Shara stood up, rising to her full height of six feet and showing off her curves and supple muscles. She was as strong as she was beautiful, although her pent up grief and three days of near-constant drinking had turned her usually pretty features into a mask of pain and rage. She stepped toward the human, a stranger who was passing through Winterhaven on the way to who knew where. When this was all over, Uldane imagined that the man was going to regret his brief stop in the village. If he survived the next few minutes, of course.
“I would sooner lay down with a lame orc,” Shara said, her voice surprisingly light despite her words. “But even that comparison makes you sound more handsome than you actually are.”
She moved very close to the man, so close that they were almost touching. Uldane saw a cold smile creep across Shara’s full lips, and he knew that she was about to explode into violence.
“You are a mushroom growing on the tentacle of a carrion crawler,” Shara said, as light as could be but with an undercurrent of sheer loathing that Uldane recognized was as much for herself as it was for the man at the bar.
“No, what am I saying? You’ll have to excuse me, as I’m obviously extremely intoxicated at the moment,” Shara said.
“Well,” the man said, apparently confused.
“Please,” Shara said, “let me finish.”
The man sat back, obviously expecting an apology of some sort.
Here it comes, thought Uldane, and he exchanged a quick glance with Salvana Wrafton, the proprietor of the inn.
“Referring to you as a fungus is an insult to fungi everywhere,” Shara continued. “You are the excrement in which the fungi grow. You are the sweat that stinks in the armpit of a mangy bugbear. You are … not worth my time.”
Shara started to turn away then, as Uldane knew she would. And the man, his face registering confusion and then anger, stood up, balled his hand into a fist, and did exactly what Shara had been waiting for.
He hit her.
Uldane was impressed. It was a solid punch, and it actually knocked Shara back a step. Unfortunately, the attack was the opening that Shara had been goading him to give her.
She turned, her smile never wavering. “My turn.”
Before Shara could return the blow, Salvana Wrafton stepped between her and the man at the bar. Salvana was nowhere near as tall as either of the two she had placed herself between, but when it came to defending her inn, no one could match her ferocity or passion.
“Is this how you honor the memory of Borojon, Shara?” Salvana asked. “Of Jarren? Did that dragon take your senses as well as your family out there in the mountains?”
Shara’s smile faded, but the expression that replaced it seemed much, much worse to Uldane. He quickly got up and gently laid a hand on her arm before she could strike out at the innkeeper.
“Time to go, Shara,” Uldane said, nodding to Salvana. “They’ll be no more trouble here tonight.”
“Crazy b—,” the man started to say, but Uldane silenced him with a stern look and a raised finger.
“It’s over,” Uldane said quietly, “let it go.”
The man hesitated, then nodded and sat back down.
Uldane led Shara outside, into the cool night air.
“You’re right, Uldane,” Shara said.
“Of course I am,” Uldane agreed. Then he thought about it some more. “I am? About what?” he asked.
“It’s time to go. Tomorrow, my friend, the hunt resumes.”
Great, Uldane thought, why do I always have to be right?
8 FALLCREST, IN THE SHADOW OF MOORIN’S TOWER, NIGHT
The town of Fallcrest stood near the intersection of two roads and the Nentir River, in the center of the region known as the Nentir Vale. The last time that Kalaban had passed through this land, all that had been in the area was a scattering of human hill tribes, a few elven settlements, and a number of outposts dating back to the dwarven kingdom of Shatterstone. Giants, orcs, goblins, and kobolds plagued the area, and the growing empire of Nerath, to the south, was eyeing this northern realm as prime territory for expansion. From the looks of the buildings and the makeup of the citizens, Kalaban assumed that the area had eventually been subsumed into the expanding empire. It was what the empire did, after all.
