Unbroken Chain Read online

  HEROES IN DARK TIMES.

  ADVENTURE IN SINISTER PLACES.

  DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, D&D, 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. ©2010 Wizards.

  IN A WORLD OF SHADOW

  Ashok reappeared crouched in the kindling tree’s boughs, his insubstantial form a hovering storm cloud, his cloak fanned over the branches like a veil. The remaining hounds surrounded the tree, leaping straight into the air, their fangs shredding bark and needles.

  ONE CITY IS A BEACON IN THE NIGHT

  Ashok waited. In his form, he felt nothing—not his wounds, not the bone scales of the armor pressed against his chest, or the branches caressing his face with needles. He longed to feel them. With the pain gone he was an empty shell, adrift on the barren plain. He waited impatiently to get back in the battle while the hounds tore apart the tree.

  AND ONLY ONE MAN CAN SAVE IT

  Slowly, it seemed to Ashok—when only a few breaths had passed—he felt his flesh solidify on his bones. His weight pressed down on the kindling branches—creaking, straining, but they held him. The needle branches opened small wounds on his cheeks. The pain in his shoulder and bent leg had reached a peak. Then dizziness engulfed him, and Ashok knew the fight was almost over. His body had reached its limits at last. Soon the pain would give way to oblivion.

  But he would enjoy every breath he had left.

  IF FIRST, HE CAN SAVE HIMSELF

  Ashok grabbed the dangling chain still buried in the branches. He unwrapped the other end, jerking it free of bark and needles.

  “Time to eat, pups,” he said, and jumped.

  UNBROKEN

  CHAIN

  Throughout the Shadowfell, live the strange shadar-kai, a people of shadow who live only as long as they can find sensations in their gray and fading lives—people like Ashok, a chainfighter. But in the city of Ikemmu are those who have learned to use their fierce need for adrenalin and danger to better their city and their civilization.

  Also by

  JALEIGH JOHNSON

  ED GREENWOOD PRESENTS WATERDEEP

  MISTSHORE

  Icelin thought she had escaped the horrors of her past—until they come hunting her, forcing her to go to ground. But when things go from bad to worse, and her friends start paying for her mistakes, Icelin learns she has to embrace the talents she fears, accept the past she runs from, and confront those threatening her future.

  THE DUNGEONS

  THE HOWLING DELVE

  An orphan mage returns to the only home she’s ever known to find it transformed into a dungeon, her former master missing or trapped within. To make matters worse, the thieves that hold the dungeon won’t let her leave—not for supplies, not for help. It will take all of her courage, skill, and magic to survive long enough to figure out what happened to her home.

  UNBROKEN CHAIN

  ©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.

  Cover art by Cos Koniotis

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5760-6

  U.S., CANADA,

  ASIA, PACIFIC, & LATIN AMERICA

  Wizards of the Coast LLC

  P.O. Box 707

  Renton, WA 98057-0707

  +1-800-324-6496

  EUROPEAN HEADQUARTERS

  Hasbro UK Ltd

  Caswell Way

  Newport, Gwent NP9 0YH

  GREAT BRITAIN

  Save this address for your records.

  Visit our web site at www.wizards.com

  v3.1

  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

  DEDICATION

  To Tim, for being the best part of every day,

  and to my mom and dad, for always being there

  to help me get through the rough spots.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks must go to my editor, Erin Evans,

  for believing in the possibility of Ashok, and to my

  brother, Jeff, for long car rides spent discussing

  shadar-kai culture. Their patience and insight

  helped this book come alive.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  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

  Chapter: Twenty-eight

  Chapter: Twenty-nine

  Chapter: Thirty

  Chapter: Thirty-one

  Chapter: Thirty-two

  About the Author

  I will speak of shadow. The known world, Toril, has its mirrors and doorways—some that shroud the way to another realm entirely, a dark landscape where the souls of the living and the dead
entwine. We call this realm the Shadowfell. It exists alongside our world, embraces it, a dim reflection and a passage all the dead must take to their eternal rest or ruin. But I want to speak of the living, of the beings that breathe, think, and feel within the nightmare realm. How can anything exist in a world of shadow? That was the question that haunted me, the reason I stepped through the Veil.

  —Tatigan Carrlock, Collected Observations of Ikemmu, The Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  18 NIGHTAL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  THE SHADOW HOUNDS CHASED ASHOK ACROSS THE PLAIN TO THE base of the Aloran Tor.

