookcases themselves were solidly made of the sturdiest hardwood. Packed as they were with books, scrolls, and manuscripts of every description and in myriad languages, they were as heavy as brick walls.
He reached the second set of stairs and was certain that the booming footsteps had come around the corner of the corridor outside. At that rate his pursuer would be at the door before he stepped onto the third flight of steps.
"Get there!" he urged himself, more loudly than he'd intended.
The tingling in his mouth had become a throbbing ache, broken only by razor stabs of pain as his heavy breathing pulled cool air over broken teeth. He tried not to imagine how much worse the pain would be when the thing finally had him, when the injuries were worse than a blow to the jaw. The thing was big enough to crush him and likely strong enough to tear him limb from limb.
That thought was, thankfully, interrupted by the realization that the footsteps had passed the door.
He didn't stop, barely even slowed, even as that potentially life-saving fact dawned on him. He reached the third flight of stairs with a smile, laughed halfway up, but then his blood ran cold. The footsteps behind had stopped. The tower was quiet—easily quiet enough to hear someone running up a flight of wrought iron stairs, laughing.
There was a boom, then another—louder, closer—and it was at the door.
He made it to the uppermost gallery and dodged behind a huge bookcase that soared eight feet over his head. From below came the sound of the library door being ripped from its hinges, then the first booming footstep echoed in the confines of the library itself.
He turned a corner, already lost in the maze of bookcases. The floor beneath his feet trembled through a rapid series of footsteps. His shoulder clipped the edge of a wood-bound manuscript that protruded from a low shelf, and he grunted as he spun to a flailing, bruising stop on the hard floor.
He managed not to hit his head but he thought he had when his teeth and eyes and tongue vibrated in his skull. It wasn't the fall that made the deafening, skull-shaking sound. Something huge, something as heavy as a caravan cart, had hit the floor.
The sound came again, then again, then again, and as he stood, hoping to run deeper into the maze of shelves, the bookcase to his left was peeled off the floor and thrown into the air.
He screamed but the sound was swallowed up by the crash of the bookcase shattering on the floor atop four others. Looking up into the eyes of the behemoth, he had just enough time to whisper a prayer before he died.
Regdar felt like a new man. Out of his heavy armor for what seemed like the first time in years, he even felt lighter. He'd been to a barber in the morning so his hair was neatly trimmed, his face cleanly shaven, and he'd had a bath. Pressed for time, he'd stopped short of a leeching. He had something to pick up at the shop of a master bowyer.
Naull had picked out the gray tunic of light wool that he wore and the matching breeches. Though far from fancy, the outfit was new, clean, and quickly tailored to fit his bulging physique. The shoes bothered him, though. They were also chosen by the pretty young mage who had become his constant companion in the weeks since they returned to the city from the frontier keep. The shoes were too low and too soft. They were city shoes, more appropriate for polished marble floors than his old boots. In that respect they were probably a good choice but they still made Regdar nervous.
He walked briskly, and alone, down the entrance hall of the duke's palace. Regdar felt like he was walking down the middle of a deep canyon. The walls soared so high over his head, he was only dimly aware of being inside at all. The intricately decorated flying buttresses seemed altogether too tall to have been made by humans, though indeed they were. The light seemed to radiate from the air itself—not too bright, not too dim. Even Regdar recognized that particular touch as decidedly magical.
At the end of the hall he came to a set of double doors that surely could have accommodated the shoulder width and headroom of a storm giant. In front of the door were two guards dressed in ceremonial armor, their azure tabards embroidered with gold thread in the house arms of the Duke of Koratia. The spindly dragon design was as familiar to Regdar as his own face. The same device was painted on his shield, though his dragon was red against gold—the field colors of the Comitatus. Each of the guards held a wickedly-bladed halberd. The polearms and their armor all but vibrated with magic. Regdar let slip an impressed smile. Those guards were hardly to be trifled with, however frilly their dress.
The big fighter was also aware of several other sets of eyes on him, though he couldn't be certain of their exact hiding places. To be sure, more than two men guarded the door to the duke's palace, and Regdar suspected it would require ten times that many simply to pull open the mighty doors.
When he approached within half a dozen steps of the guards, one of them said, "State your name and your business before the Duke of Koratia."
The man's deep voice didn't echo in the huge hall. It seemed to drift over Regdar with an air of perfect, calm authority.
"I am Regdar," he answered, "late of the Third New Koratia Comitatus, Red Dragon Regiment, here at the request of His Highness the Duke."
