The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel

by Bill Slavicsek

  “If you fall off your horse because you keep looking where you have been and not where you are going,” Roghar said, “I am going to leave you there. The Fallcrest Guard was willing to arrest us while we were within the walls of the town, but they have little interest in chasing after us or hunting us down.”

  “Really?” Albanon asked. “And how many towns have you been chased out of, Roghar?”

  “More than I care to admit,” the dragonborn paladin said wistfully. “Even the most noble and good-hearted adventurers are often feared and misunderstood by the common folk they seek to protect.”

  “I find it hard to believe that they didn’t accept my good word regarding your innocence, apprentice,” Splendid said. The pseudodragon was once again curled around Albanon’s neck, comfortably dozing when she wasn’t adding a snide comment or two to the conversation.

  “You’re a pseudodragon,” Albanon said, letting his exhaustion and exasperation get the better of him. “Why would they believe you? And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not an apprentice any more.”

  “Oh, really? And when did you pass your final tests, oh mighty wizard Albanon?”

  “Leave the elf be, little dragon,” Roghar said. “This is not the time to cut at each other with hurtful words and biting insults.”

  “Eladrin,” Albanon said quietly. “I’m an eladrin, not an elf.”

  “Why not?” the pseudodragon asked. “Why is this time any different from any other time?”

  “Because this time we’re about to be attacked by a gang of bandits.”

  Albanon jerked his head to look toward the south where Roghar was pointing. There, rushing right at them, were nine horses, each carrying a human wearing either leather or hide armor. Seven of the riders were men, two were women. One of the humans was better equipped than the rest of the bandits. He wore chain mail and was armed with a two-handed sword. Two large gray wolves kept pace with Chain Mail’s horse, running alongside it like some sort of feral honor guard.

  The riders cut through the field and spread themselves across the road, effectively blocking Albanon and Roghar’s path. The riders positioned themselves so that four of their number were set up to each side of Chain Mail, who stopped directly in the center of the road. The wolves stood one to each side and slightly ahead of Chain Mail’s horse.

  Albanon and Roghar pulled up their own mounts and stopped about a hundred feet or so from the line of bandits.

  “We could be jumping to conclusions here,” Albanon said. “Maybe these are nothing more than friendly travelers in need of directions.”

  “I am Sylish Kreed, leader of this band,” Chain Mail called as the men and women to each side nocked arrows into bows or drew swords from scabbards. “The Trade Road east is temporarily closed to all travelers, but I might be inclined to open it just for you … provided you can meet the price.”

  “Bandits,” Roghar said, drawing his own sword from its sheath. “Pretty sure of it.”

  “Maybe we should just pay them whatever they’re asking,” Albanon suggested, hoping to avoid any trouble.

  “No,” Roghar said, “not going to happen.”

  Four bows trained their arrows on Roghar, but none of them fired. Yet.

  “Well,” said Splendid, “this is becoming interesting.”

  Chain Mail put up a hand as he motioned his horse a few steps forward. “Believe me when I say this, dragonborn,” the bandit leader called out with a smile, “but it would seriously upset this perfectly pleasant day I’ve been having if you force me to spill your blood all over the road. Let’s just say that the toll you have to pay today is ten gold pieces each and we can all go on our merry ways.”

  “Ten gold seems like a perfectly fair price,” Albanon said, though he barely had two gold pieces worth of coins jangling in the pockets of his robes.

  “Listen to the eladrin,” Chain Mail, who called himself Sylish Kreed, said. “Aren’t your lives worth ten gold each?”

  “I like to believe that my life is worth much more than that,” Roghar said, letting his horse prance in place as he spoke. “What about you, Sir Kreed? What do you believe your life is worth today?”

  “More than you can afford,” Kreed said, casually waving a hand to remind the paladin about his armed associates. “You’re outnumbered and, in my own humble opinion, outclassed. So pay the gold and we can both go back to whatever it was we were doing before we happened to meet on the road.”

