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  AN ANCIENT, ALIEN CITY

  OF UNSPEAKABLE HORROR

  Thoster glanced up. Xxiphu was rising farther into the sky. As it moved, it pulled the storm with it.

  “Thank the Sea Mother,” murmured the captain. He let one hand fall across his amulet. The music yet played, still calling to Thoster. But what Seren had fashioned for him retained its charm. Thoster was free to ignore the call.

  The question was, who was the caller? The crazy half-elf had prevented the aboleths from waking their progenitor. Could the Eldest yet reach out with such strength despite not being entirely conscious? Perhaps. Thoster could count all the things he knew about half-divine legendary beings on one finger: stay clear of them. Still, the music, growing dimmer as the awful city continued to recede, had a grasping, intelligent nature to it that Thoster didn’t ascribe to the Eldest. Xxiphu sought something. An object. It was … right on the tip of Thoster’s tongue.

  The captain blinked.

  The memory swirled away as the present intruded. He was standing on a busy New Sarshell walk outside the shipbuilder’s office. People jostled him as they went about their day.

  “Damn me, I thought I drank enough rum last night to erase that memory,” the captain said.

  A man gave him an odd look as he passed.

  Thoster chuckled. He said, louder, “Guess I’ll try again tonight. The key is to not accept half-measures! The key …”

  The key. Why was that word familiar? It put him in mind of a song.

  The music from his memory battered Thoster, as loud and as demanding as when Xxiphu had frowned down upon Green Siren days earlier.

  “The Key of Stars is what Xxiphu seeks,” he whispered.

  The captain clutched his hat to his head and dashed down the walk in the direction of Marhana Manor.

  WAITING TO BE UNLEASHED.

  ABOLETHIC SOVEREIGNTY

  Join Raidon Kane as he fights the rise of a horrific, alien nation bent on enslaving all of the Forgotten Realms world.

  Book I

  Plague of Spells

  Book II

  City of Torment

  Book III

  Key of Stars

  ALSO BY BRUCE R. CORDELL

  The Priests

  The Rotting Man, a servant of the goddess of pain, is spreading discord, disease, and corruption. It is up to Marrec to protect his latest prey: a young girl of disturbing power and mental isolation.

  Lady of Poison

  The Wizards

  A weapon forged to blackmail the gods has awoken, and is bent upon the destruction of its creators. An exile of the hidden city which created the weapon may be the only chance the city has for survival.

  Darkvision

  The Dungeons

  Too dangerous to kill, the Traitor has long been imprisoned in Stardeep—long enough to corrupt one of his jailors. Kiril must fight all the protections of Stardeep to save it from its worst prisoner’s escape.

  Stardeep

  Abolethic Sovereignty

  Book III

  KEY OF STARS

  ©2010 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, 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.

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5764-4

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  ASIA, PACIFIC, & LATIN AMERICA Hasbro UK Ltd

  Wizards of the Coast LLC Caswell Way

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  Visit our web site at www.wizards.com

  v3.1

  Dedication

  For Sharon Cordell Mac and Leroy R. Cordell

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Phil Athans, for believing the Abolethic Sovereignty was a tale that needed telling. Thank you to Dee, for your tireless support, inspiration, and putting up with all the hours I spent closeted in my office, especially on this last book. Thank you to Susan Morris, for being a fabulous editor, sounding board, and friend through three books worth of thorny plot and character development. Thank you to John Staab and Todd Dail, for your martial arts instruction that give Raidon’s and Taal’s fights a flair of authenticity. And thank you, reader; your interest in this story has propelled it through to the end.

  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

  CHAPTER ONE

  Eleven Years after the S
pellplague

  The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

  Candlekeep

  The door shuddered in its frame.

  The scribe’s hand jerked, flicking a blob of ink from his quill. The ink splattered on the parchment stretched across the composition table.

  “Mystra’s corpse!” the scribe said.

  Several heavy bumps thudded down the hallway outside the door, followed by laughter.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” the scribe yelled.

  He waited a few heartbeats for a response. Nothing but silence.

  “Damn apprentices, playing when they should be reshelving,” he muttered.

