The Shadow Stone

  For the first time Aeron allowed himself to sense what he’d known from the moment he felt the stone’s influence.

  It reeked of evil.

  It was powerful and majestic, a conflagration of energy that defied his senses. But it stained him to stand so close to it. There was a conscious malevolence behind its splendor, an ancient, aching hunger that shrieked for Aeron’s willing soul. He knew that if he set his hand on the dark stone, he would be lost forever, consumed and filled with something older than time and unspeakably, irredeemably evil.

  The Dream Spheres

  Elaine Cunningham

  The Glass Prison

  Monte Cook

  Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters

  Ed Greenwood

  THE SHADOW STONE

  ©1998 TSR, Inc.

  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, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, their respective logos, ALTERNITY, BIRTHRIGHT, and TSR, Inc. 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: Les Adwards

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6378-2

  640A2812000001 EN

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  For Kim

  Thanks for putting up with me.

  Special thanks to Julia Martin, Steven Schend, Dale Donovan, Phil Athans, and Peter Archer for helping me to get a handle on the Realms. What a long, strange trip it’s been.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgment

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  One

  Aeron Morieth glided toward the sun-dappled clearing, stalking through the green undergrowth of the forest floor. It was a warm day, and the emerald canopy overhead sealed the heat beneath the moss-grown trees; not a breath of wind stirred the leaves and branches. Sweat stained his homespun shirt and trickled down his back. Moving without a sound, Aeron raised his bow and drew back the arrow until the rough fletching scraped against the corner of his jaw, just under his ear. Eyes narrowed, he sighted along the shaft. He’d get one shot, and he didn’t want to miss.

  Twenty yards away, the lean hare sensed danger and sat up, its nose quivering. With the quiet perfection of long practice, Aeron released the bowstring. The weapon strummed softly in his ear as the gut string burned his fingertips. The rabbit kicked and jumped, shot clean through just behind its forelegs.

  Aeron straightened with a satisfied grin. Rabbit, squirrel, and other small game were plentiful in the meadows of the Maerchwood. In the hot, lazy days of summer, he could bag three or four rabbits in an afternoon’s hunt. He broke out of the underbrush, blinking in the burnished-gold light that illuminated the glen, and trotted over to dress his kill.

  The sun was hot in the clearing. Aeron shook the sweat from his unruly halo of golden hair and paused to strip his coarse linen shirt from his torso. He was a slight youth, no more than five and a half feet in height, with a wiry and resilient frame. Keen intelligence gleamed in his dark eyes, set wide apart in a proud, confident face that showed signs of elven blood. He drew a wide-bladed hunting knife from a sheath at his belt and knelt by the rabbit.

  Sweat streamed down his face as he cleaned the small carcass. In the southern heartlands of Chessenta, the Maerchwood never grew very cold. The summers were invariably long, hot, and humid. Aeron had lived with the sweltering summer weather all his life and was about as used to it as one could get. He finished dressing the hare and looped a rawhide thong through the cleaned carcass, slinging it over his shoulder. Whistling between his teeth, he stood, brushed himself off, and set off for home. The Adder River and Maerchlin, Aeron’s home, were ten miles away, but he could easily make it in a couple of hours.

  Heading northwest from the clearing, he followed a long ridge of hills for several miles. The ridgeline rose clear of the woods, providing a rugged but serviceable path into the heart of the Maerchwood. Aeron ran in the sunshine, his torso glistening with perspiration, bounding from rock to rock. The ridge gradually tapered away into a jumble of thickets and deadfalls; Aeron turned west and followed a dark, swift stream for two miles more before he picked up a forester’s trail that led back to Maerchlin.

  The trail wound alongside a slower stream that ran west toward the village. Here Aeron encountered signs of settlement again, stump-choked swaths cleared by loggers and vacant trappers’ cabins. The people of southern Chessenta had been harvesting fur, timber, and game from the edges of the Maerchwood for a dozen generations.

  The Morieths had been among the woodland’s first settlers, more than three centuries ago. Aeron often wondered what it must have been like in those days. In his ancestors’ time, the Maerchwood was two or three times the size of the woodland he knew, home to ancient elven courts and untold secrets. Aeron had spent more than one afternoon dreaming of the old mysteries and forgotten deeds of the ancient elf realms; the Maerchwood was in his blood.