  “Are you ready?” Roghar asked Albanon, keeping his voice low so that only the wizard and the pseudodragon could hear him.

  “Ready? Ready for what?”

  That’s when Roghar gave his mount a swift kick and the horse catapulted forward, exploding toward the bandit leader as Roghar let out a battle roar. The paladin slashed two arrows out of the air as they sped toward him, twirling his long sword with a practiced hand.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” Albanon muttered as Splendid launched herself into the air. Then he started to quickly run through the spells he had prepared as he decided how best to aid the fearless paladin.

  “Fearless,” Albanon said the word as though it were a curse, “just another way to say thick-headed … egotistical … stupid.…”

  The two wolves snapped at Roghar’s horse, causing the well-trained mount to turn to avoid their sharp teeth. This effectively ended Roghar’s charge, giving Kreed the space he needed to draw his weapon and circle around to attack. One of the wolves leaped, sinking its fangs into the horse’s neck. The animal screamed in pain, rearing up on its hind legs in an effort to dislodge the wolf. The wolf fell away, but Roghar also went flying. He crashed to the ground, apparently stunned by the fall.

  Albanon rapidly proclaimed words of power, and missiles of arcane energy flew from his fingertips. They struck the two archers, knocking one from his horse and causing the other to drop her bow. He started to cast another spell as two of the riders pounded toward him.

  The remaining four leaped from their mounts and surrounded Roghar, who still hadn’t gotten back to his feet after falling from his horse. Sylish Kreed stayed on top of his mount, surveying the scene like a general inspecting his troops.

  “I wish you would have just paid the fee,” Kreed said with genuine sadness in his voice. “Ah, well. No sense dwelling on things that will not be. Kill them. And be quick about it.”

  45 FALLCREST, THE NENTIR INN, DAY

  Erak stood in the shadows near the back of the inn’s stable, watching as the others prepared the horses for travel. Shara and Uldane had secured mounts for Darrum and Falon, and now they were all busy checking straps and cinches and loading packs for the journey ahead. Erak was both excited and troubled by the events of the past few days. He was happy that things seemed to be coming together, that he felt that he was progressing in a mission that he didn’t yet fully understand. He was also troubled by that lack of understanding, by the gaps in his memory, especially since the others had apparently decided that he should lead them. That hadn’t been his goal when he went to Shara’s aid or when he revealed himself to Falon. Was he capable of leading them when so much of his memory felt incomplete?

  He felt that Shara was integral to the work he had been sent back to do, and he had felt compelled to seek out the young cleric named Falon. He somehow knew that Falon had the blood of Nerathi emperors flowing through his veins, and for some reason that was important to Erak. He felt a connection to the young noble, a commitment that seemed to clear away some of the dark spots in his memory so that he could almost see what he had forgotten. Almost, but not quite. Now they were all together, and Erak had no idea where they had to go next.

  The revenant sensed the presence behind him a few moments before, but to this point he had ignored it. He didn’t detect any immediate danger from the presence, but he also recognized that the presence wasn’t a friend to either Erak or the Raven Queen. He casually drew his hellsteel blade and spun, letting the serrated edge come to rest just under the woman’s chin.


  She was a tall woman, with a streak of silver highlighting her otherwise black hair. She wore crimson robes, and a pearl skull hung from a chain around her neck. The skull’s mouth hung open, as though it had been flayed clean and preserved while it had been screaming in terrible pain. She showed no indication of fear or distress of any kind in response to Erak’s sudden action. As he examined her, his mind coughed up information he hadn’t realized he possessed.

  “What can I do for you, priest of Orcus?” Erak asked, somehow recognizing her as an agent of the Demon Prince of Undeath.

  “I have been granted one last try to keep our paths from ending in bloodshed,” the priest said.

  “Really? The dead bodies we met on the road had indicated that they were our one and only opportunity to abandon our quest.”

  The woman smiled. It wasn’t friendly.

  “Lesser undead sometimes get too anxious in their efforts to impress our dark lord,” she said.

