Table Of ContentL A …
B ORN OF THE IQUID BYSS, THE WORLD KNOWS A NEW AFFLICTION
Trace the plague’s inception with James Wyatt’s fivepart prelude
novella, The Gates of Madness, available as a free eBook at
www.wizards.com/dnd/novels.aspx
THEN JOIN A CAST OF UNCOMMON HEROES AS THEY RUSH TO UNCOVER THE EXTENT OF THIS
OTHERWORLDLY EVIL.
Dungeons & Dragons
Untold Adventures
©2011 Wizards of the Coast LLC
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v3.1
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
UNDER THE PLAINS OF RUST
JOHN SHIRLEY
THE STEEL PRINCESS
ALAN DEAN FOSTER
TALLFOLK TALES
A T FORGOTTEN REALMS
ALE OF THE
LISA SMEDMAN
THE FOUNDLING
MIKE RESNICK
THE FORGE OF XEN’DRIK
A T EBERRON
ALE OF
KAY KENYON
ARENA OF SHADOWS
A T EBERRON
ALE OF
SARAH ZETTEL
WATCHERS AT THE LIVING GATE
A T FORGOTTEN REALMS
ALE OF THE
PAUL PARK
BLOOD OASIS
A T DARK SUN
ALE OF
KEVIN J. ANDERSON
LORD OF THE DARKWAYS
A T FORGOTTEN REALMS
ALE OF THE
ED GREENWOOD
DREAMING OF WATERDEEP
A T FORGOTTEN REALMS
ALE OF THE
ROSEMARY JONES
TO CHAOS AND BACK AGAIN
JODY LYNN NYE
THE DECAYING MANSIONS OF MEMORY
JAY LAKE
UNDER THE PLAINS OF RUST
JOHN SHIRLEY
1.
It was daylight outside the Nentir Inn, but in this windowless garret it
might have been night. The dying warlock’s chamber was lit by a single
feeble lamp dangling from the darkened ceiling; it swayed slightly,
though there was no reason it should.
A slender young steward in close-fitting black garments, Gnarl stood
just inside the doorway, an empty tray in his hands, wondering what
exactly the warlock wanted. He had refused all service but a little broth
and wine. The shadows darkening the chamber seemed to have
substance, and personality, as if they’d gathered in the room to observe
the tiefling’s decline. He was, after all, no ordinary tiefling—Sernos was
quite a famous worker of magic.
“Come closer, young man,” said the warlock hoarsely, shifting on the
small bed in the corner of the dank, shadowy room. “And close the door.
I have a mission for you …” The tiefling’s rasping voice reminded Gnarl
of the filing of old swords. Seeing Gnarl’s hesitation, the warlock
scowled, the glow of his crimson eyes quickening like embers blown on a
cold night. Trying to prop himself up on his pillows, Sernos gave an
agonized grunt and pushed back his hood. Gnarl saw that the tiefling’s
head was crowned by horns; his elongated features, always the color of a
sunburn, were both noble and infernal.
Reluctantly, Gnarl closed the door and took a step into the room. He
feared a malediction should he refuse to approach. “May I fetch you a
tonic?” Gnarl suggested. “For your injuries … Perhaps a soothing
solution of the poppy—?”
“Trying to put me to sleep, boy—so some assassin can slit my throat?”
grated the warlock, eyes narrowing to fiery slits. “Has someone paid you
to drug me?”
Gnarl licked his lips. “I am thinly paid, and all gold is welcome, but I
wouldn’t take a pot of it to poison a warlock. My papa did not raise a
poltroon. I have no wish to be magicked into the Abyss.”
“It’s curious you should mention the Abyss,” growled the warlock,
grimacing in pain as he shifted again. “The wretch who passes for a
healer to this inn mentioned you might moonlight as something of a
thief. Is this”—he paused to take a shuddering breath—“is this indeed
the case?”
Gnarl cleared his throat. “I prefer the term ‘retrieval specialist.’ I have
sometimes journeyed out and about to … cull special objects for guests
of the inn—without the knowledge of our proprietor. I … re-appropriate.
But never from anyone within these walls.”
“The proprietor—ah, Zemoar!” said the warlock, glancing toward the
door. “I am especially concerned you do not tell Zemoar about this. I
mistrust elves, and half-elves. If you wish to undertake this quest for me,
say nothing to anyone about it—except to those who might accompany
you.”
Gnarl bowed—slightly. He didn’t like the sound of the term “quest.” It
implied long distances and unknown dangers. Truth be told, Gnarl was
not half so good a thief as he supposed himself. But admitting failure
was becoming painful to him. He had failed at being an apprentice to his
uncle, a low-level wizard, though he’d gotten something of an education.
He had earned only a pocketful of gold as a “retrieval specialist”—he
could not afford to quit his day job. Still …
“Quests are risky,” Gnarl said. “That’s on one side of the scales. What
enticement’s on the other? What balances my risk?”
