The Adversary Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Prophecy

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  The Sundering

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  When the trials begin,

  in soul-torn solitude despairing,

  the hunter waits alone.

  The companions emerge

  from fast-bound ties of fate

  uniting against a common foe.

  When the shadows descend,

  in Hell-sworn covenant unswerving

  the blighted brothers hunt,

  and the godborn appears,

  in rose-blessed abbey reared,

  arising to loose the godly spark.

  When the harvest time comes,

  in hate-fueled mission grim unbending,

  the shadowed reapers search.

  The adversary vies

  with fiend-wrought enemies,

  opposing the twisting schemes of Hell.

  When the tempest is born,

  as storm-tossed waters rise uncaring,

  the promised hope still shines.

  And the reaver beholds

  the dawn-born chosen’s gaze,

  transforming the darkness into light.

  When the battle is lost,

  through quake-tossed battlefields unwitting

  the seasoned legions march,

  but the sentinel flees

  with once-proud royalty,

  protecting devotion’s fragile heart.

  When the ending draws near,

  with ice-locked stars unmoving,

  the threefold threats await,

  and the herald proclaims,

  in war-wrecked misery,

  announcing the dying of an age.

  —As written by Elliandreth of Orishaar, c. –17,600 DR

  THE ADVERSARY

  ©2013 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  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. Manufactured by: Hasbro SA, Rue Emile-Boéchat 31, 2800 Delémont, CH. Represented by Hasbro Europe, 2 Roundwood Ave, Stockley Park, Uxbridge, Middlesex, UB11 1AZ, UK.

  Forgotten Realms, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Wizards of the Coast characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Prophecy by: James Wyatt

  Cartography by: Mike Schley

  Cover art by: Tyler Jacobson

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-7869-6437-6

  620A2246000001 EN

  Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the Library of Congress

  Contact Us at Wizards.com/CustomerService

  Wizards of the Coast LLC, PO Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, USA

  USA & Canada: (800) 324-6496 or (425) 204-8069

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  Visit our web site at www.dungeonsanddragons.com

  v3.1

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Benjamin G. Goodier, who came of age in the Santo Tomas Internment Camp and survived to continue a whole chain of Benjamins, including my favorites—Benjamin K. and Benjamin I.His stories sparked the idea for this book.

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not be possible without the keen insight and calming influence of my editor, Nina Hess. I am a much better writer for having had the chance to work with her. Many thanks as well to James Wyatt, Matt Sernett, and everyone else at Wizards of the Coast who made this book possible, and my fellow Sundering authors who have been full of good advice and better stories. And Susan J. Morris, who listened to me ramble about quite a lot of plot problem—I think I still owe you coffee.

  Many thanks to my family, especially Andriea Moss, Julia Evans, and Vicki Goodier, whose invaluable help with the kiddo meant I had plenty of time to write. And thank you to the baristas at my local Starbucks, who let me camp out in the back and who always asked after the book.

  Prologue

  Frost crusted the leaf curled a handspan from Farideh’s face. But it shouldn’t have.

  She shut her eyes, a thousand half-formed thoughts buzzing in her skull. But only one took hold: it had been hot enough the day before that there was no way frost—

  The hyah, hyah, hyah of a crow scattered her thoughts. She winced and turned her face to the ground. Hot the day before . . . or maybe it was the same day, or maybe it was a lifetime ago. She couldn’t be sure of anything but the cold air, the hard ground, and the bare forest around her, vanishing into thick patches of fog.

  Farideh pushed herself up. She brushed away bits of leaf and dirt, and hissed as the motion sent a tremor through her arm. Every muscle felt stiff and overdrawn. And her head—the tiefling blinked heavily as the throb behind her eyes surged to a state that couldn’t be ignored. She pressed one hand to her eye, cupping the curve of her horn ridge as she did, trying to remember what had happened. Maybe she’d fallen ill. Maybe she’d drunk too much whiskey. Maybe Havilar . . .

  Farideh looked around the clearing for her twin. The light through the tree branches was bleached as white as old bone and just as lifeless. She eyed the ragged edge of fog creeping over the clearing, a season’s worth of dead leaves, the bare sentinels of trees staring down at her. Their low creak of protest broke the silence as a sagging earthmote settled into the trees to her left.

  Farideh jumped to her feet and scuttled back, away from the leaning trees. The floating island of earth was caught by the trunks like a rock clutched in a giant hand. It hung so low that she could make out the strange blue flowers flocking the meadows beneath its rocky spires. And it was slowly sinking lower.

  Earthmotes don’t do that, she thought, her panicked breath a cloud of vapor on the cold air. A taproot snapped and a tree crashed to the ground.