Kalaban stood beside Magroth, relishing the feel of the night air on his undead skin. They had both walked out of the dread domain of Darani, out of the Shadowfell, and back into the natural world. The new sense of freedom was exhilarating, and Kalaban never wanted it to end. Which meant, of course, that Kalaban had to help Magroth complete the three tasks the death priest of Orcus had given to him. Magroth stood nearby, his cloaked hood hiding his features, resting on his staff and studying the tower that seemed to glow in the pale moonlight. The tower was three stories high, built atop the bluff overlooking the Moonwash Falls. The emperor had been silent since they reached this spot, so Kalaban scanned the area around them and waited for his master’s next order.
“The tower is wrapped in arcane defenses,” Magroth finally said, his low voice sounding loud in the stillness of the night. This part of the town was quiet. The inns and alehouses were beyond the bluffs, in the lower portion of the town nearer the Nentir River. “You will need to proceed with caution, my knight-commander.”
“As always, my liege,” Kalaban replied.
“The first task starts in that tower,” Magroth continued. “Find a black crystal of unusual design, formed into a triangular amulet encased in a golden frame. Find the amulet and retrieve it, as I command. But do not stare into its black depths. I understand that a crystal such as this has a powerful effect on those who look too deeply.”
Kalaban bowed and moved off into the darkness toward the silent tower. He traveled only a dozen paces or so and dropped to one knee to study the approach to the tower. After a moment, he heard Magroth speaking to someone. Kalaban remained quiet and listened, waiting to see if his master needed his help before he moved on.
“You must tell me how you manage to suddenly appear like that one of these days,” Magroth said dryly.
“I bring news, Magroth,” said the female voice that Kalaban recognized as Barana Strenk, the death priest of Orcus.
“Well, spit it out,” Magroth said, “It’s not like I have all the time in the world.”
“We have located one of your descendents, one of the royal blood of Nerath,” Barana said, “in an insignificant collection of huts called Nenlast.”
“And?”
“And my agents were … overeager,” Barana said with something like contrition in her voice. “They attempted to take the youth, but they were … unsuccessful. One of my agents remains close, following the boy. Now the boy is alert to danger, and he has gained an ally to help him against us.”
“Wonderful,” Magroth said. “And I assume that these agents are what Orcus considers to be his best?”
“I considered them to be up to the task,” Barana replied.
“From now on, death priest,” Magroth warned, “leave my kin to me.”
“As you wish,” the woman said, and then the area behind Kalaban grew deathly still.
A few moments passed, and then Kalaban heard Magroth mutter, “She’s gone, knight-commander. Get on with your work.”
Chagrined that Magroth knew he was within earshot, but not surprised, Kalaban resumed his march toward the tower, shifting his concentration to the task at hand.
9 FALLCREST, THE KNIGHT’S GATE, NIGHT
Nu Alin slipped through the bars of the lowered portcullis and moved into the dark streets of the town beyond. No guards currently walked the walls of the town, and no one was posted in the locked gatehouse. As was typical of the soft creatures of this world, the people of Fallcrest were less than vigilant in the protection of their town. And that, Nu Alin understood, would be why this world would fall.
Nu Alin kept to the deepest shadows as he searched. Not only did he prefer the darkness, he also knew that he had to stay out of sight of the lo
cal inhabitants of the town. The body he currently occupied was rapidly deteriorating, and if anyone saw Nu Alin’s vessel in its current state an alarm would be raised. Nu Alin believed that, at this point in his mission, stealth and secrecy were necessary. Anything that made either tactic unavailable was best avoided.
Nu Alin needed to take on a new form before he advanced to the next stage of his mission. The creatures of this world were so fragile, and so far none of the bodies he had taken had been able to contain Nu Alin’s essence for more than a few days. But at least the current body had been able to carry Nu Alin to Fallcrest, where the item he sought waited to be collected. All Nu Alin needed was a new body to control, a new form to wear. A new vessel.
The form that Nu Alin currently wore, that of a human boy, had barely lasted two days. The boy’s eyes had already become dry and clouded, and his flesh was beginning to wither with every stirring of the wind. Cracks in the skin around the eyes and mouth let Nu Alin’s true form peek through, a glowing crimson substance that filled these cracks. It was like liquid crystal, with veins of metallic silver and flecks of gold swimming within the viscous substance.