  The scribe sighed and returned to his work. The splatter hadn’t ruined the report, but the tiny spills made the page appear untidy and common—not up to his standards. At least it was salvageable. He dipped his quill in the pot once more.

  The door shattered in a blast of expanding white vapor.

  The scribe, bent-backed and stiff from a lifetime of copying, fell off his stool. Bits of broken door rained down on him. The inkpot shattered, painting jagged black lines on the floor.

  Memories of the disaster more than a decade before spidered through him—the Year of Blue Fire. Was it happening again? A jolt of panic lent him strength. He pulled himself up and leaned unsteadily on the writing table.

  A woman wearing a dark gown and cape stalked through the empty doorway. Her skin glowed like moonlight, and her eyes like coal. Was she some kind of eladrin?

  A bald man followed her into the room. Blood flecked his otherwise impeccably black formalwear. When he smiled at the scribe, canines protruded. He also had something of the fey to him, but he was certainly no eladrin.

  Behind them strolled a massive black hound that seemed more shadow than flesh; but its barred teeth were as white as snow.

  “Who are … What’s going on?” said the scribe. “Where are the apprentices? They should have …” He realized the distracting noises probably hadn’t been the librarian trainees roughhousing, as he’d assumed.

  “The apprentices?” said the woman. “Hmm, is this one?” She pointed to something outside the door.

  The scribe leaned to the left and looked into the hallway.

  What was left of a youthful librarian was embedded in the wall, his blood rayed like ejecta from a falling star.

  Nausea bent the scribe over the writing table. His last meal came up. A useless voice in his head noted his report was almost certainly ruined.

  “They did not accord me the proper respect,” the eladrin said. “Don’t make the same mistake.”

  The scribe coughed and wiped his mouth. “No, um … my lady,” he forced out.

  “I require your aid,” she said.

  “Uh, yes!” the scribe replied. “But I doubt I, a simple scribe, can assist you. It is—”

  The man laughed. The sound was high-pitched, its piercing note somehow horrifying. “If you aim to avoid ending up like your friends, try again, mortal,” he said.

  “Wh … What do you want?” the scribe asked.

  “We require access to a collection here in your wonderful fortress of lore,” said the woman. “Surely you can aid us with that.”

  The scribe wondered why Candlekeep’s defenses hadn’t already converged on the invaders. He wished, not for the first time, that the defensive spellmantle of old hadn’t unraveled. It would have provided instant warning to everyone in the keep, and … He suddenly understood the invaders might have slipped into the heart of Candlekeep without the Castellan or the Keeper of Tomes being the wiser. Perhaps only he knew Candlekeep hosted uninvited guests. He had to get word out!

  Should he send a message immediately? That would risk the invaders’ ire if they noticed his arcane twiddling. It might be better to go along with whatever they wanted for the moment, and survive long enough to try later. Sweat broke on his forehead.

  “Have we scared you dumb?” said the man.

  “Ah, no!” the scribe said. “I mean, what can I help you with? I only have access to certain specialty collections. Lore of ancient fey groups that died out long ago …”

  “Perfect,” said the woman. “Show us to the Democene Reading Room.”

  The scribe swallowed. “How … How did you know about that collection?” he said.

  “Stop wasting time, human,” the woman replied. “I wonder, if I remove your hand, will it serve as the reading room key without your body attached?”

  Slick dread churned the scribe’s guts. He pushed away from his table, toward the back wall. “This way!” he said.

  Shelves heavy with books framed a door of dull iron. The door lacked a handle, but a plate set flush to the wall next to the door would serve.

  The scribe placed one trembling hand to the plate and muttered the pass phrase. A spark was born, bit his palm, and died in an instant. He rubbed his hand as a series of knocks, bangs, and whines issued from the wall.

  “A clunky sort of magery,” said the bald man.

  “Access to the reading room the lady named is coming into alignment,” said the scribe. “Some collections are too dangerous to reside in the general stacks.”

  With a final muffled clunk, the iron door scraped aside. A narrow track of descending stairs was revealed.

  The scribe motioned the two invaders to enter.

  “No, after you, my friend,” said the man. “Prudence and all that.”

