Sword of the Gods Read online

  ABOLETHIC SOVEREIGNTY

  Book I

  Plague of Spells

  Book II

  City of Torment

  Book III

  Key of Stars

  ALSO BY BRUCE R. CORDELL

  THE PRIESTS

  Lady of Poison

  THE WIZARDS

  Darkvision

  THE DUNGEONS

  Stardeep

  SWORD OF THE GODS

  ©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. FORGOTTEN REALMS, 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.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Cos Koniotis

  First Printing: April 2011

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5897-9

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  PACIFIC, & LATIN AMERICA Hasbro UK Ltd

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  Visit our web site at www.wizards.com

  v3.1

  DEDICATION

  For Hektor

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Dramatis Personae

  Other Characters

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Welcome to Faerûn, a land of magic and intrigue, brutal violence and divine compassion, where gods have ascended and died, and mighty heroes have risen to fight terrifying monsters. Here, millennia of warfare and conquest have shaped dozens of unique cultures, raised and leveled shining kingdoms and tyrannical empires alike, and left long forgotten, horror-infested ruins in their wake.

  A LAND OF MAGIC

  When the goddess of magic was murdered, a magical plague of blue fire—the Spellplague—swept across the face of Faerûn, killing some, mutilating many, and imbuing a rare few with amazing supernatural abilities. The Spellplague forever changed the nature of magic itself, and seeded the land with hidden wonders and bloodcurdling monstrosities.

  A LAND OF DARKNESS

  The threats Faerûn faces are legion. Armies of undead mass in Thay under the brilliant but mad lich king Szass Tam. Treacherous dark elves plot in the Underdark in the service of their cruel and fickle goddess, Lolth. The Abolethic Sovereignty, a terrifying hive of inhuman slave masters, floats above the Sea of Fallen Stars, spreading chaos and destruction. And the Empire of Netheril, armed with magic of unimaginable power, prowls Faerûn in flying fortresses, sowing discord to their own incalculable ends.

  A LAND OF HEROES

  But Faerûn is not without hope. Heroes have emerged to fight the growing tide of darkness. Battle-scarred rangers bring their notched blades to bear against marauding hordes of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness.

  A LAND OF UNTOLD ADVENTURE

  PROLOGUE

  SOMEWHERE IN FAERÛN

  YEAR OF LIGHTNING STORMS (1374 DR)

  THE CANDLES IN THE SECRET MAUSOLEUM FLICKERED, throwing monstrous shadows across the granite walls. Kalkan’s own wavering profile still surprised him. The silhouette of his head revealed an extended muzzle, rough fur, exaggerated catlike ears, and two curls of horn. If anything, the dreadful outline fell short of revealing the true horror of what he’d become.

  But the shadow of his companion refused to resolve at all, except as a gloom of phantom skulls, swirling and mouthing lies. The fluctuating shape seemed to have little in common with the slim youth with dark eyes and pale skin. But Kalkan knew better.

  “He’s in there?” asked the youth.

  “His shell is,” answered Kalkan. “It’s moldering away to dust, as if he were mortal. But even as we speak, the nexus of his spirit drains toward its next incarnation.”

  “Minus the memories of what he’s done,” said Kalkan’s companion, anger making his voice tight.

  “Just so,” said Kalkan, and waited for his companion to get to the point. The youth knew perfectly well who lay in the stone grave. The epitaph chiseled on the sarcophagus spelled it out:

  Agent of Fate, Emissary of Divine Judgment,

  Cutter of Destiny’s Thread.

  You died as you lived, and will live again.

  Demascus, Sword of the Gods.

  A prickle ran up Kalkan’s spine. The epitaph was no boast. Demascus was a terrifying force when operating at the height of his powers. Kalkan recalled all too well the first time he’d tracked down Demascus.

  Kalkan had spent tendays lying low in a small cave near the ravine where the abomination laired.

  Waiting, at turns bored beyond belief, then terrified that the abomination had sniffed him out.

  One day, a lighting bolt shattered the sky, and the thunder that followed threatened to pummel Kalkan senseless. From the charred spot where the lightning had touched, Demascus stepped forth. The man had bone white hair, bloodless skin, black eyes like pits, and elaborate designs like ashen streaks tattooed down both arms, as if charred into his skin.

  Demascus didn’t notice Kalkan; the man’s entire attention was reserved for the creature that rose from the ravine at his feet. The creature was the monstrous offspring of a god and demon that should never have been. Demascus was there to make certain no one ever learned of a god’s indiscretion.

  The thing undulated like a dragon in flight. Its scabbed head was wreathed in flailing crystal knives and its clawed hands seemed large as houses. Mist poured from it, hiding its lower expanse in a bank of roiling fog lit with a ghoulish flickering.