Nu Alin squinted and strained to look through the boy’s eyes to examine the hand he controlled. It was a gnarled thing, the digits more like claws than fingers. Nu Alin strained to flex the tightening joints, and the pain was excruciating. Nu Alin forced the deteriorating body to move. He stayed close to the buildings, in the deep shadows, scanning the night for a creature, any creature, to take control of. He preferred to nest within intelligent hosts, but Nu Alin could occupy any living form if the need was great enough. And at this moment, Nu Alin’s need was exceedingly great.
Nu Alin sensed the nearby creature before his host body’s eyes were able to focus on it. The creature, a large rat, was noisily digging through a trash pile at the side of one of the buildings. Another wave of pain welled up within Nu Alin’s vessel, threatening to drive Nu Alin out before the demonic essence was ready to depart. He steadied himself, resting against the building, when the form’s failing ears picked up a new sound nearby.
Nu Alin strained to see the young halfling woman emerge from the back door of the structure. She was carrying a bucket as she made her way toward the refuse pile where the rat was busy scavenging for scraps. She walked bravely toward the pile of trash, calling out to frighten off the rat.
“Shoo,” she shouted, “flee before my magical bucket of puke.” The young woman laughed as the rat scurried away, but Nu Alin failed to comprehend the humor in her statement.
Nu Alin watched the young woman approach the refuse pile and toss the bucket’s contents. She appeared to be strong and healthy, at least by the standards of others of her kind that he had encountered since winning his freedom. He had been trapped for too long, locked away and separated from the Voidharrow. Now he was free, and all he needed was to take possession of a new, healthy vessel and recover the Voidharrow. Then he could complete what he and the others had started all those centuries ago.
Nu Alin looked up, toward the southeast, finally resting his failing gaze on the glowing tower that had drawn him to this place. The Voidharrow would wait a few more moments, Nu Alin was certain, while he replaced the body he wore with a fresh vessel. With an effort, Nu Alin ignored the pain and shrugged off his current vessel, discarding the failing flesh as so many tattered rags. The shell that was the human boy collapsed, as though whatever strings had been holding it up were suddenly sliced away, and the crimson substance that was Nu Alin slid free.
In his true form, Nu Alin slithered silently across the open space between himself and the halfling woman. As silent as Nu Alin was, however, some sense of danger alerted the young halfling to his presence. Her eyes went wide and she slipped a dagger from her belt as she turned to face the approaching danger. She had only a moment to register confusion before Nu Alin was upon her. Fear exploded within her mind at the touch of Nu Alin’s true form, but still she struggled, still she resisted.
For a time.
Nu Alin feasted on the halfling woman’s fear as he slipped into her body. The demonic presence had exchanged a set of tattered rags for an elegant new suit, and Nu Alin was very pleased.
Yes, Nu Alin confirmed, taking total control of the halfling. This form will do.
10 FALLCREST, MOORIN’S TOWER, NIGHT
The wizard’s tower was quiet and still. Kalaban had easily bypassed the protective wards that guarded the door and first floor of the tower, using skills and techniques taught to him by Magroth over the ages. The knight-commander had to admit that his emperor was a good teacher. Perhaps he should have asked to learn a bit of true magic to go along with his other skills. Of course, that could have been a dangerous path to pursue. Magroth had always been extremely protective of his arcane talents, and he might have misinterpreted any interest in such pursuits by Kalaban.
And when it came to Emperor Magroth—the Mad Emperor, as some called him—you did not want your intentions to be misinterpreted.
The first level of the tower was divided into two chambers. The first chamber looked more like a sitting room in any well-to-do household than the entryway to a wizard’s lair. Overstuffed chairs were arranged neatly before a fireplace situated along the curved wall. The fireplace was still warm, but the fire had been extinguished for the evening. A few tables held thick books and assorted sheets of parchment, and a map of the Nentir Vale hung on the wall beside the fireplace. The town of Fallcrest was positioned prominently at the center of the map.