  “You aren’t undead,” Erak said, still holding his blade to her throat. “Why does a living human submit to the will of Orcus?”

  “Why does an undead revenant not?” she countered, a touch of amusement in her voice. “I am Barana Strenk, and I must warn you that the Lady of Fate has sent you into a game that you have no hope of surviving. The blood of Nerath will die, and my master’s plan will move forward. You can either get out of the way or be destroyed. The next agent of Orcus you meet shall not be as willing to avoid your destruction as I am.”

  “I guess I should thank you, Barana,” Erak said. “But I can’t help but wonder why you have come all this way just to warn me off. What are you afraid of? What do you and your master think I can do that you have decided to talk to me at all?”

  Barana’s eyes flashed with a hint of anger, but the smile on her face never wavered. “I have not acknowledged the insult you have shown me and continue to show me by holding a weapon in my face,” she said. “I have tried to reason with you, to treat you in a manner that shows respect to you and your Lady, but I see that I am wasting my time. You shall go to the Seven-Pillared Hall and there is nothing I can say to convince you otherwise. So be it. Know this, though. You shall survive long enough to see the young cleric and the woman warrior fall. Only after they have been destroyed shall we remove you from the playing field.”

  “This isn’t a game,” Erak said, anger flowing into his voice.

  “Oh, how little you truly know or understand, revenant. Of course this is a game. And it is played at the level of the gods, between Orcus and the Raven Queen and whichever other high and mighty beings decide to get involved. We are both just pieces in their cosmic struggle, pawns to be moved here and there in patterns of strike and counterstrike, until one side or the other gets the upper hand for a time. And then the game starts again.”

  Barana Strenk took a step back into the deeper shadows and disappeared, leaving Erak standing alone, his sword threatening nothing but empty space and the back wall of the stable.

  Shara walked up a few moments later to find Erak still standing there, his blade outstretched. Concern wrinkled her brow as she put a hand on his arm. “What’s the matter, Erak?” she asked. “Who were you talking to?”

  Erak sighed and returned his blade to its sheath. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “And there’s no one here but me. Come on, we have many miles to cover this day.”

  He turned back toward the yard where the others were finishing their preparations. The priest of Orcus had passed along a message, though he couldn’t figure out why. She obviously wanted him to go to this Seven-Pillared Hall. Because he had no other lead about where to go next, it seemed as good a place as any to start. But Erak would be wary. This had all the markings of a trap, and he had decided to step right into it.

  “Have you ever heard of a place called the Seven-Pillared Hall?” Erak asked her as they walked back to the others.

  “Yes,” Shara said, looking a bit disturbed by the question. “It’s a trading town inside Thunderspire Mountain. Not a particularly friendly place to visit. Why do you ask?”

  “We have to go there,” Erak said. “We have to go there and we have to go there now.”

  46 THE SEVEN-PILLARED HALL, DAY

  Kalaban leaned against the bronze minotaur statue and watched as the ogre Brugg led a black-robed figure toward the raised platform of stone on which the knight-commander and his master, Magroth, waited patiently. The black-roped figure seemed to float behind the ogre, but that could have been illusion perpetrated by the cut and flow of the deep-black cloth. The figure wore a golden mask that was carved to resemble an impassive, stylized human face. The rest of the enforcers were nowhere to be seen.

  “The Ordinator Arcanis, I presume,” Magroth said to Kalaban. “That outfit is as ostentatious as the title he goes by.”

  “Probably keeps the locals in line,” Kalaban said.

  “Undoubtedly,” Magroth agreed.

  Brugg stopped at the bottom of the stone steps that led up to the platform. “Da Ordinator Arcanis, magistrate of da Mages of Saruun, has agreed ta hear youse plea,” the ogre said in what Kalaban assumed was a well-practiced voice of authority.

  “Well, how fortune for us,” Magroth replied.

