He was slowly creeping along the darkened corridor, tensing at the sound of a warm body shuffling in the gloom. The stranger let out a sigh when he realized it was just a rat scurrying off in the darkness. Damn, he couldn't even risk a Light spell in this dank hall for fear of discovery. He would just have to do without, and trust that the information he had was accurate.
The wizard grinned; knowing that the old fool Lord Nasher would throw a fit if he knew just who was sneaking around in the bowels of his precious castle and why. Oh, the bards did like to describe the ruler of Neverwinter as a shrewd man. There were so many stories of how the aging fighter could best his opponents equally with his swords, or his mind. He even heard the whispering of how Lord Nasher defeated a pirate lord that kept slipping his grasp, and how the fighter turned his enemy's officer into a loyal servant of Neverwinter. Hell, the man even had an elfin woman, a paladin of Tyr no less, as his one of his closest advisers. He wouldn't be surprised to hear the bards singing that Lord Nasher had Tyr over for tea in the last month, along with half the gods in the Realms.
He almost spat with disgust as he thought of his enemy. Neverwinter and Lord Nasher were the one and the same, and he hated both of them with an equal passion. Gods, did he want the city and its people to suffer, just so he could drive the old bastard crazy. He only met the man once, at a point in time when he was part of a mage cabal that had been importing slaves. Back then the adventurer was known only as Nasher Alangondar, and he had tracked down the mage and his kin in a matter of weeks. The warrior had known nothing about magic, and yet he had somehow managed to eliminate all but two of the mage slavers, with the assistance of a few hand picked people. The wizard was forced to flee for his life as Nasher put the torch to his old base, along with the bodies of his associates.
The crafty wizard did not really care about the loss of his fellow users of the arcane arts. To him it was a temporary setback, and nothing more. What really irked him was how he had to pretend to surrender before he could run for safety. By the gods was that humiliating! Of course Nasher was hailed as a great hero, again, while he was forced to eke out an existence in a two-bit village so that his wounds could heal. He wanted to get even with the man, no matter how long it took for him to do it.
His revenge would come soon enough, though even that paled in significance over what he would soon achieve. Power was what really mattered to as a practitioner of the arcane arts-power to enslave the northern part of Faerun and the rest of the Realms as well. And to think, that the agency of his rise to his proper place in the world, lay beneath the feet of his clueless foe. Oh, this was just too perfect!
The wizard moved faster down the rough stone of the tunnel, nearly tripping over the hem of his robes. Not even the stupid thieves of this city knew this passage was here, and a few well placed Acid Arrow spells made sure that the sole witness to his presence, a lone servant who accidentally ran into him, never got a chance to report anything back to his master. With luck, the person would not be missed until it was far too late.
The mage thought about his plan for his rise to power. If the artifact he was searching for could empower him like he thought it could, then there was no stopping him. First, he would have to do something to occupy Lord Nasher while he made his way to Luskan. Once he journeyed there, it would be a simple manner for him to slowly take over the Arcane Brotherhood, until he emerged as their ultimate ruler. Anyone who resisted would be put to death, not that the citizens of Luskan would miss any of those fools in the tower anyway.
After what seemed like an eternity, the wizard found himself in a cavern with curiously shimmering walls. He was sweating a little as he stood in a dim cave, both from nervousness and from the heat that radiated from a large object placed in the center of the room. He moved closer to it, eager to touch the surface of his prize. By the gods was that thing huge! It was a large, smooth oval with a milky green and orange surface, with four pedestals surrounding it at an equal distance. He could feel the waves of energy coming off the mighty stone, and that sensation made him a bit giddy. Now he would have to find a way to unlock the power of the thing�
He stood staring at his prize, lost in thought over how he finally had the thing in his grasp. Was this artifact, this stone, the reason why winter never seemed to affect the city of Neverwinter? The wizard admonished himself to get back to the task at hand and take the thing's power already. He reached inside a scroll case hanging from his waist and took out a carefully prepared piece of parchment. He unrolled it slowly and held it at arm's length, reciting the words he had painstakingly copied from a very old tome. His words burst forth from his lips like a waterfall jumping down a cliff, and the stone seemed to soak up every nuance of his chanting. The stone began to glow with an inner light, which seemed to tug at the very fiber of his soul.
Finally, the wizard got to the end of his parchment and looked at the faintly glowing stone. The sudden silence seemed deafening, compared to the runes he just uttered. Where was the promised power of the artifact? Then he felt the low humming of the stone, as the object responded at last to his commands. Finally, I get what's rightfully mine, Maugrim thought with glee as he watched the stone slowly come to life.