The second chamber contained a kitchen, complete with cooking fire, work tables, pots and pans, a water trough, and a side pantry full of foodstuffs. The kitchen had a small door that opened on to an herb garden, but it and the entry chamber both appeared to be empty. Wherever the wizard was, he wasn’t on this level.
Kalaban touched nothing, but his eyes examined everything within the two chambers. He looked for signs of recent activity, for arcane symbols, for hidden panels. He also kept his eyes open for the relic he had come to retrieve, but there were no amulets of stone as black as a starless night. No stones or gems at all, at least not on this level of the tower. Confident that there was nothing of interest or danger in either chamber, Kalaban headed for the stairs.
The knight-commander scanned the stone steps that led up and down into darkness. He saw nothing that gave him pause. Was the wizard Moorin so confident in his first line of defenses that the rest of the path through the tower had been left unprotected? Perhaps he didn’t want to inadvertently stumble into a ward in the middle of the night. Or, more likely, he didn’t want a pet or an apprentice setting off an alarm inside the tower. Even the best wizards make mistakes, Kalaban knew. If it made his job easier, why should he complain about the lapse in judgment?
The stairs down most likely led to sleeping chambers, Kalaban determined, remembering his visits to places such as this in the past. One of the higher levels, then, the knight-commander decided.
Kalaban took the steps up one at a time, carefully checking for any signs of wards he might have missed. He reached the second level of the tower without incident. Here, the space was filled with shelves of ancient tomes and ornate scroll cases, along with a well-used desk of heavy wood that was covered in sheets of parchment, quills, and bottles of ink. A strange stone sat atop the desk, but the color was all wrong. It appeared to be filled with fire, though it was only barely warm to the touch. Interesting, the knight-commander thought, but ultimately unimportant. It was not the stone he sought. With a final gaze around the room, Kalaban made his way to the stairs that led up to the final level of the tower.
On the third level, Kalaban immediately noticed the many windows that opened in the circular wall of the tower. These windows held no glass, exposing the tower room to the cool night air. Curtains were rolled up at the top of each window. With a quick pull of a cord, the curtains could be lowered to cover the openings. Thanks to the height of the tower and the bluff on which it was situated, Kalaban could loo
k in any direction and see the town of Fallcrest as it spread out around the tower. The large chamber at the top of the tower included a couple of long tables covered with a variety of alchemical instruments such as mortars and pestles, beakers, jars, needles, and scalpels. Three spyglasses set on tripods were positioned at different windows, two pointed toward distant landmarks and one pointed toward the night sky. There was also a tall set of shelves set against the wall between two of the open windows. The shelves held more books and scrolls, as well as an assortment of unusual items that immediately piqued Kalaban’s curiosity.
Before he could step closer to examine the items in the cabinet, Kalaban heard a tiny snore. His eyes quickly darted to a domed cage that sat on the floor beside a tall pedestal. Kalaban noticed that there was something curled up atop the pedestal. A cat, perhaps? He moved with a supernatural silence that was as much born of practice and skill as it was his own undead abilities. As Kalaban stepped closer to the pedestal, the moonlight seeping through the windows illuminated the creature’s scintillating scales, sharp, pointed tail, and tiny, almost translucent wings. A pseudodragon, the knight-commander realized. An apropos pet for a wizard’s tower, he thought.
Kalaban quietly raised the domed cage, which he saw was shaped to perfectly fit atop the pedestal should the wizard desire to secure the cat-sized dragon for any reason. Kalaban carefully lowered the dome over the little creature, making sure not to disturb its rest as he did so.
Rest well, Kalaban thought, smiling slightly at the sleeping creature. With the pseudodragon sealed away, Kalaban stepped over to examine the items on the shelves against the wall.
There was a trio of skulls, one human, one some kind of small bird, and one that took up an entire shelf and had to have come from a relatively small black dragon.
There was the mummified claw of a small humanoid creature, perhaps a kobold, the withered flesh decorated with arcane symbols that Kalaban did not recognize.
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