  The Ordinator Arcanis drifted up the stone steps until he was level with Kalaban and Magroth. It was hard to tell what the man beneath the mask—if it was indeed a man—was looking at, as the mask’s eyes weren’t holes but stylized orbs molded into the gold. Even so, Kalaban got the impression that the Ordinator glanced briefly at the stone golem before pausing a few feet from Magroth.

  “Your kind is not welcome within this hall,” the Ordinator said in a deep, resonate voice that was clearly augmented by magic. “State your business and be quick about it.”

  Magroth bowed his head ever so slightly as a smile began to creep up along his thin lips. “I will graciously ignore your impertinent tone and get right to the point. I am in need of ancient documents pertaining to a place once known as Andok Sur. I was told that the Mages of Saruun had the best library in the Nentir Vale, so I have come to ask permission to examine your scrolls and books. I shall pay handsomely for the use of your library, and then my companions and I shall be off.”

  The black-robed figure stood silently for a time. Then the deep voice said, “I must confer with my fellow Mages. In the meantime, you and your party can wait.…”

  Energy crackled along the tip of Magroth’s staff as he stepped close to the Ordinator and interrupted whatever proclamation he was about to make. Brugg began to advance up the steps, but Kalaban’s soulsword was suddenly free of its sheath and its blade was pointed directly at the ogre. Brugg hesitated, waiting to see what the Ordinator was going to do.

  “Save me your speeches and your threats and your shows of power,” Magroth said in a low, threatening voice. “I can perform every trick in your repertoire and a whole lot more. You do not frighten me, and I am not some simple trader that you can bully into obedience. I am Magroth, undead emperor of mighty Nerath, and I will bring this mountain down upon your heads if I do not get a modicum of cooperation from you. Take me to your library, now, and you can still profit from my visit to this unsavory hole in the ground.”

  The Ordinator took a moment to regain his composure before he spoke. “The Mages of Saruun welcome so important a personage as yourself into our hall. You may visit the library within our tower, but your guards must remain here. None but masters of the arcane are permitted to walk the tower’s corridors. I hope you understand.”

  Magroth’s smile widened. “Of course,” he said, allowing the energy around the tip of his staff to dissipate. “They can wait here. I assume I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you or yours attempts anything … threatening to my person?”

  “The Mages of Saruun follow the rules of hospitality,” the Ordinator said.

  “I would expect no less. Please, lead on.”

  The Ordinator floated over to the same magic circle that Magroth ha
d used to teleport them into the hall. He made a few arcane gestures and chanted words of power until the inscribed circle glowed with crimson light. The Ordinator stepped into the glowing circle and disappeared.

  “Don’t wait up,” Magroth said to Kalaban, and then he followed the Ordinator and vanished from sight.

  “Wizards,” Brugg spat, apparently happy to be rid of both the Ordinator and Magroth.

  Kalaban knew just how he felt.

  The knight-commander returned his sword to its scabbard and let his free hand wander into the depths of the pouch he wore on his belt. His fingers closed gently around the cylinder that rested there, feeling the contrasting sensations of cool glass and the radiant heat of the substance within.

  As his fingers found the glass cylinder, it seemed as though the substance within awoke. He could feel the substance slosh against the sides of the glass, as though trying to reach out and touch his cold, undead skin. As Kalaban’s fingers explored the glass cylinder, he looked toward the tower built into the side of the cavern wall to the northeast. That was where Magroth had gone. He wondered how long it would take for his emperor to find the information he sought, or if the information even existed. His eyes followed the rough curve of the cavern wall as it spread out to the west from the tower. About halfway along the wall, almost directly north of the bronze minotaur statue that loomed above Kalaban, the knight-commander noticed a dark archway. The keystone above the opening was decorated with a chiseled horizontal line with a vertical line carved into the stone beneath it.

  Kalaban looked into that dark maw, and suddenly he felt compelled to see where the opening led to. It was the strangest sensation. A compulsion, really, a need that he felt he could ignore if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to.

  “Stay here and wait for the emperor,” Kalaban told the stoneguard golem. He had no idea if it understood him, but it didn’t move from its spot.