The Mark of Nerath: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel

by Bill Slavicsek

  “Where da ya tink you’re goin’?” Brugg demanded as Kalaban began to move toward the dark archway to the north.

  He answered the ogre honestly.

  “I have no idea.”

  And then Kalaban was off, running toward the dark archway and whatever waited beyond it.

  47 THE TRADE ROAD, DAY

  Falon had never ridden a horse before. Whenever he needed to get somewhere within the village of Nenlast, he simply walked there. Nothing was too far to walk to, and his family didn’t own any horses even if he had wanted to ride. On the farm, he had sometimes ridden in a wagon drawn by an ox, but the wagon was usually used to transport dirt or harvested vegetables and rarely used as a way to get from place to place. So it was no wonder that he was having trouble on this ride out of Fallcrest. He could barely control the animal they had given him, and his bottom hurt more than he cared to admit.

  “Is this usual?” he had asked Darrum when the two were more or less out of earshot of the rest of the group.

  “Yup,” the old dwarf had replied.

  “Then why do people try to ride these foul beasts?”

  “Same reason I have to keep getting on boats. It beats walking when you have to get someplace in a hurry.”

  About an hour after they had started out for Thunderspire Mountain, Falon found that he didn’t like this method of travel any better. He looked around at his companions to see how they were faring. Erak, Shara, and Uldane seemed to be extremely good at this riding business. They each appeared to be totally in control of their mounts, comfortable in their saddles, and even happy to be pounding along the Trade Road atop the sweaty beasts. Darrum appeared to be as uncomfortable as he was, but he handled his animal with more confidence than Falon did. Falon hated them all at this particular moment in time. And he was sure that his horse was laughing at him.

  Up ahead, Erak and Shara had reined in their mounts and were staring intently at the horizon. Uldane and Darrum pulled up beside them, and Falon joined them a few moments later. He could hear the clang of metal on metal and the whine of horses coming from just beyond the rise. There were howls as well. Was that a wolf? Falon gave Erak a questioning glance when suddenly a blossom of fire and smoke bloomed somewhere on the road ahead.

  “Some kind of battle, that’s for certain,” Shara said.

  “And someone has some potent magic at their disposal,” Darrum added.

  “Let’s go see what’s going on,” Erak said, and he spurred his horse forward.

  “I was hoping someone was going to say that,” Uldane replied, beaming and moving to follow the revenant.

  “Stay behind me,” Darrum said to Falon.

  “I think I’ve demonstrated the ability to take care of myself,” Falon replied, allowing his horse to leap ahead of Darrum’s before the old dwarf could contradict him.

  Falon followed Erak and Uldane over the rise, with Shara and Darrum right behind him. Beyond the rise, the road dipped and then leveled out, and they could see a group engaged in battle about a half of a mile farther along the road. They were still a bit too far away to make out any details, but Falon noted that a few of the combatants were already sprawled across the ground and out of the fight.

  “Bandits,” Shara said, although Falon couldn’t see what made her say that. He couldn’t tell who was who among the chaos of the battle.

  “Is that … yes, it is!” Uldane shouted with joy. “Look, Shara! A tiny dragon!”

  “Stay focused,” Erak said. He surveyed the situation for another moment, then said, “Let’s go slay some bandits.”

  48 THE TRADE ROAD, DAY

  Albanon saw that Roghar was struggling to rise. The fall from the horse must have knocked the wind out of him, but he didn’t seem to have damaged anything. Of course, the four bandits moving in to surround him wanted to change that. Two of them had swords, one had a spiked club, and the fourth carried a spear. They moved with a practiced ease that indicated that they had used this tactic before. Roghar had his own sword in hand, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to retrieve his shield from where it hung across his back. He’d have to fight without it.