Bertran Edlecort, or old Bertie as he was better known among the city's ne'er-do-wells, shuffled along the cobblestoned streets of the city, towards the hovel he lived in. It wasn't much of a place to for him to spend his time in, and it leaked horribly every time it rained, but it was all he had. He had furnished his home with the castoffs he found in the more affluent parts of town, and the dilapidated furniture made the inside of his house look like it was decorated by a mad man.
Bertie didn't give a damn about what his place looked like. As long as his house had a door, a roof and four walls, he was fine with that. But that was not the most valuable thing in his life. The most precious thing in the world to him was his love of alcohol, and nearly every copper he begged or stole from a passerby went to purchase even more liquid refreshment. He practically lived in taverns, and he even had a seat set-aside just for him, in the local alehouse. But he was allowed to stay only as long as he had money, and right now he had none.
The old man, reeking of cheap alcohol and a week's worth of accumulated dirt, walked right by his fellow citizens without acknowledging their existence most of the time. Occasionally, he would attempt to squeeze some coin out of the more prosperous looking city dwellers, but they all turned him down. One rather beefy looking man had taken great offence to Bertie's harassing, and the stranger told him in no uncertain terms to get lost. When the beggar ignored the warning, he found himself being lifted in the air and tossed unceremoniously onto a pile of refuse.
For the first few minutes, Bertie didn't move from his landing spot. He lay in the street, brooding about the wretchedness of his existence. He told himself that he was just a bum, a nobody who had done nothing with his life, other than to waste it. His parents had given him everything they could, even though they didn't have much themselves. His mother told him he would make a name for himself one day. His father admonished him to make an effort to succeed, though eventually he gave up trying to motivate his son after Bertie had lost yet another employer, due to him being in a perpetual state of drunkenness.
Unfortunately Bertie could get very obnoxious when drunk, and there were precious few who could tolerate him in that state.
So far, the only success he had achieved in his life was being able to swallow an entire mug of ale in a few seconds. He was either too lazy to do anything with his life, or perhaps Tymora loved everyone else more than him. He cataloged all the injustices he suffered during his existence and cursed at the unfairness of it all. If only he�
A shadow fell across his face, and he feared it was a guard coming to tell him to pick himself up and drag himself home. He forced himself to focus his sight on the figure hovering over him, and he was surprised to see a member of the upper class standing there. A god damn noble, one of those lazy twits that had everything handed to them, had come to bother him as he wallowed in his misery. He pulled himself up to a standing position, so that he could give the stranger a piece of his mind.
"I feared you had hurt yourself," the aristocrat said from beneath the hood of his expensive looking cloak. "Allow me to aid a fellow citizen of Neverwinter."
Bertie growled and weakly waved his hand in the direction of the man. "Get lost you priss!" he snarled.
To his amazement, the richly dressed man did not move. His robes were of the finest weave and dyed a rich brown, like the color of autumn leaves. He also stood and listened patiently as the beggar spewed a litany of abuse towards him. After a few minutes had passed, the lifelong drunk realized that the aristocrat wasn't going anywhere.
"Eh, what are you still doing here?" he said, trying to peer at the stranger's face, which was hidden deep behind a cowl. "You one of them Ilmi, Il-something do-gooders?"
The stranger paused and replied in a soft voice, "I do function in that capacity, in that I can use my gift of magic, along with my family's fortune to rid the world of it's problems. Or at least, I can attempt to lessen the suffering of the downtrodden as much as I can."
Bertie wanted to believe him; he really did, for nothing nice had ever happened in his life. His hands started to shake, and he knew if he didn't get a drink soon he would really be suffering later. Eventually, the unknown noble's kind words and patience convinced him that he was serious about helping him. Even if he wasn't, Bertran was reasonably certain that he could "liberate" some coin off of his benefactor, without being caught in the act.
But he need not have bothered, as the well-dressed stranger actually gave him money, under the pretext of getting directions for moving around the city. Bertie eagerly accepted the pouch of coins as he imparted to the aristocrat his knowledge of the city, never mind that he had to make up a good portion of his directions to cover up the gaps in his memory. The robbed stranger nodded patiently as the elder drunk rambled on, seemingly content to stand there all day if need be.