  In the lee of the towering mountain grew a solitary tree, a gnarled mass of trunk and trident fork branches covered in black needles that were sharp to the touch and could cut if raked over tender skin. It cast a discomfiting shadow. Ashok’s people, the shadar-kai, called it a kindling tree, for its wood was only good to burn.

  The Aloran Tor, always a thumbprint of distance on his longest journeys. The plain yawned wide and hazy for miles, a colorless patchwork of scrub grass and cracked soil. Overhead, clouds hung oppressively low in the sky.

  In the perpetual half-light of the Shadowfell, there was no day and no night, only a long stretch of sameness broken by dust storms or stinging rain.

  He’d walked through both, and the hounds had followed.

  Ashok clutched a dagger in his left hand and a spiked chain in his right. He used the former to draw a rough circle around the kindling tree. The eroded soil parted easily for his blade.

  When he was done he pressed two fingers into the oozing bite wound in his thigh. Pain ran slick knots up his spine, and Ashok shuddered with pleasure. The pain sharpened him. He was aware of everything, every sound in the private wilderness: the wind, his heartbeat and ragged breathing, the wing rush of a raven landing in the tree.

  Ashok looked up at the bird. Its attention was fixed on the blood coating his fingers. Blood was the brightest color for miles. Ashok smiled.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  He put a knee to the plain. “For your feast, pups,” he said, tracing the circle in blood. “Take this blood, but come no farther.”

  Still crouched, Ashok gazed across the plain to the west. Amid the howling winds he detected another sound, one he’d been waiting for: the baying of hounds. They’d run their prey to ground at last.

  Four immense shadow mastiffs charged the Tor, their bodies drawing in what little light suffused the Shadowfell, until all Ashok could see were the creatures’ eyes—metallic silver points buried in rolls of obsidian flesh.

  “Come ahead!” Fierce, defiant laughter exploded in Ashok’s throat. He pounded his chest with his fists and sprang to his feet. His wound was on fire. He reveled in the pain and the blood oozing down his leg.

  So alive …

  Ashok sheathed his dagger and whipped the chain above his head, launching one end into the kindling tree. The shadow raven cried out in deep-throated alarm and took flight. The chain’s spikes looped around a thick branch and caught. Ashok held the other end of the chain and braced his good leg against the tree trunk.

  Two of the hounds vanished as they reached Ashok’s bloody perimeter. The others pressed their drooling muzzles into the ground, their teeth bared and craving, starved for Ashok’s blood. The distraction bought Ashok a few breaths more to live.

  The other two hounds reappeared in a shadowy vortex directly in front of Ashok. Their muscled hindquarters tensed, and the creatures sprang at him. Ashok used the tree trunk to push off and swung on the chain. His momentum carried him past the first hound and into the second. The force of impact was like kicking a stone wall.

  Ashok let go of the chain and fell on top of the hound. Snapping teeth clipped his chin and neck, barely missing the tender veins. Ashok rolled with the beast, over and over, until he could grab his dagger from its sheath. He buried the curved blade in the hound’s neck.

  Howling, the hound teleported several feet away to die, leaving Ashok with a bloody dagger and the second hound bearing down on him.

  The beast hit him in the back and drove Ashok flat to his stomach, his face pressed into the dirt. He could smell the gamey hound and his own blood from the circle. The hound bit him in the shoulder, its fangs tearing through clothing and armor and flesh. Ashok felt the pain explode down his arm. His vision went white around the edges, and his left arm was suddenly numb.

  He forced his body into a crouch, spilling the beast off his back before it could tear his arm off. The other two hounds shook off their blood frenzy and charged.

  Ashok lunged to his feet and vanished.

  He reappeared crouched in the kindling tree’s boughs, his insubstantial form a hovering storm cloud, his cloak fanned over the branches like a veil. The remaining hounds surrounded the tree, leaping straight into the air, their fangs shredding bark and needles.

  Ashok waited. In his weightless form, he felt nothing—not his wounds, not the bone scales of the armor pressed against his chest, or the branches caressing his face with needles. He longed to feel them. With the pain gone he was an empty shell, adrift on the barren plain. He waited impatiently to get back in the battle while the hounds tore apart the tree.