  Sylish Kreed, still atop his horse but with his sword in hand, circled around the four bandits who were closing in on Roghar. Albanon wanted to help the dragonborn, but he had to concentrate on his own situation. Two bandits were cautiously creeping toward him. They had dismounted and drawn their weapons. One, a grizzled human male with a jagged scar that ran down the left side of his face, wielded a spiked club. The other, a female who might have been a half-elf by the set of her eyes and the shape of her face, had a dagger in each hand. The young wizard also noticed that the two he had hit with his magic missiles were recovering and preparing to get back into the battle.

  “Why don’t you surrender,” the female with the daggers suggested. “Save us all some sweat and bother.”

  “Let me think about that,” Albanon replied, trying to keep his horse from bolting. The wolves were definitely making the animal nervous, and Albanon could relate. “No.”

  The female with the daggers smiled. “I always wanted to skin an eladrin.” She started to bound toward him, ready to knock him from his saddle.

  Albanon placed his hands side by side so that his thumbs touched. He spread his fingers wide and pointed them toward the two approaching bandits.

  “Don’t let him say …” the male with the spiked club began to shout, but Albanon said the words of power that released the energy of his spell. Flame burst from his outstretched fingers, sending a wave of heat and fire into the two bandits. The two bandits screamed. The male veered off, dropping his club and bringing his hands up to cover his face as the blast of fire rolled into him.

  The female sprang back, avoiding much of the attack. But not all of it. Her long brown hair had caught fire. She started to scream, “Get it off! Get it off!” Then she started rolling around on the ground, trying to smother the flames.

  Albanon left the two to their own devices so that he could check on Roghar. The paladin had already dropped one of the four bandits surrounding him, and the other three were trying to keep out of his reach as Kreed directed the wolves to move in and help. Luckily, Splendid was keeping the wolves busy. She darted in, slashed with her stinger, and flew out of reach over and over, occupying the wolves and making them more than a little crazy with her antics.

  Albanon recovered his staff from where it hung through loops in the saddle and began calculating distances and burst radiuses in his head. He wanted to scare the bandits and drive them off, not kill any of them. At least, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. And he also didn’t want to accidentally catch Roghar in the spell. An arrow whistled past his head. One of the archers was back in the fight, but he ignored him. He raised his staff, whispered a few words of power, and a globe of orange fire coalesced around the staff’s tip. He motioned with the staff, and the ball of fire flew toward the spot that Albanon had selected. It hit the side of the road and exploded, sending up a blossom of fire and smoke that knocked the remaining bandits off their feet. One archer and one of the bandits surrounding Roghar were caught in the blast, and fire and heat ravaged their bodies mercilessly. The wolves and Kreed had been far enough away that they weren’t hurt by the explosion, but they all backed away warily and turned to look at Albanon.

  “So you did learn a lesson or two these past seven years,” Splendid said, landing atop Albanon’s shoulder. “I would have been more impressed if you had actually hit a few more of them.”

  “I don’t want to kill any more of them than I have to,” Albanon retorted.

  “Noble,” Splendid said, “but foolish.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Roghar backed away from the fallen bandits to stand beside Albanon. The eladrin wizard leaped down from his horse and put his back to Roghar’s. “What do you have left in that staff of yours?” the dragonborn asked quietly.

  Albanon decided that now was not the time to teach Roghar th
e intricacies of arcane magic. The staff was simply an implement, a focus, not the source of Albanon’s power. “Not much,” Albanon admitted, “I’m still pretty wiped out from lack of rest, and the fire ball spell was my heavy hitter. I was hoping it would convince the bandits to find easier prey elsewhere.”

  “Never leave your problems for someone else to deal with,” Roghar said. “Would you rather these jackals go after someone weaker and less able to defend themselves than we are? There is no honor in that course of action.”

  Part of Albanon wanted to feel ashamed, wanted to humbly agree with Roghar’s assessment. But another part didn’t want to have to fight off nine bandits and two wolves with only a dragonborn paladin and a pseudodragon for company.

  Kreed dismounted, gripped his large sword with both hands, and marched toward Albanon and Roghar. The two wolves padded along beside him, flanked to each side and growling menacingly. The rest of the bandits were scattered, but Albanon assumed they’d group up and be back in the battle in a moment or two.