  When Demascus and the beast came together, the resulting blast bowled Kalkan over. He mewled into the renewed crash of thunder, wondering just what he’d gotten himself into—there was no way he could ever hope to “handle” Demascus, as he’d agreed to. The man was so far beyond his power it was laughable to even think …

  Quiet reclaimed the clifltop. Kalkan pulled himself upright and peeked around the new rubble of boulders, still hot from the blast that had plucked them fr
om the ground and thrown them about like marbles.

  The demi-demon’s head lay dripping in gore on the rock. The lower portion of its body was gone, apparently having fallen away into the misted ravine.

  Demascus’s massive sword was thrust through the creature’s head, entering at the left eye, punching through all the way back behind the skull, and down through the rock.

  The creature’s slayer, however, had fared no better. The man must have charged straight into the skin-flaying crystal knives to cut the demi-demon’s head free of the body, then nail it to the earth. In so doing, he’d sacrificed his life in a particularly grisly fashion. All the man’s famous implements and abilities hadn’t been enough to save him. Even as Kalkan watched with eyes wide as saucers, Demascus’s sword released a pulse of golden radiance, sweet as the sunrise.

  As the glow faded, so too did the sword, the man, and all his storied magic artifacts.

  All that had remained behind was the body of the thing Demascus had slain, and Kalkan.

  Kalkan blinked away the memory, and curled his lip into a silent snarl. Here was where Demascus’s body had come to rest, as it did every time his deeds surpassed his frame. If only finding Demascus’s latest living incarnation was as easy as locating the failed husks.

  “He had a free hand before he came to this world,” mused Kalkan’s companion. “No one watched over him. He gained more power than a being of his station should ever have been allowed.”

  “But not on Toril,” said Kalkan, and bared his fangs.

  “No, not here,” the youth agreed. “Thanks to you, Kalkan Swordbreaker, and the oath you swore. But it galls, doesn’t it? Your new … hungers? Your acceptance of the gods’ appeal has transformed you into something bestial and fiendish.”

  Kalkan growled, half in anger, but partly with desire that brought saliva to his mouth, even as that yearning sickened what remained of his former self. A self that diminished a little more each day. The reality of what the gods required of Kalkan still burned like acid. Unlike Demascus, Kalkan remembered each of his deaths. It was a side effect of his … change.

  “The gods made me this,” he huffed, his voice like a hunting tiger’s growl.

  “And they name me guilty of crimes I did not commit! Life’s not fair, Swordbreaker. But we don’t have to just accept it. We can strike back at the ones who’ve wronged us. I promise you this—turn Demascus to the dark, and our reward will be sweet vengeance against the gods, and more.”

  Kalkan nodded. “Does this mean you’ve decided to stop leading me along and give me the aid you promised?” He was taking a chance in addressing the youth so impertinently. When he saw his companion’s eyes narrow, he figured he’d just crossed the line.

  But instead of blasting him to nothingness, or worse, banishing him to a millennial prison in some forgotten cyst, the youth held out his hand palm up. On it lay a slender metallic disk attached to a leather strap.

  “This,” said Kalkan’s companion, “is called a damos. Only a few remain from the time of their fashioning in ancient Imaskar. It produces a poison of uncommon virulence. Which is just a side effect. The residue that collects within the disk’s cavity is the condensation of the future, distilled by the mind of an entity or principle even I don’t fully comprehend. To taste of it is to see hours or days forward. To drink it is to hear the far future described to you by the Voice of Tomorrow—but taking that much is lethal poison to mortal and god alike. Nothing can survive it.”

  Kalkan took the damos. It was cold against his finger pads, and rough. He met the youth’s eyes. Instead of irises, tiny black skulls stared out of each white orb. But he smiled at his patron. “Death is hardly a problem for someone like me. If the limits of this damos are as you describe—”

  “It has no limits other than its user’s resistance to poison.”

  Kalkan tapped the disk. It opened like a dilating eye, revealing a cavity filled with oily fluid. He dipped a claw into the reservoir, barely wetting it, then licked off the clinging beads. It tasted like blood.

  His cheeks warmed and sweat broke through the fur on his brow. The mausoleum was blotted out by a roar of light and noise. His eyes fluttered, beyond his conscious control. He collapsed, his breath suddenly coming hard.

  A whisper broke from the cacophony. It was a voice, just on the edge of incoherence. The voice spoke of the future.

  And as his life dwindled to a cinder, Kalkan listened.

  CHAPTER ONE

  AKANÛL

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  INFINITIES CROUCHED ON HIS CHEST, STONE-HEAVY AND black as a tomb. Nothingness spiraling forever overhead like a burned-out galaxy reflected in murky water.

