Брюс Корделл - Oath of Nerull

Hennet uttered a string of syllables new to his lips and disappeared.

Aganon paused. He looked around the ring, then at the judge, who merely shrugged.

Aganon frowned and said, “Hiding isn’t going to help, you know. There is a time limit. All I have to do is stand here, and I win.”

Hennet wasn’t sure the spell had worked until Aganon spoke. He looked down, exulting to see himself only as a vague, ghostly outline. No one else could see even that much. This was a moment of discovery to savor, but there was no time. As Aganon pointed out, invisibility alone would not win the match. Meanwhile, the acid in his forearm continued burning, weakening him slowly. He couldn’t risk brushing it off for fear of spreading the caustic mess and making the injury and the pain worse.

He crept toward Aganon, aware that invisibility would neither conceal his footprints in the gravel nor cover the sound of grinding pebbles. His opponent stood closer to the center of the ring than the edge. Hennet wanted Aganon near the edge.

Hennet also knew, through his subconscious, that casting a spell at Aganon would dispel his own invisibility. The simplest solutions are often the best, he reminded himself. Moving as slowly as he dared under the match’s time limit, Hennet stole to within a foot of Aganon, who stood unmoving, listening. When Hennet was just beyond arm’s reach from Aganon, he lunged forward and clapped his hands, creating a mighty thwack! inches from Aganon’s ear.

The wizard shrieked and scuttled backward. In fact, he tripped and almost— almost —fell right out of the ring. That would have been too easy, thought Hennet as he carefully unrolled the scroll Nebin had given him.

Aganon’s features resumed their stoic cast. “Crude, and sad, too,” he chided. “A magical strategy suited for children, perhaps. You make a mockery of the Duel Arcane. Show yourself. Is this a contest of magic, or buffoonery? Ah, there you are!”

Hennet faded back into view. In one hand he held Nebin’s scroll. As he finished his quiet incantation, the inked arcane syllables faded from view, indicating that the magic stored in the parchment was expended. There was no obvious effect.

There was no shortage of excitement near Aganon, however. Roaring flames fanned from his outstretched fingers. They washed up against the sorcerer and kindled Nebin’s scroll. Hennet dropped the smoking parchment and backed away, avoiding most of the spray of flames. Aganon followed, flames still spewing from his splayed fingers, in an attempt to force Hennet out the other side of the circle. Hennet knew that if his gambit didn’t pay off soon, he would have to either step out of the ring or be burned alive.

Aganon looked around, a confused expression on his face.

“Why is everyone shrinking?” he muttered. “Why is the ring shrinking?”

Aganon looked at the judge, but she was shrinking, too. Her voice sounded small when she called out, “The final round is over. The win goes to the sorcerer, Hennet Dragonborn. He is the victor, and has rightful claim to the Golden Wand! Hail the sorcerer!”

The stands erupted in wild cheering and stomping. Sympathetic displays of minor illusion popped across the field, created by fellow wizards as congratulations to the victor.

Nebin ran up to his friend as Hennet patted out smoldering bits of leather.

“You used it! You followed the plan!” The gnome laughed happily.

The too-large Aganon glowered. He stood over ten feet tall and he was puzzled. How had he lost? Only when he twisted around did he see the reason. The spell of magical enlargement made him grow so much that he no longer stood entirely in the ring. His giant-size left foot had slid out of the ring. It was still mostly inside the painted ring, and yet it had undeniably broken the circle, placing him out of bounds.

The man’s eyes glinted with a greenish light. A terrible anger moved there.

He thundered, “Do not think that I’ll suffer defeat through so cheap a trick. It’s only a matter of time before my friends and I take charge of things around here. We’ll see who gets the Golden Wand!”

The judge, accustomed to sore losers, waved Aganon away. He thumped off, his enormous boots making wide tracks on the floor of the coliseum. That was when the cheering started in earnest.

At the award ceremony later that day, Nebin watched proudly, if a little enviously, as the Golden Wand was conferred on Hennet. The sorcerer stood on a small riser in the middle of the coliseum, beneath the shadow of the Floating Tower. To the accompaniment of a salute by the gathered college wizards, an aged mage with a gray-streaked beard presented Hennet with his trophy. It was smooth, slender, and golden-hued.

The wand shone with its own light, even in the full light of day.

“With the Golden Wand,” declared the mage, “you can invoke the very weapons of your enemies and turn their magical power against them! Use it wisely. You are its keeper for now.”

The wand glowed like sun-fired amber.

Hennet raised the wand above his head and shouted, “I thank the College of Wizardry for hosting the Duel Arcane. I thank all of you who have come to watch the wonders of wizardry and sorcery displayed here. But most of all, I want to thank the unexcelled wizard Nebin Raulnor, with whom I shall share this award. I couldn’t have done it without his help.”

Nebin swallowed. The crowd cheered more wildly than before—Nebin had been the favorite of a very vocal gnomish contingent. He smiled back at his friend the sorcerer.

After the festivities, which included a special feast held by the college for the winners (and their closest friends) in all the categories, Hennet, Nebin, and Ember returned to the Cuttlestone. Ember realized that her hearty congratulatory hug was the first overt sign she’d given the sorcerer that he was capable of winning her affection.

What effect might that have on him? she wondered.

Hennet, feeling gregarious and generous after his win, picked up the dinner tab in the common room. Thankfully, Brek Gorunn was not back from his fact-finding visit to the local temple of Moradin. Ember knew to beware the dwarf at table—his stomach was voluminous, and he would gladly take advantage of a free meal. When Brek Gorunn finally did appear, Hennet paid for the dwarf’s meal all the same. The others had long since finished their meals. The menu was honey-braised duck slow roasted over cherry-wood embers.

When the dwarf finally sighed and pushed his plate away, he said, “I learned a few things at the dwarven temple today.”

Ember sighed. She’d spent most of the day in a jovial and carefree mood, losing herself in watching the Duel Arcane. It was a nice break, but with the dwarf’s words, she recalled her duty. It was time to get back to the matter at hand.

Ember asked the question on everyone’s mind. “What of the revived temple of Nerull? “The words chilled the table.

The dwarf produced a leather case from his knapsack. Inside was a half-charred parchment—Ember realized it was a map. The dwarf laid it flat on the table, pinning down a curling edge with a handy tankard. Much of it was ruined by burn marks, but some lines remained visible, including a central area with many corridors leading outward.

“This map was made by a cleric of Moradin four hundred and sixty years ago, when the old temple of Nerull was discovered, and destroyed. Now, it’s all history. This is the only document the clerics could unearth. The map reveals how the old sewers connect to the far older catacombs.” The dwarf pointed to the nexus and said, “Here’s where we found Kairoth.”

“Catacombs? Are they part of the ancient city?” asked Nebin.

“Yes, pre-Koratia. Here before even the first wave of Nerull-worshipers appeared, but well suited to their needs. Anyway, the old temple of Nerull was based in the very center of the catacombs. The Father Superior at Moradin’s Temple, who I spoke with at length today, warned that if Nerull’s temple is revived, it likely lies where the old temple once hid—at the heart of the oldest catacombs.”