  “Congratulations,” Kreed said as he approached, “you’ve managed to completely piss me off.”

  “My apologies, good sir,” Roghar said, bringing his own sword back up into a defensive stance. “Our intent was to send you running with your proverbial tail between your legs. You can see how we could get the two attitudes confused in the heat of battle.”

  Kreed laughed. It was a deep, full sound that surprised Albanon. “I’m really going to hate killing the two of you. Would you care to surrender and become members of my band? It seems that at least two of my men won’t be of much use when all of this is said and done, and I could use the replacements.”

  Roghar simply cocked his head to the side, a quizzical expression on his draconic face.

  “No, I suppose that wouldn’t work out well at all,” Kreed said with evident disappointment. “Very well, let’s get this over with.”

  The sound of approaching hoof beats suddenly filled the air, along with a number of shouts that Albanon imaged were the war cries of some crazed barbarian. He glanced back over his shoulder to see five riders coming on strong, bearing down on them with distinct purpose.

  “Oh, what is it now?” Kreed asked in exasperation. “Can’t a man work in peace on such a nice, pleasant day?”

  A woman warrior riding atop a large horse was making all the noise, yelling at the top of her lungs as her horse pounded closer. Among the other approaching riders, Albanon noticed a dwarf and a halfling. If these were indeed friends, then the battle had suddenly gone from overwhelmingly in the bandits’ favor to closer to even. And apparently Kreed wanted nothing to do with an even battle.

  “Disperse, Wolf Runners!” Kreed called out to his associates. “We’ll meet up back at camp!”

  “Leaving so soon?” Roghar asked. “I was looking forward to seeing how well you swung that massive weapon.”

  “Another time, I’m sure,” Kreed said with a smile. Then he did something that neither Roghar nor Albanon had expected. Kreed transformed right before their eyes. Bones and muscles snapped and reformed. Fur sprouted from flesh and clothing. Hands became paws, and teeth grew long and sharp as a muzzle extended from what was just a human face. Kreed had turned into a massive black wolf, easily twice as large as either of the gray wolves that flanked him. He fixed his bright yellow eyes on Roghar. Then the Kreed-wolf howled, turned, and ran into the brush beside the road.

  The woman warrior and her companions arrived just as the last of the bandits that were capable of fleeing had mounted up and scattered to either side of the road. Three of the bandits remained on the ground. Whether they were dead or merely unconscious, Albanon didn’t know, and frankly, he didn’t care.

  “Thanks for your timely appearance, friends,” Roghar said to the woman and her companions. “We had those bandits right where we wanted them, and your arrival made them decide to retreat before another one or two of them fell to either my sword or my ally’s spells.”

  “If that was the Wolf Runners,” the woman warrior said, “then they won’t take this insult lightly. Sylish Kreed hates to lose. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “Then perhaps we can ride together, if you’re heading east, that is,” Roghar suggested. “I think there are more than enough of us to give Kreed pause.”

  The woman warrior exchanged glances with the rider dressed all in leather. Albanon looked closer at the man and realized that he wasn’t quite human. Or quite alive.

  “The dragonborn speaks true,” the revenant said. “Let’s join forces, at least until we reach the mountain.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Roghar said.

  A plan, yes, but Albanon couldn’t help but wonder if it was a good plan. He had just seen a man transform into a werewolf, and now he was agreeing to team up with a party of apparent adventurers that included what had to be a revenant—a servant of the Raven Queen.

  What had he and Roghar gotten themselves into?

  49 THE TOWER OF SARUUN, DAY

  Magroth had lost all track of time as he poured over the scrolls, loose sheets of parchment, and bound tomes that filled the library in the Tower of Saruun. The stone bastion, built into the side of the cavern, was almost completely deserted. If there were more than two or three mages within the structure, Magroth would eat his staff. No, the Mages of Saruun were few in number and protected more by their legend and reputation than by actual power. He could easily bring this entire building and the cavern beyond down without working up much of a sweat, and he was sure that there was no one among the vaunted Mages who could hinder him, let alone stop him. But that wasn’t why he was here. If they wanted to pretend to be all-powerful and act mysterious, what did it matter to him? They had agreed to his terms, and he would honor that agreement.