  Something inexplicable shifted. A thread glimmered, beckoning him to follow its endless coils across the darkness …

  He drew in a breath and opened his eyes.

  Naked branches scratched jagged lines across a ceiling of clouds and drifting earthmotes. Mist gathered in shoals, dribbling chill gray across the sky.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them, counting: one, two, three …

  He waited for the memory of his situation to occur to him like a bolt sliding home.

  … and nothing.

  What the Hells? he thought. Why am I sleeping outside? Only an idiot would camp in the open this time of year. Plus my bedroll is too hard.

  More importantly, where was he? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Burning dominions, had he been drinking?

  He sat up. The light was pre-dawn dim, but bright enough to see he hadn’t been lying on a bedroll; it was a marble altar, thick with inscribed runes.

  Uh-oh. Finding oneself spread out on an altar without the least memory of how one had arrived upon it rarely ended up being good news.

  “Hey!” he yelped, pulling his leg toward his chest. Something had bitten him!

  A squat, blubbery creature crouched alongside the stone platform, grinning at him with a nest of tiny fangs, its eyes solid masses of scarlet crystal. Its flesh was sickly, like unbaked dough, and red crystal scales and spikes crusted its upper shoulders.

  He recoiled, rolling off the opposite side of the altar. He landed on hands and knees, jarring his wrists. A moment later he was on his feet with the altar between him and the creature.

  He almost fell again; his legs were like deadweights. His vision narrowed, as if threatening to pinch off. He caught himself on the altar’s edge, saving himself from flopping face first back into the dirt. His legs were asleep; he could barely feel them.

  His attacker held a severed human foot in one hand, gnawed bone clearly visible. His gaze jerked down to check the status of his own feet. Still attached … but why wasn’t he wearing boots? A more thorough and somewhat chilly realization shuddered through him.

  “Where are my clothes?” he asked the thing weakly, fear and confusion fighting for dominance.

  The thing grinned wider, its lips smeared red and its yellowed teeth crusted with gore. It tossed away the severed limb and looked at him speculatively.

  He stamped experimentally, holding himself up with his arms on the cold altar. His legs went from numb to a fire of pins and needles.

  The creature watched him a few moments more as if wondering what kind of dance he was doing. Then it launched itself, coming right up over the altar like a dog hurdling a low fence.

  Muscle memory betrayed him; his smooth and unthinking motion to draw the great sword sheathed on his back was ruined by the fact he didn’t have a sword on his back. He was naked.

  Then it was on him, and despite its small size, it bore him to the ground. In rapid succession it tried to bite out his throat, disembowel him, and sever the undefended femoral arteries that ran up his inner thigh. He jerked, shifted, and elbowed just enough each time to avoid each bite and slash, trading each attack for a lesser nip or gouge. But if he didn’t slow down its momentum, and give something back soon, it was going to overwhelm him—

  With a desperate spasm
, he gathered his legs to his chest, then released a tremendous straight kick.

  His heels caught the creature across the jaw. It squealed as it flipped off and away.

  At the apex of its trajectory, it almost seemed like time slowed. An illusion he supposed, but he took advantage of the interlude to scrabble to his feet, and steal a glance around.

  Granite obelisks encircled the altar at a distance of about ten paces, forming a crude ring. People lay around the periphery of the ring, unmoving in a scatter of dropped weapons, silent and … dead.

  Time snapped back to its regular breakneck pace. The creature traced the end of its arc, landed hard, then bounced onto its feet, apparently no worse for wear. It growled as it raised one hand to paw at its mouth, looking for all the world as if it were feeling for a sore tooth.

  Good, he thought, I hurt it a little after all. It didn’t immediately rush him again anyway.

  Which gave him enough time to snatch a long sword lying in the dirt near a corpse’s limp hand. The blade showed brownish streaks of corrosion and the hilt was mildewed, but the balance was acceptable. The damp weight of it in his hand was the first good thing that had happened to him since he’d opened his eyes.

  He pointed it so that the tip lined up with the creature’s chest.

  He said, “What’s going on here? In the name of Light and Shadow, what are you?”

  The thing growled like a dog struck with foaming sickness, and charged.

  He grinned despite the new surge of fear jackknifing through his bloodstream … or because of it. With the fear came a charge of elation that sang along every nerve. He lined up the blade to skewer his attacker on it.

  The length of the blade seemed off. He tried to correct, but the creature swatted his sword out of the way. It lurched inside his guard and fastened its wide mouth on his unarmored forearm. He was momentarily distracted by the odd design running the length of his limb, ash gray like tattoos of ghosts—