Anthology - Untold Adventures - A Dungeons and Dragons Anthology

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.”