  Provided he found what he was looking for.

  The Ordinator pointed out which shelves and stacks within the large tower room were likely to hold whatever information they possessed regarding the ancient site of Andok Sur. Then the wizard, still wearing his mask of gold and his black robes, floated out of the chamber and left Magroth alone to conduct his research. Now, after an hour or maybe five of unrolling scrolls and separating tomes that held promise from those that dealt with topics far removed from the concerns of the emperor, Magroth was ready to start reading in earnest.

  It took time, as these kinds of tasks always do, but eventually Magroth found some of what he was looking for. The writings of Welsom Farwanderer, for example, spoke of Andok Sur and its location.

  The necropolis of Andok Sur was ancient when the kingdom of Bael Turath was merely a collection of loosely allied city-states that stretched across the middle of the continent. It lies to the far north, beyond the Mountain of Thunder and Lightning. Dedicated to the Demon Prince Orcus, the place was established by the warrior tribes of the Eastern Valley who interred their still-living enemies into the tombs and mausoleums that fill the necropolis as buildings fill a town. When I visited the site, it was truly a place of the dead. Roaming ghosts and even corporeal undead continued to haunt the streets of shattered tombs and crumbling mausoleums, but it was no longer the vibrant City of the Undead that it had been under the rule of the vampire lord Zarguna. I had come to discover secrets undreamed of, and all I found was a place of sadness and decay.

  Magroth read more, but descriptions of graveyards and statuary soon bored him. Obviously, the ritual that Barana Strenk had commanded him to perform was meant to revive this city of the undead. Magroth could get behind that goal. He needed an army and a site to establish as the capital of his new kingdom, and what better location for a vampire-lich wizard than a necropolis full of undead waiting to be awakened? All he needed to do was figure out how to turn the loyalty of the necropolis’ inhabitants from Orcus to him. Perhaps he could alter the ritual in some subtle way? As he continued to peruse Welsom’s writings and consider how to best rework the ritual he had been provided with, the Ordinator returned to the chamber.

  “I have found another volum
e that may interest you, Emperor Magroth,” the Ordinator said, holding forth a small book that looked as though it might crumble to dust at any moment. “This is from the century after your death. It concerns the prophecies of the Felish Oracle, a seer who has accurately predicted many important events of the past five hundred years, including the assassination of the High Orator of Pelor and the fall of Nerath.”

  Magroth carefully took the small volume. It was written in Abyssal, the language of demons. Fortunately, Magroth was fluent in Abyssal, as well as seven other languages. “And why should the ramblings of an insane mystic interest me?” he asked.

  The Ordinator removed his gold mask, revealing an old human male with a bald head and a short, gray beard. “Excuse me, my lord, but you wouldn’t believe how hot it gets inside that mask,” he said as he wiped perspiration from his brow. “In addition to predicting the fall of Nerath almost to the exact day and time, the Felish Oracle went on to make a prediction about the remaining heirs to the Nerathi Empire. Examine stanza sixty-two, verses nine through thirteen.”

  Magroth turned to the appropriate page and found the passage the old wizard spoke of. He scanned the words. Then he read them again.

  “This oracle suggests that one of my descendants, one of royal Nerathi blood, will disrupt the plans of Orcus and perhaps even set the stage for the Demon Prince’s downfall,” Magroth said as he checked the passage a third time.

  “That is the popular interpretation of that particular prophecy,” the Ordinator agreed.

  So, this could be why Orcus’s agent wanted all of my descendents destroyed, Magroth thought. I would likely follow the same course, were I the Demon Prince.

  “One more thing, Emperor Magroth,” the Ordinator said, apparently of the opinion that the more helpful he was, the less likely that Magroth would destroy the place as he was leaving. “There is a related prophecy that seems to be intermingled with the one concerning the Blood of Nerath.”