  Aeron settled into a walk as he got closer to home. Despite his stamina, the heat was wearing him down. About a half-mile from the forest’s edge, he rounded a sharp bend in the trail and found himself face-to-face with three young men of Maerchlin, coming the other way. Phoros Raedel was the son of Lord Raedel, the master of Maerchlin; Miroch and Regos were highborn kinsmen of Raedel’s, and his constant companions. They were big, aggressive fellows, several years older than Aeron, and he’d been bullied by them more than once. Regos was passing a wineskin to Raedel as Aeron blundered around the bend.

  Aeron stopped in his tracks, recognizing his danger. It was too late to avoid Raedel and his friends; he’d walked right into the middle of them. He scowled, berating himself for not watching where he was going. The warm rustle and hum of the forest died as the older lads exchanged crooked grins and blocked his path. This was a familiar pattern. Raedel and his friends would think of some torment for him, and he’d fight back with the fury of a wildcat, but numbers wo
uld carry the day. Or he could accept whatever humiliation they dealt him and delay the inevitable … but Aeron decided he wasn’t going to give Phoros the satisfaction. He squared his shoulders and defiantly refused to drop his gaze. “Well? What do you want?” he demanded.

  “What have we here?” said Raedel, his face stretching into a cruel smile. He was a tall, well-muscled young man, his body hardened by years of weapons training in the keep’s practice yard. His face was square-jawed and heavy. He and his companions carried crossbows over their shoulders. Aeron guessed they were going shooting, which was a bad sign for him; it was likely they’d been drinking all day and were looking for trouble. Raedel glanced over at his companions. “Look, fellows, it’s the elf boy.”

  “Where have you been, elf boy?” said Regos. He was the strongest of the three, but he was a follower.

  “Let me pass,” Aeron stated flatly. “I’m no elf, and you know it.” It didn’t help that Phoros’s words found their mark. It didn’t show much in Aeron—his ears had the subtlest of points, and his light frame and quick mind might have been inherited from elven forebears—but the Morieth name was suspect in Maerchlin. Lacking any living kin, Aeron had spent much of his youth lashing back at his taunters.

  “You heard Regos,” snapped Raedel. “Answer him!”

  “I spent the day hunting, my lord,” Aeron replied, repressing a sneer with the title. Raedel’s father was nothing more than a glorified brigand who’d seized Maerchlin with his sword fewer than forty years ago. Money and men at arms didn’t make a lord, not as far as Aeron was concerned. He tossed the hare to the ground as proof of his words.

  His sarcasm wasn’t lost on Raedel. The young lord widened his stance, blocking the path. “Hunting? In my father’s forest? Who gave you permission to do that?”

  “Use your eyes,” Aeron said, nodding at the skinned rabbit. “Small game isn’t against the law.”

  Raedel’s face darkened. “I say you have been poaching my father’s deer. And you’ll have to pay for that. Don’t you think so, my friends?”

  Miroch, the third fellow, moved past Aeron to cut off his retreat. He wasn’t much taller than Aeron, but he carried fifty pounds of beef high on his torso, giving him a curiously top-heavy appearance. He drank deeply from his wineskin. “Stinking elf boy poacher,” he pronounced. “Ought to cut off his stinking elf ears, I say.”

  Aeron backed away, trying to keep the older lads from surrounding him, but there was nowhere to go. “You know Kestrel would have my hide if I shot one of your precious deer, Phoros. Now, let me go!” He looked about, planning a retreat. The stream was to his left and a dense thicket to his right. No one else was in sight, and the relative safety of Maerchlin was still some distance away.

  Raedel caught Miroch’s arm and dragged him back. “Wait a moment, Miroch,” he said. “Of course Morieth hasn’t done anything wrong.” His eyes were cold and keen as he looked at Aeron and stepped to the landward side of the path. “Please be on your way. Don’t pay us any mind.”

  Aeron hesitated. Raedel wasn’t done … not yet.

  “Is my leave not good enough for you?” Raedel added, arching an eyebrow.