  The faint and unmistakable smell of brimstone drifted on the air.

  Hyah, the crow screamed. Hyah.

  Farideh wet her mouth, not daring to look away from the earthmote. There was a nauseous feeling building in her stomach and the small of her back. Her tail started to lash the deadfall. Brimstone meant Hells-magic. Portals. Hands shaking, she checked her sleeve for the rod she carried, the rod that helped her channel the same dangerous, boiling magic. It was gone. Worse, the shirt was not hers.

  Her heart squeezed. Something’s wrong, she thought, looking for the devils between the trees. Something worse than Havi’s whiskey . . .

&nbs
p; Havilar. The cold sunk down to the core of her. Oh gods—where was her sister?

  “Havilar!” she cried, though her voice was hoarse, as stiff and unwilling as her muscles. “Havi! Havi!” The fog smothered her shouts. “Havilar!”

  Someone groaned behind Farideh, and her heart tripped over itself. She ran at the noise, stumbling as if her legs were relearning how to move. She crashed into the patch of ferns her twin sister rose weaving out of.

  “Fari?” she said, in a voice just as broken as Farideh’s. “What . . . ?” Farideh threw her arms around her sister and held her tight, watching the grove over her shoulder. The smell of brimstone pricked at her nose again.

  “What happened?” Havilar said. She pushed Farideh back far enough to look around. “Where are we?” She frowned. “What happened to your face?”

  Farideh shook her head, as the same question died on her lips. For all her young life, Havilar’s face had been a mirror of her own—same horns, same cheekbones, same softly curved nose. The only difference was Farideh’s silver left eye against Havilar’s gold ones. If that was still so, then the same subtle but undeniable changes had been wrought on Farideh’s own features.

  Thinner, she thought studying Havilar. Maybe harder. The chin was firmer and the cheekbones sharper. Hollows under the eyes that hadn’t been there before. Paler.

  “Your hair,” Farideh said. Havilar reached for her braid, grabbing instead a hank of purplish-black hair, smooth as silk.

  Havilar looked around at the deadfall. “Where’s my glaive?” she asked muzzily. She pressed a hand to her head and winced.

  The earthmote crept nearer to earth, and another tree moaned and cracked. Havilar jumped. “Karshoj.” She looked around the clearing. “What happened? It’s all . . . different. Isn’t it?”

  It’s different—Lorcan’s words echoed in her memory. You’re different. I chose you over her back there. I was ready to let her attack me so you could get away. Doesn’t that mean anything?

  Lorcan.

  Farideh’s pulse sped. It stirred up her pact magic and sent a surge of shadowy smoke wafting off her skin, through the strange shirt: Lorcan, the cambion she drew her powers through, should have been there.

  But all of their things were missing, and so were their traveling companions. And while the half-devil might have vanished without saying a word if he found the means—

  In the same moment, Havilar’s thoughts seemed to clear. “Brin.” She lurched out of Farideh’s arms and out of the ferns, shouting for the young man she fancied who would never have left her behind. “Brin! Brin!”

  No one answered but the crow, hopping from tree to tree like a loose shadow, flapping noisily.

  “We must have . . . ,” Farideh started, but she had no answer. “He must be . . .” No weapons, no gear, no armor, no Brin. No Lorcan. Brimstone on the air. Cold. She wet her mouth again. Something was wrong. She had to remember what. The crow stopped, bobbing on the branch directly ahead of her.

  Here, the crow was shouting. Here, here, here.

  Only it wasn’t a crow. A tiny devil with black wings and a cruel, clever face hopped down to a lower branch, and grinned at the twins with red, jagged teeth. Farideh heard Havilar gasp.

  Rod or not, Farideh drew on the Hellish powers her warlock pact granted her, pulling Havilar behind her as they poured into her veins. The devil bobbed and smirked at her. “Bad idea,” it said. “Very bad. Here, here, here!”

  “Oh do shut up,” a new voice called. “I heard you the first hundred times.” Farideh spun, flames surging into her hands. Opposite the earthmote, a woman—a half-devil, a cambion—strode toward them. Small-boned and red-skinned, Lorcan’s sister, Sairché, rustled through the dead leaves in no apparent hurry, her wings held back like those of a hawk about to take flight. Her armor gleamed as silver as the needle-sharp eyelashes framing her gold eyes and the tattoos tracing her clean-shaven scalp.

  “Wretched imp,” Sairché spat.

  “Adaestuo,” Farideh said. The ball of burning energy collected between her fingers, swirled together and streaked across the distance, aimed straight at Sairché’s face.