Finally, as Bertie was ready to launch into another tirade against the idleness of the rich, the noble pleaded a busy schedule. He moved his head up and down, as if he was seeing the unwashed drunk standing in front of him for the first time. Then Bertie attempted to take a step toward the fellow, and promptly stumbled over the remains of what had once been a crate. The aristocrat darted forward and caught him, as he was about to fall. He explained to the resident of the Beggar's Nest district, that he noticed how poorly Bertie was feeling, and that if he had permission to do so he would cast a spell that would improve his health.
The beggar didn't answer right away, and the aristocrat took that as a sign of assent. Before Bertie could get his mouth working again, he heard a strange chanting as his anonymous benefactor waved a hand in front of his face. His head swam strangely, and his body felt oddly warm as the noble cast an enchantment upon him. The old drunk straightened himself and was about to give the man a lecture on enchanting people when they didn't ask for it, when a startling fact permeated his brain.
His trembling, brought on by a lack of ale and spirits, was gone. As a matter of fact, Bertie never felt so good in a long time, and he didn't even have to drink his usual tankard of ale to quell what he called the shakes. He lifted his head to look his benefactor in the eyes and thank him; only to fine the robed figure had vanished. It was as if the aristocrat had never existed, and Bertran had only imagined him. He slapped his thigh with his right hand, wincing in pain as something hard and lumpy bit into his leg. Now what had nipped at him?
The money! Bertie had forgotten all about the money the rich fool had given him. He eagerly untied the drawstrings of the change purse, expecting to see a few coppers glittering in the depths of the tiny sack. There should be enough for a week's worth of drinks, if I stick to the swill that is normally served in my section of town. I should stay away from all the fancy stuff them lazy nobles like to pour down their throats.
The disheveled drunk paused when he spied what he really held in the bag. Gold, he thought as he ran his fingers through his sudden wealth. Bertie realized then and there that the noble who gave him the coins was likely some heir who felt guilty about his inheritance, and that he had given him the wrong change purse. He had a sudden rush of misgivings for accidentally getting most of the man's money. Cripes, the stranger even managed to heal him! Even the local temple of Tyr didn't bother with Bertie and others like him, since he normally lacked the coin to pay for their excellent healing. He really should find the man and return his money, if only to repay him for the kindness he had been shown.
But the helpful figure in his fancy clothes was nowhere to be found, leaving Bertie a small fortune in gold to spend. He made a halfhearted attempt to find the noble just in case. He asked a passerby if he had seen a man in a fancy brown robe pass his way recently. The stranger misunderstood Bertie's motives and hurriedly gave him a small coin and pushed him out of his way, leaving the beggar standing on the street with a battered copper in his palm. Damn it, what didn't the man just listen to him?
Bertran cursed to himself and strolled down the street, carefully putting his treasure in the pocket of his clothes. His most recent encounter with a working citizen of Neverwinter had left him feeling irritated at the uppity attitude of city dwellers in general. "I need to get me a drink," he said out loud, not really caring who heard him.
His goal was an out of the way tavern close to his home that served mediocre ale at a reasonable price. The beer was a bit flat and kind of bitter, almost as if it had been dipped from the vat a week or two too soon. It was not the best, but it was all he could afford. Then the old man paused and realized that he could afford better. He didn't have to swallow the garbage that Tough Sadie sold in her cheap little bar anymore this week. He chortled to himself, for the woman had banned him from her establishment after he told her that he couldn't pay down his bar tab. Boy, would she ever get a surprise when he came tromping through the door to pay off his debt in full!
It was almost noon by the time Bertie woke up in his ramshackle home. His head hurt from the after effects of last night's drinking binge, and his tongue felt like a hairy caterpillar had crawled into his mouth and died. He groaned in distress, for he had not suffered like this since when he first started to devote a serious amount of time to the demon drink. He reached for a pitcher of water that he always kept by his bed and searched the room for a cup. The one mug he did find had something fuzzy and green growing at the bottom. Disgusted with himself, the man threw the cup against a wall and drank the water straight from the pitcher.
After he completely drained every drop of water from the water jug, the old man went to his washbasin to wipe the vomit he found encrusted on his face. As he haphazardly scrubbed his face, he gave a brief thought to the man that had helped him in the street three days ago. Or was it five? Bertran wasn't too concerned about his poor memory, for he had been like this for as long as he could remember. He tried to picture his benefactor's features, and could only come up with a blank image. That stranger had made him healthier with a little magic, and he hoped he could find him again as he was developing a whopping headache. Then the beggar chuckled to himself, for a big mug or two of Sadie's ale would clear up the pain in his head right quick. He didn't need that odd noble after all.
