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  The wall of green parted before his axe, and a clearing was revealed: a broad courtyard of once neatly-jointed stones, long since jostled out of true by the slow motions of the earth and the growth of tree roots underneath. A squalling, naked child with skin the rich brown of new leather lay in the shadow of a pillar. The stone was carved with the likeness of some extinct jungle beast, eroded into a shape of vague menace by the weather of centuries. Fresh blood spotted the stones nearby, and there were other signs of recent violence: broken bits of weaponry, shreds of torn cloth, a few teeth scattered on cobblestones.

  The child was naked, tipped on its back, limbs waving like an overturned turtle. Female. Krailash had always found the sight of human infants vaguely alarming. They were so helpless and needy—unlike dragonborn, who could walk and feed soon after emerging from the shell. They became self-sufficient in a few years. When Krailash’s shadow fell across the girl child, shielding her from the sun, she quieted, and gazed up at him with wide eyes the same rich green as terazul leaves. If she found the sight of a seven-foot-tall rust-scaled humanoid dragon frightening, it didn’t show—but for a child so young, everything was new, and most things were probably more interesting than frightening.

  Rainer walked the perimeter of the courtyard, looking at the signs of battle, while Marley just swallowed and stared at the scattered teeth, which were not human or dragonborn: they were long, needle shaped, and bloody at the roots.

  ALSO BY TIM PRATT

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  VENOM IN HER VEINS

  ©2012 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. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, D&D, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Raymond Swanland

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5996-9

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  For Millard, Matt, and Bobby.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  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

  SCITHERON SLITHERED AWAY FROM THE FEEDING PIT, hands bloodied with the remnants of the pre-dawn sacrifice. The segments of his lower body, a serpent’s tail the thickness of a tree trunk, compressed and expanded, propelling him along the worn path through the ruined temples of the settlement, a forgotten outpost that was once the thriving heart of his sect. The stench of the anathema’s pit still clung to Scitheron’s forked tongue, no matter how fiercely he flickered it, and he thought, not for the first time, that the community would be best served by sending down a sacrifice liberally laced with poison some morning, to put everyone in the settlement out of the anathema’s misery, and allow them to relocate to one of the serpentfolk settlements rumored to thrive in the deeper jungle.

  But such thoughts were blasphemy. Scitheron’s people worshiped the god Zehir, and though much diminished, his cult still cared for the last of Zehir’s chosen ones, the anathema who writhed, multiform and mad, in the pit overseen by Scitheron and the other remaining priests. The yuan-ti deeper in the jungle were devotees of the old god Sseth, the fools. Scitheron would rather die a true believer of Zehir than go over to their ancient, withered faith.

  The malison guards at the entry to the main settlement nodded as he approached, their rusty scimitars hanging uselessly at their belts. Both had proud heads of serpents, but one had two legs like an ape, something that reminded Scitheron of the other task he had to carry out that night. There are so few of us now, he thought, it seems wrong to kill a potential warrior for Zehir while she’s still a babe, but it is the low priest’s will.

  “How does the god fare this night?” the two-legged guard said.

  Scitheron made the sign of the fangs. “The anathema is not a god. His kind wer
e kings and emperors once, before the madness …” He shook his head. “The anathema is well. Quiet. I fed him three skinned apes, and he seemed sated. That should appease him until the sun rises over the horizon.”

  “Waste of good food if you ask me,” Two Legs began, but the other yuan-ti guard slapped him on the side of the head hard enough to make Two Legs stumble.

  “Blasphemer,” he muttered, and gave a slight bow to Scitheron. “He is young, and stupid. I would understand if you must tell the low priest of his transgression.”

  At the mention of the priest, Two Legs clutched the hilt of his scimitar and began flickering his tongue wildly.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Scitheron said. “This time. But Zehir hears all, half-ape. Remember that.” He could have had the guard executed, but they couldn’t spare an able-bodied snakeman, especially for so mild a blasphemy. Seeing the guard suitably chastened, Scitheron continued through the remnant of the walls, to find almost the entire population of the settlement gathered in a plaza, sharing a communal breakfast of whatever the elite abomination hunters—all three of them—had been able to gather in the forest. Once the abominations had been the shock forces of their sect, armed with swords and grasping coils that could crush the life from any enemy. But those left were a sad remnant.