  It shattered an arm’s reach from the cambion, broken on a magical shield that flashed red and disappeared. Sairché clucked her tongue.

  “Now, now,” she said. “That wasn’t part of our agreement.”

  “What does she mean?” Havilar asked. “What agreement?”

  Farideh didn’t answer, all her swirling half thoughts colliding, landing together in a swarm. What other choice do you have? Sairché had said.

  Cold horror poured down Farideh’s core.

  “Fari?” Havilar demanded. “What does she mean? Fari, what have you done?”

  Chapter One

  27 Eleasias, the Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR) Proskur

  Farideh had been prepared for many things when Havilar asked to speak to her alone, just after they’d arrived in Proskur: Another appeal they take on a bounty on their own, without their absent foster father. An admission Havilar had been the one to start the tavern brawl that had chased them from the last waystation. Devils in the nighttime, urging Havilar to make a pact. Zhentarim. Cultists of the king of the Hells, out for revenge. There were so many possibilities, so many dangers to keep track of, that Farideh had stopped guessing by the time they sat down at the inn. She was ready for Havilar to say almost anything.

  But not for Havilar to ask to switch bedrooms.

  “You see Brin all day,” Farideh said, aware even as she did that she sounded childish.

  Havilar pursed her lips a moment, her golden eyes locked on the heavily waxed surface of the table between them. “There’s things,” she said delicately, “you can’t do walking in the market or at a campsite with your sister.”

  Farideh drew a breath, trying to slow the flush of blood creeping up her neck. “Right. I mean, I understand, how . . . why you’re asking. I just . . . Is it the best idea?”

  Havilar wrinkled her nose. “Well, I think so. Obviously.” She scratched at the wax. “You’re making this sound like I’m asking if I can fight a pile of owlbears with my bare hands. It’s not a big deal. I’m not asking your permission, anyway.” She looked up at Farideh. “I don’t need permission.”

  “Right,” Farideh replied, because she had no idea what to say. For the last two months, Havilar had been encouraging Brin, a young man they’d crossed paths with while they pursued a bounty to the city of Neverwinter. A young man, as it turned out, with a lot more to him than first appearances suggested.

  “You know this isn’t going to last,” Farideh blurted.

  “Of course I do,” Havilar said huffily.

  “Because you seem like you’re getting awfully attached, and once we get to Suzail and rescue Mehen—”

  “We can be attached, in the meantime. And when it’s over . . .” She scraped more at the thick wax coating the table. “Anyway, it might not go all dire and pointed. You don’t know.”

  “Brin’s in line to be the king of Cormyr,” Farideh said dropping her voice. “It doesn’t matter how much you love him, no one is going to let a tiefling be queen.”

  “Too bad,” Havilar said with a grin. “I bet I’d look fantastic with a crown.”

  “I’m serious. If we get to Cormyr and he sees everything he’s giving up—”

  “He doesn’t want to be king,” Havilar said. “Or almost-king, or almostalmost-king . . . or however you call it. So stop worrying about it until he does. Anyway, you’re one to talk. What am I always telling you but to get away from Lorcan before he corrupts you or snatches your soul or gets you hurt? And what do you say?” She shifted her voice, a mockery of her sister, “ ‘It’s fine. Nothing like that’s happened.’ And Brin isn’t remotely interested in my soul.”

  Farideh pointedly did not glance across the room to where Lorcan— looking like nothing but a striking human man—lounged at another table. Watching. Waiting for Farideh to finish. The lines of the protective spell linking
the two of them tugged on the nerves along her right side—the halfdevil had made a point of sitting at the very edge of its range. At the point where she couldn’t quite ignore him.

  “We are not talking about Lorcan,” Farideh said. “But it brings up a good point—where’s he supposed to sleep?”

  “You can take him.”

  A blush forced itself up Farideh’s neck, into her cheeks. “No.”

  “Fine,” Havilar said. “Tell him to come down and sit in the taproom. You’ve made the spell stretch far enough, right? It’s not important where Lorcan stays.” She bit her lip. “It is important that you . . . Look, I don’t care what you think about me and Brin.” She focused on the table again. “It’s just . . .” She bit her lip again and added a little softer, “We’ve never slept apart, you and I, and I don’t want you to be angry about it.”

  Farideh tried to imagine falling asleep, alone, without the sound of Havilar’s soft wheezing, without the weight of her sister beside her. One way or another, that night would come.

  Better than having it happen because she tried to fight a pile of owlbears, Farideh thought. Or because some devil snatched her.

  “It’s all right,” she said finally.

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. But you promise you’ll be careful. And promise you’re not going to tell me about it.”

  Havilar looked crestfallen. “Not even a little?”