By the look on the guard's face it was obvious to Regdar that the man knew exactly who Regdar was and why he was there. Without answering, the guard stepped to the side, as did his companion. The doors swung slowly inward. Neither of the guards had touched them, and the great golden hinges made no sound. When they'd opened more than enough to allow Regdar to pass, the guards bowed slightly and Regdar stepped through.
The entrance hall had been impressive but the chamber within was awe-inspiring. The ceiling soared to an impossible height, and everywhere were frescoes and gilding and bas relief. Regdar thought it would take months, perhaps years, for him to study every work of art for more than a few seconds. The floor was the same polished marble as the columns, buttresses, and ceiling. The masonry was so fine that if Redgar hadn't believed it impossible, he might have thought the entire room was cut from a single slab of stone covering an acre of land.
Regdar saw the duke, surrounded as usual by a small crowd of palace advisors and bodyguards. The duke noticed Regdar, too, but continued speaking with his retainers, not watching as Regdar closed the imposing distance between them. The big fighter stopped a few yards short of the assembly and stood, strictly out of habit, at attention.
The duke finally turned his piercing green eyes on Regdar and smiled.
"You may stand at ease, footman," the duke joked.
Regdar felt his face flush and he took some uncomfortable effort in trying to be casual. Noting his discomfort, the duke stepped up to Regdar and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Regdar," he said, "old friend. Have you been enjoying the city?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Regdar replied.
"And still I can't bother you with staying at the palace?"
"No," Regdar said, too quickly. He winced, cleared his throat, and added, "Respectfully, Your Highness, no, thank you, but the inn you recommended is already more than I require. I have simple needs."
The duke gave Regdar a devilish, teasing wink and clapped his shoulder again.
"A thousand pardons, Your Highness," a lithe elf said, stepping out of the crowd of faceless advisors. He held a slate and a delicate stylus. Glowing runes on the slate gave the elf s face a pale blue cast. "The appropriations, Your Highness?"
"Will have to wait, Minister Nyslorvijiik," the duke replied, not bothering to look at the elf. Instead, he pressed gently but firmly against Regdar's shoulder, leading him away from the ministers.
"But—" the elf started.
The duke stopped, turned to the elf, and leveled a cool, silent gaze at him. Minister Nyslorvijiik went a bit pale—more embarrassed than afraid—and he sketched a quick bow.
"As you wish, My Duke," he said, taking two steps backward.
Duke Christo Ramas was as tall as Regdar, and though a good thirty years the fighter's senior, he was still a strong,
solidly built man. A full head of wavy, white hair and an equally colorless beard framed his time-and stress-worn face. His hands, rough and scarred, were a warrior's hands. The ring finger of his left hand was missing. Regdar had heard more different stories of how the duke sustained that injury than even the most talented bard would have been able to recall. His dress was as simple as Regdar's, though azure where the fighter's was gray.
The duke led Regdar a few steps farther into the room, and the fighter could hear the others backing away as well, giving them more room.
"I am glad to see you, my young friend," the duke said. His voice was quiet, conversational, but still commanding.
"You flatter me, Your Highness," Regdar replied.
The duke chuckled and said, "I will admit to anyone who will listen that I was more alive, and more a leader, against the janni than I've ever felt here. It is an honor to lead this duchy, to be certain, but the true honor lies in the command of men such as yourself."
"I am a soldier," Regdar said. "I serve."
"Yes," the duke said, his voice and manner growing even lighter, perhaps wistful. "You serve. You serve indeed, and are a soldier forged of the finest steel, my friend, but you could be more."
"More, Highness?"
The duke stepped closer—uncomfortably close—and held Regdar's eyes with his own.
"A man," the duke said, "the right man, could rise as high as..."
With a sigh the duke looked away, then down at the floor, as embarrassed as the interrupting minister had been. Regdar felt his face flush again and he, too, looked away.
"I get ahead of myself," the duke said, "again."
A series of staccato clicks sounded on the marble floor and Regdar's eyes were drawn to their source. The duke also looked up to see a beautiful, young woman approaching with long tendrils of silk wafting behind her in a delicate wake. She was wrapped in silk that clung to her slim curves in an almost uncomfortably alluring way. Walking straight and tall, she slipped across the floor in elaborately braided sandals that, from the sound they made, were surely fitted with taps. Her hair was the color of hay and even the gruff fighter knew its gentle curls had been painstakingly arranged to fall just so over one delicately arching eyebrow. Certainly still in her teens, the girl's face betrayed a singular self-confidence beyond her years. Her crystal green eyes were of a set with the duke's. In a way Regdar felt as if he was looking at a smaller, younger, softer version of Christo Ramas.