“Wealth!” the tiefling hissed. “Wealth and land; shining castles and
supple maidens to grace them. All can be yours, boy, if you undertake
the task I set for you. The journey entails a trifling risk or two, but if you
do as I say, you shall have your just desserts, and I shall have my own
heart’s desire. You will no longer concern yourself with pouring pots of
ale for belching merchants and—inevitably—emptying pots of piss!”
Despite persistent rumors to the contrary, Gnarl was not entirely
without common sense. It was true that one balmy evening he had
“borrowed” a fine, silken costume from a snoring grandee at the inn and
disguised himself for entry into the masquerade at the Kamroth Estate.
He’d intended to try his hand, as it were, at pick-pocketing the
celebrants—but he was sidetracked by Armos Kamroth’s drunken
mistress. He narrowly escaped from Telia’s clutching hands—and the
mailed fists of the enraged Kamroth—but the getaway entailed Gnarl
sprinting through the cobbled streets naked from the waist down. His
harlequinade mask protected his identity until a couple of milkmaids
recognized other distinctive features. His reputation as a slick operator
had suffered grievously.
He was older now—all of three months older—and was moved to
caution. “Sir, you are a great worker of magic—you must know someone
better qualified.”
The warlock grunted. “I threw the seeing bones—they see you as
favorable. Of all those I could reach from here, only you might
succeed …” He broke off, his face twisting into a contortion that made
Gnarl wince with sympathetic pain. “There is no one else suitable.
Hence”—the warlock paused to gasp before continuing—“hence, your
epochal opportunity. I am crippled, and I am dying—I have little time.
You know me as Sernos. But I have chosen a greater name. Time runs
short … that name must be fulfilled soon. Look here.”
He swept his bedclothes aside. Gnarl saw that all of the warlock’s
body, below the breast, down to his knees, was tightly encased in metal,
the interlocked plates incised with runes. It was like a partial suit of gray
armor—one that was far too small for the tiefling. Beads of blood and
purulence showed where metal compressed flesh; hideous purple
swellings, like grotesque flower patterns in relief, marked his skin above
and below the tightening metal sheath. As Gnarl watched, stomach
twisting at the sight, he saw the enchanted sheath of gray metal contract
further, moving of itself, the metal squeezing tighter by a few hairs’
width, making a little crick sound that had a certain smug satisfaction
about it.
“There,” groaned the warlock, “you see my bane, my curse, and what
may soon be my end. It is Ermlock’s Grip, the malediction of a certain
hateful wizard, who has hidden himself somewhere in this very
settlement. The villain wishes me to die slowly, thinking of him all the
time. Seven days are required for Ermlock’s Grip to finish its squeezing.
In three days and a half, it will squeeze out the final drops of my blood
like the last wine from a wineskin. Already blood starts from my ears!”
“But surely a powerful warlock such as yourself—”
“Do you not think I would remove Ermlock’s Grip if I could?” Sernos
growled. “It is fixed in place with potent magical seals. The first
blacksmith to attempt to remove it will die instantly—and horribly.” He
made a tiefling sign of disgust with his fingers. “I was overconfident—
taken by surprise as I traveled through Harken Forest. A harpy, hired by
my enemy, swooped down and dropped a purple orb containing the spell
—the orb struck me square. Once struck …” He sighed, and let his head
drop back onto his pillow. “I scarcely made it to this bed; I can go no
farther. My powers are at an ebb. But I have knowledge of a secret under
the Plains of Rust, deep in the Abyss.” He pointed a talonlike finger at
Gnarl. “Activate the magical device you will find there, in a place I will
describe, and your glory will come, Gnarl—and so will mine. The device
will set up mystic reverberations that will undo this spell, unbuckling
Ermlock’s Grip, while opening up the realm of Glorysade—a realm of
order that you, Gnarl, will rule, safe from the eruptions of chaos.”
Now he had Gnarl’s attention. Glorysade. Could there be truth in it? “I
have heard a little of Glorysade. It’s just a legend. My uncle mentioned it
to me …” The tiefling hesitated. Then he asked gruffly, “And what have
you heard?”
Gnarl shrugged. “That there are dark deep places in the Elemental
Chaos—the Abyss, for one. And somewhere is hidden an artifact that can
bind together a part of the Elemental Chaos, forge it magically into an
order that will make a man lord of a new realm. Glorysade. My uncle
told me my destiny might be mingled with Glorysade—if it were true …”
“The tale is true! You have heard of me—you know I was once a
warlock of power. If you will only trust me.”
Gnarl cleared his throat. “Ah, trust.” He smiled apologetically and
made a gallant flourish with his hand. “A term resonant of reliability,
assurance, certitude—how I’d love to feel all of that! But ‘trust’ also
raises the possibility of the opposite … mistrust. Unreliability. Lack of
assurance—”
He could hear Sernos gritting his fangs. “Set aside this affected
glibness and give me your answer! Think of your life as it is now—and
think of what it could be! Yes, yes, you must trust me—but if you trust
no one, you will never cease having to empty chamber pots in this
ramshackle inn! Will you undertake the mission—or won’t you?”
Gnarl was a person of outsized ambitions, which was why he’d left the
sleepy hamlet Desul Torey and the doubtful protection of Baron