  “Scitheron.” The low priest approached, pure-white scales making her seem eerily ghostlike in the morning light. “Your chores are complete?”

  “Yes, most low.”

  “Good, good.” The low priest touched his shoulder and guided him to a corner of the courtyard, beneath the weathered remains of a statue that Scitheron, to his shame, could not begin to identify. The low priest looked around at the assembled crowd, only a few dozen yuan-ti, not even a stable breeding population, truth be told. Some years before, a group had gone in search of another branch of their sect, rumored to thrive in the east, but they had never returned. Either they’d found a better life and chosen not to share it, or, more likely, they’d been taken by any of the myriad predators that lurked among the trees. The settlement was ultimately doomed, with fewer and fewer eggs laid by the females every year, and fewer of the children surviving to adulthood. Every life there was precious, every snakeman willing to die—or, for preference, kill—for the glory of the Great Serpent, Master of Poisons and Shadows, their god Zehir. Which was why Scitheron hoped the low priest wouldn’t bring up—

  “The child,” the low priest said. “You will see that she is disposed of?”

  “If that is your will,” he said, but the low priest cut him off.

  “It is the will of your god.”

  Scitheron bowed his head. He had not, himself, had a vision of Zehir for many years, though he sometimes sensed the presence of the great one while the anathema fed its thousand mouths in the pit during evening sacrifice. He wondered if the low priest truly had direct communication with the god, or if she was just fulfilling her own whims. But asking a question like that was a greater blasphemy than asking whether good food should be thrown to a seemingly mindless creature in a pit because tradition dictated it must be done. Still, Scitheron could try again. “Such creatures can be useful, most low. Within your own long life you have seen a yuan-ti born with a semblance almost human. You remember old Iraska? She came from the same family line as this new child, and in the time of our grand-broods Iraska was sent as an agent to the city in secret. The low priest before you said her birth was a great omen, that such creatures are marked by destiny, to further the goals of our god. Iraska posed as human among those who would persecute the serpentfolk for our faith, and she rose most high in their debased society. I saw her once when I was young, and I’m sure you did too. This new girl child may not be a sign of decline—she could be a useful tool, indeed, her birth may even be interpreted as a sign of the god’s favor—”

  The priest shook her noble head. “Old Iraska disappeared long ago, taken by things in the jungle after she returned from her mission in disgrace. Most of those living here never knew Iraska at all, and would gag at the thought of a yuan-ti indistinguishable from an ape. But even if you’re right, if this child could be used as a spy—do you imagine we have any need for a spy among the humans anymore? The nearest city of any size is Delzimmer, and to reach it requires an arduous journey through treacherous jungle and over barren plains. How would we use such an infiltrator? Would we send her to their market to buy food for us? How would she bring it back?” The low priest moved closer. “And how would she learn the ways of humans? The last human cultist dedicated to our cause died in my grandmother’s time.” The low priest paused. “As I recall, the anathema ate him. Which did little to win other humans to our cause.”

  “We could foster her in a human village, perhaps,” Scitheron said. “Or even leave her for the caravan that passes near sometimes. If we left her near their camp, they might find her, and raise her, and …” He trailed off at the look of disgust on the low priest’s face.