By the time he arrived at the cheap alehouse, Bertie was looking decidedly flushed. His skin had a rosy hue, his eyes had dark circles under them and he had developed a minor cough. When he stumbled through the door, the proprietor frowned and placed a tankard of her best drink on the wooden counter of her bar.
"Here's yer ale, and you had best be drinking it fast ye old coot," the plump woman with the dark brown hair tied in a messy bun announced. "Me regular customers would be a mite upset, if they be finding that I gave Old Bertie the stuff from under me counter!"
The old man mumbled his thanks and plunked himself in his usual seat. He grasped the sides of the mug with shaking hands and took a noisy sip, spilling a good portion of the ale in the process. The bar's owner leaned up against the bar's surface and addressed her oldest client. "Bertie, it mebe not me place to say it, but are yer feeling well? You look a mite puckish to me, and I have never been knowing yer as one to spill your ale."
He lifted his eyes to meet her gaze, and the woman was not too surprised to find his orbs were completely bloodshot. "I will feel better after I have another tankard of your best brew," he said, holding up his half empty mug as proof.
Sadie did not accept her customer's assurance that he was fine, but she did bring him his drink as he requested. Taking in his worsening health, she advised him to go to a temple so he could rid himself of whatever sickness he caught. He brushed her off, saying that the priests only took care of the rich anyways, and he was as wealthy as them. After he consumed a couple more mugs of ale, he was feet so much better that he told Sadie he would take a few bottles of the same brew home with him.
When he made it home he went to bed, convinced as always in the power of ale to cure any sickness. However, when he awoke the next morning, his headache from the previous day was back with a vengeance, and his cough had become much worse. He tried to sit up, and he fell back on his pillow while his body was wracked by spasms as he attempted to clear his lungs. His coughing fit had lasted a few minutes, and when it was over with he wiped the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand. When he looked at the liquid covering his fingers, he found to his horror that they were covered in blood. His blood. He cursed to himself, and was seized with another round of coughing.
For once in his life, Bertie decided to heed the advice of another, and go seek out a healer to make him well again. His head felt like it was made of flames and his muscles seemed to be filled with thousands of tiny needles a he moved about. He somehow managed to dress himself, and as he grabbed his threadbare cloak off of a hook embedded in the wall he took a swig of a bottle of too warm ale, and he left his home to begin his search for a healer.
The old man wandered the streets of Neverwinter, in his quest to find a priest. His pain and the fever he had made him delirious, so much so that he didn't even consider going to the main temple of Tyr located in the core of the city. Instead, he went in search of a smaller church he was sure was located somewhere in his own district. Bertie had to constantly pause in his journey, as his coughing made him too weak and light-headed to walk anywhere.
The streets were getting crowded, and Bertran found himself frequently crashing into people. He sent more than one person tumbling to the ground. He offered no apologies to the people he inconvenienced, especially when he coughed bloody phlegm all over his victims. The old man was compelled to wander the twisting streets of the poor section of town in search for some relief. Finally, a pair of guards took notice of his travels and escorted him to a tiny temple. He was so ill by then, that a pair of Ogres could have been dragging him to a cook pot without him noticing a thing.
The priest, a recent arrival in the city, took one look at the beggar hanging limply between two burly guards and promptly began an incantation to ease Bertran's suffering. He thanked the young men who brought the old man to his place of worship, and he carefully led Bertie to a small room with a plain, hard cot. He spoke softly to him, and attempted to spoon some broth into the beggar's mouth. Eventually the cleric left his charge alone, promising to include Bertie in his prayers that night.
Bertran Edlecort's health steadily worsened throughout the night and into the next day. His muscles had rapidly wasted away from his frame, the effects of which caused him to resemble an animated skeleton. He was too sick to communicate properly with his caretaker. The old man could only cry and moan in agony, for he had lost the power to speak properly. He had no way of knowing at this point that his skin was a pale gray and that no one else, other than the priest who was trying to nurse him back to health, was allowed to see him. Even Sadie the bar owner came to visit him; although she was not permitted to enter his room, she did call out her concerns from the doorway. Bertie never heard her, though if he had he would have been surprised by the idea that somebody did care for him, despite his many shortcomings.