  The scribe nodded and preceded the invaders into the stairwell.

  A similar iron door sealed the landing at the stairwell’s foot. The scribe opened it as he had the first. Beyond lay the Democene Reading Room.

  Painted stars glowed on the ceiling, providing just enough light to read by. Crumbling tomes, scrolls, knickknacks, and drawings littered a single leaning shelf. A basalt table and seat nestled in one corner. A few unshelved books lay open upon it from the scribe’s last visit.

  The woman breezed into the room. The glowing stars brightened, and a haze of dancing light enshrouded her. It hurt the scribe’s eyes to look at the eladrin.

  “Something recognizes you, Malyanna,” said the man.

  “Give the bat a sweet,” she replied. “He’s so perceptive.”

  A dangerous expression briefly touched the man’s pale features. Then he chuckled and entered the reading room to stand at Malyanna’s side.

  Malyanna extended a finger and began to trace the titles on the shelf.

  “What you’ve still failed to adequately explain, my lovely,” the man said, “is why this side trek is necessary in the first place?”

  The woman, apparently called Malyanna, sniffed. “You saw me attempt the ritual again, and fail, Neifion,” she said. “The Eldest is caught between waking and sleeping. Your pet warlock skimmed just enough power from the Dreamheart to prevent it from reaching full awareness.”

  She said something else, but the scribe had stopped paying attention—the man and the woman stood in the room, ignoring him completely! The Democene Reading Room could confine more than dangerous tomes …

  The scribe’s stomach dropped, and his limbs shook, but he placed his hand on the ceramic locking plate. He whispered the pass phrase.

  The door clanked. Malyanna and Neifion glanced back, alarm clear in their expressions.

  The door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

  The scribe grinned in triumph. Time to warn the Keeper of—

  He gasped as something sharp and wet grabbed his neck and pulled him into the air.

  He’d forgotten about the shadow hound! The scribe shrieked, and the beast dropped him. It unleashed a growl that strained the scribe’s ability to maintain bladder control.

  He whimpered, and tried to crawl away, but the hound stepped on his leg, pinning him with an unholy weight. Its button-black eyes bored into his.

  Why wasn’t he already dead? The hound growled, shifted its gaze to the locking plate, then back to the scribe. It was clear the hound wanted him to open the door.

  It how
led again, its volume twice as loud as before. The beast would rend the scribe limb from limb if he did not comply. Fear filled his belly like rancid wine, and despite the scribe’s resolve, fear won.

  With another touch, the reading room door swung open.

  His eyes found the eladrin’s.

  “That was stupid,” the woman said.

  She gestured. Cold air blew his hair straight back before a flurry of white engulfed him. Icy pinpricks multiplied across his skin like hundreds of tiny mouths. He screamed, and the cold found entry.

  Tamur the shadow hound licked at the twisted remains of the Candlekeep scribe. The icy death stroke had left a sour taste on the corpse. Tamur was used to the flavor. It was a taste it had learned to relish.

  “I was hoping to sup a little on that one,” said the Lord of Bats. He glanced at the dead body, and his nose crinkled. “Now you’ve ruined him.”

  “Too bad,” said Malyanna as she pulled a crumbling codex from the shelf. “Ah, yes,” she continued. “This looks promising.”

  “Is it a way to reinvigorate the Dreamheart, so you can try the ritual yet a third time?” asked Neifion.

  “No,” she replied.

  The bald man waited with arched eyebrows. His frown grew thunderous before the woman finally added, “Despite Xxiphu’s rise, I doubt waking the Eldest is possible while the warlock breathes.”

  “Perfect!” Neifion said. “Let us go after Japheth immediately! You can reclaim the energy he stole, while I claim his soul for past debts.” The Lord of Bats smacked his lips.

  “In good time,” replied Malyanna. “He is linked to the Dreamheart now; I can find your unwilling prodigal whenever I wish. But my study here takes precedence.”

  Neifion watched the hound at its messy repast for several heartbeats. Then he said, “What takes precedence, if not waking the Eldest, as you’ve been so intent on doing since you approached me? The time has come for you to explain yourself.”

  Malyanna looked up from her tome. “Do you think so?”