  “Let her believe herself human? No. Better to kill her—which is what the humans would do when they realized her true nature anyway. She is a freak, Scitheron. A sport. She turns her face away from meals of meat, and her weak ape’s mouth is good only for suckling. She doesn’t even have teeth. She can only feed by slurping blood from a cloth.” The low priest shuddered. “Perhaps, in the old times, they knew what to do with such creatures, knew how to raise them, but life is harder here. Her birth has been seen as an ill omen since her egg first cracked open. The people mutter that Zehir has turned his back on us, that our serpent nature is being withheld, that all our children will be ape-faces from now on. The child’s mother can barely stand to look upon the tiny thing, and who can blame her, when her other children are already slithering about, foraging for their own food? The occasional two-legs can be useful, they can run and climb better than some others, but this girl has barely any serpent nature. No. For the good of the settlement, she must die. At least she will serve as a meal of the anathema. And I’ll have no more of this talk of destiny. We are barely surviving, hardly able to maintain our devotions to Zehir. I can’t have you stirring up discord and false hope among the others. Or questioning me either. The anathema is not above eating blasphemers, as you well know.”

  Scitheron bowed his head. “As you will, most low. I will make the sacrifice at the midday feeding.”

  “Mmm,” the low priest said. “No. Better to do it now.” She showed her fangs. “Not that I expect you to disobey—you have always been obedient—but I can see it troubles your mind. Finish the task then, and you can move on. Besides, it’s an act for the shadows, as all gifts for Zehir must be.”

  Scitheron flickered his tongue in assent and slithered to one of the low buildings, a rare structure that still had portions of its roof. It was the nursery, where the youngest yuan-ti slithered and wrestled and twined, and where one child mewled and waved her brownish, soft, unscaled limbs around, gazing about her with disturbingly round-pupiled eyes in her strange flat face. He picked her up, and she cooed at him. Her skin, at least, was not as delectably warm as the furred creatures of the jungle—she resembled a human, apart from a few patches of scale here and there, but she still had a serpent’s blood.

  “Forgive me, child,” he said. “Forgive me, Zehir.” Cradling the girl in his arms, he emerged from the low building and slithered across the plaza toward the pit of their sole remaining anathema, the last living god-touched member of their sect. The other yuan-ti watched him as he went, some making the sign of the fangs when he passed.

  Scitheron was halfway to the pit when he heard the screams. They were not the screams of his people—who were, anyway, not screamers by nature, preferring to do even their dying in silence—but the screams of attacking warriors. He almost dropped the child in his fright, but he kept her close to his underbelly as he slithered quietly back toward the plaza. He called on his god’s power to drape him in a clinging shadow to hide him from enemies, and peered from the jungle’s growth.

  Horrors h
ad descended on the plaza. Humanoids, most shorter than Scitheron, wearing black leather armor. Their flesh, where it showed, was as pale as the underside of poisonous mushrooms. They cackled as they swung their war picks, the harvesters among them wielding magical black iron shackles that wound around the limbs or tangled the coils of the yuan-ti who attempted to flee.

  Derro, Scitheron thought.

  The baby mewled, softly, and Scitheron covered her mouth with his hands. The invaders couldn’t have heard the child’s sound over the violence happening in the plaza, but if she cried out again, Scitheron would snap her tiny neck to preserve himself, child of destiny or no. The derro were one of the most feared races of the Underdark, which meant the sinkhole that had opened in the floor of the main temple a few days before was more than merely an accident of nature—it was a breach point, allowing insane horrors from the depths to attack in their midst.

  The abomination guards had fought back, and they lay dead on the stones of the courtyard. The settlement’s lone cobra striker spat venom in the face of one of the slavers, the enemy’s flesh melting away, but the attacker only cackled wildly and lashed out with its club. Derro were insane, tainted by their association with aberrant creatures and their devotion to the outer horrors of the so-called Far Realm, where madness was sanity and reality ran like melting wax. Another derro unleashed bolts from a small, lethal repeating crossbow into the striker’s flared cobra hood and scaled throat, felling the brave warrior. For the most part, though, the derro didn’t kill—they weren’t there for murder. They were there for slaves, and indeed, many of the harvesters were already dragging away writhing prisoners. The only ones dead were the guards, the abominations, the striker, and the low priest, who had attempted to call on the power of Zehir to protect the settlement, with some success, as the crushed bodies of a few derro around her attested. But it hadn’t been enough, and crossbow bolts had pierced her in a dozen places, cold blood oozing onto the stones.