  Slowly, it seemed to Ashok—when only a few breaths had passed—he felt his flesh solidify on his bones. His weight pressed down on the kindling branches—creaking, straining, but they held him. The needle branches opened small wounds on his cheeks. The pain in his shoulder and bent leg had reached a peak. Then dizziness engulfed him, and Ashok knew the fight was almost over. His body had reached its limits at last. Soon the pain would give way to oblivion.

  But he would enjoy every breath he had left.

  Ashok grabbed the dangling chain still buried in the branches. He unwrapped the other end, jerking it free of bark and needles.

  “Time to eat, pups,” he said, and jumped.

  Uwan nodded to the guard as he passed and entered into the temple. It was lit only by a row of candelabra behind the altar. He saw Natan kneeling before the massive sword of Tempus carved into the concave wall; its blade absorbed the candles’ glow and sank the light into the shadows.

  The vestments of Tempus hung loose and shapeless on the thin body of the cleric. His head was shaved, and behind his ear was a small tattoo of a bird’s wing. Uwan knew that beneath the vestments, a much larger tattoo of a sword stretched from Natan’s shoulder blades to the small of his back. Uwan’s back bore a similar marking. He noticed with dismay how Natan’s gray flesh looked sickly even in the candles’ glow. The cleric’s cheekbones and the lines of his jaw were sharply defined.

  “How long has he been here?” Uwan asked the guard.

  “Since the Pendron bell, my Lord,” the guard said. He stayed at rigid attention, with his eyes fixed unflinchingly on Uwan.

  “I see.” replied Uwan. “Stand outside the door, if you would.”

  When the guard had left, Uwan crossed the room in a straight line toward Natan. There were no benches in the temple to impede movement—services were conducted with the crowd standing, their collective gazes focused on Tempus’s sword.

  Uwan stopped a few feet away from his friend. “Have you slept?” he asked.

  Natan raised his bald head stiffly. He shifted to look at Uwan but stayed on his knees. “I was dreaming about hounds,” he said. His eyes were black like Uwan’s own.

  Uwan nodded. “I hear them too sometimes.” he replied. “The echoes from the caverns—”

  “No,” Natan said. “My Lord, I saw something.”

  Uwan felt a surge of excitement in his blood. “Tempus has spoken to you?” he exclaimed.

  “At last,” Natan replied.

  A soft breeze stirred the candle flames. Uwan told himself it was the natural air currents moving through the tower, but the sword carving glowed in the sudden movement of the candles’ light.

  My Lord, I feel you, Uwan thought as he swallowed. “What was the visi
on?” he asked.

  “A person, my Lord,” Natan said, “a shadar-kai, but not of this city.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “He has never touched Ikemmu’s soil.”

  Uwan nodded. “One of Tempus’s agents, then,” he said. “What of him?”

  “An ephemeral image,” Natan said. “Not enough to tell whom he serves.”

  “What is your feeling—fair or foul?” Uwan asked.

  “I don’t know. My Lord, I urge you to be cautious,” Natan said as he rose up on his knees with his head bowed to lay his hand on Uwan’s gauntlet. Uwan got on his own knees, impatient with such gestures.

  “My Lord!” Natan exclaimed.

  “Tell me,” Uwan hissed as he clutched the cleric’s thin shoulders. He was strong; his arms were thick and encased in shadowmail and a greatsword was strapped to his side. His white hair hung past his shoulders, the strands so thin and pale as to be colorless against his gray skin.

  Natan’s eyes lost focus as he recalled his vision. “The baying of hounds,” he said, “I saw shadow ravens wheeling high above an open plain. They looked down on a circle of flame, my Lord. This shadar-kai was standing in the fire. He held the flames in his hands, wielded them like a weapon.”

  “A sword,” Uwan said. “The sword of Tempus. He is sent by our god, Natan. He must be.”

  “My Lord, there is more,” Natan said. “The fire … It was the city. Ikemmu was burning. There is danger here.”

  “From what threat?” Uwan demanded. Who would dare? he thought. “The drow or the surface world?”

  “Tempus would not tell me.”

  “No, of course he wouldn’t,” Uwan said. Defending the city was his task. “Anything else?”

  “No, my Lord,” Natan said. Sorrow deepened the hollows of his face. It pained Uwan to see his friend in such a state.

  “Natan, you must take hope from this vision,” Uwan said. His heart beat rapidly, though he tried to assert control. It was difficult for Uwan to contain his emotions when his god spoke to him, as He did through Natan. “Don’t you see? This is the sign we have been waiting for. This shadar-kai will bring the blessing we have sought. I am sure of it.”