In spite of the excellent care shown to him by the priest, Bertran Edlecort died the next day. His body was taken to the pauper's section of the graveyard and quickly buried. Only an indifferent priest and a pair of bored groundskeepers had attended his funeral. However, a plump woman who owned and operated her own alehouse was found dead in her establishment two days later. Her body was slumped over the counter in the very same spot where her favorite customer had spent most of his life, with two mugs of her finest ale sitting untouched on the counter in front of her. A few more people died in the week after that, and curiously enough the symptoms of their illness were the same as the unfortunate Bertie.
By now the city authorities realized that something was amiss in the city of Neverwinter, but it was much too late to stop the people from dying. The Beggar's Nest was quickly overrun with more victims of what the local citizens had dubbed the Wailing Death, so named because of the lamenting of the family members of the loved ones who died so horribly. The district was immediately blockaded in a vain attempt to stem the tide of death. The city's nobility quickly followed suit, and the aristocracy ordered their guards to beat anybody who tried to find shelter in their section of town. It turned out to be a timely decision, as reports of more victims of the Wailing Death came in from all over the city, with very little of those deaths occurring in the Blacklake district.
The ruler of the city of Neverwinter came to a hard decision of what to do to save his beloved city. The people demanded that Lord Nasher do something, and soon they got their answer. The gates of the city would be sealed, and would remain so until a cure for the plague was found.
"Lord Nasher, you sent for me?" a soberly dressed figure asked. He was clothed from head to toe in soft black tunic and breeches, and he spoke in the quiet tone of a professional guard.
The aged warrior reclining on the throne did not answer him immediately. Instead, he was looking at a tapestry depicting the founder of Neverwinter fighting an army of Orcs, in a never-ending battle for supremacy. The leader of the city still wore armor even though his adventuring days were well behind him. His thick gray hair was gathered at the nape of his neck in a neat ponytail, which was a habit of his even when his hair had been a chocolate brown in color. At length he turned his face towards his patient servant, allowing the man to see the deep concern present in his leader's eyes.
Lord Nasher took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Choosing his words carefully, he told the man, "I am pleased you answered my summons so quickly, Sancha. I am going to give you a task, which you must not repeat to anybody, except for three people I shall name."
"And those people would be?" Sancha replied, idly thumbing the hilt of the sword belted to his waist.
"One of them is my second in command, and she is the one whom I have ordered to find a way to stop the cursed plague that is choking the life out of Neverwinter."
"Ah," the young man nodded in understanding. "I should have known that you would consider the Lady Aribeth to be worthy of the duty. I have heard that she plans to appeal to all the adventurers and would-be-heroes in the city to come to the Temple of Tyr, where she will pick the best of the lot to enter into training at the Academy. I do hope, for all our sakes, that she succeeds in her mission. My Lord, who are the others that are permitted to hear of my mission?"
Nasher Alangondar, hero of the north and ruler of Neverwinter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "The other two are the ones I am sending you to for you to make contact with. You are to leave the city immediately, and I have given you special permission to exit one of the gates, as you have been certified to be free of the plague. You must leave right after I give you my instructions Sancha, for you have only an hour at most to make it to the south gate, before even that way out is closed to you," he told the man in no uncertain terms.
The younger man bowed respectfully and said, "I understand my Lord. Just tell me what needs to be done, and I shall be on my way."
"Very well," the retired adventurer replied. "First, I want you to journey to Waterdeep and find out if Khelban Blackstaff has heard of this wailing Death before. I will give you a list of the symptoms of the illness, which you shall in turn give to him. Hopefully, he knows somebody who can help us, since our clerics are unable to find a cure. Once you have done that I want to go to Luskan and speak to Gend. I don't trust the people who run that city, and it would be just their style to take advantage of us in our moment of weakness. If Luskan is up to anything, I am sure he will know about it."
Sancha paused and said, "Lord Nasher, that man is difficult to find if he does not want to be found. And why would you have me speak to him anyway, as I am positive he already knows about the illness sweeping the city."
"Because once you talk to Blackstaff, you will not be allowed back into the city," Nasher informed him. "I would rather see you working with Aarin for Neverwinter's defense, than to have you sitting idle in Waterdeep."
"And you think that Luskan might have had something to do with the plague, however improbably that may sound to anybody else," Sancha observed shrewdly, guessing as to the true purpose behind his journey to the city of sails. "I shall leave at once my Lord. And I do hope a cure for the Wailing Death is found soon. Too many lives have been lost already."
"As do we all," Lord Nasher replied. "As do we all."