  Steeling himself, Aeron stepped forward, edging past the three young nobles. The stream bank dropped away almost under his feet, but he refused to get within reach of any of them if he could avoid it. He kept an eye on all three nobles as he walked past, not caring if he looked defiant.

  As he passed abreast of Raedel, Regos grunted and launched himself forward, arms straight out to shove Aeron into the water. With a snort of surprise, Aeron ducked and twisted away. Regos sailed high, stumbling over Aeron and knocking him to the ground before he crashed down the short bank and sprawled into the stream. Aeron grinned with momentary triumph, then scrambled to his feet.

  Too late. Raedel’s broad hands clamped down on his shoulders, hauling him to his feet. “Oh, no. You’re not going anywhere. I think you owe Regos an apology,” the young lord hissed.

  Below them, Regos kicked and sputtered. “By Tchazzar, I’m going to kill him!” he shrieked as he regained his feet. Blood streamed from his mouth, where he’d apparently struck a rock in his fall. He thrashed his way up out of the water and drew his knife from his belt. “You are dead, you stinking half-breed!”

  Miroch seized a fistful of Aeron’s hair and pulled his head back. “Want to cut his throat?” he asked. “Or maybe cut off his elf ears, then cut his throat?”

  Raedel snorted in disgust behind him. “He doesn’t have elf ears. See? You can hardly see the points.” A moment later, he added, “Maybe we should give him elf ears, fellows. Would you like that, Morieth?”

  Aeron’s heart hammered in his chest. He twisted against Raedel’s iron grip, but he was held too securely. Regos scrambled up the short slope and approached, steel gleaming in his hand. Absently he drew one sleeve across his face to wipe away the blood, pausing as he glared into Aeron’s face. “Hold him still,” he said.

  Raedel seized Aeron’s right arm, and Miroch his left. They set their feet and leaned into him, locking his torso like a stone vise. Regos grinned and abruptly struck Aeron with the hardest open-handed slap he could manage, snapping the helpless captive’s head to one side. Dark spots danced in Aeron’s eyes and he tasted blood in his mouth. For a long moment, he couldn’t see or hear anything.

  When he came to his senses, Regos was standing close, looking past his face. One hand clamped the side of his face, and the other hand … Aeron felt the cold kiss of steel by the side of his head. A hot sting slid across the top of his ear. A small, pale sliver of flesh pattered from his shoulder and fell to the muddy earth. Warm blood trickled down his neck.

  He bucked and screamed in rage. Regos cursed and tried to tighten his grip. “Stop moving, damn you!”

  Miroch leaned away from Aeron in distaste. “Hey, watch the knife! You’re getting blood on me!”

  For an instant, Aeron felt Miroch’s hold on him relax. Howling with fear and anger, he stamped his foot down on Miroch’s and wrenched his arm away. Miroch yelped and released him. The knife scraped across his skull as Aeron struggled, but he didn’t stop. His left hand darted to his belt, and he drew his hunting knife. As Regos tried to capture his arm, he brought the knife up in a lightning slash that laid Regos’s arm open. He turned and ducked just as Raedel’s heavy fist crashed against his head. Aeron staggered and nearly fell, still held up by Raedel’s other hand clamped around his arm. Raedel drew back for another punch, but Aeron reversed his knife and rammed it into Raedel’s shoulder. The nobleman gaped and fell away.

  Aeron clamped one hand to his injured ear. Miroch hopped backward and sat down with a thump, holding his foot. Regos leaned over, holding his injured arm. The blade with which he’d cut Aeron stuck in the ground, quivering, its grip slick with Regos’s blood. Beside him, Raedel reached up to touch the hilt of Aeron’s knife, buried in his left shoulder. A spreading stain of bright red marked his elegant white tunic. He looked up at Aeron, dazed. “I’m going to kill you for that,” he stated.

  Aeron backed away two steps, vaguely surprised by what he’d done. “You cut me first, you bastard,” he rasped. “You got what you deserved!”

  Phoros Raedel dropped his good hand to the hilt of a plain long sword he wore at his belt. He drew the blade with a ringing rasp of steel against wood and brass.

  Nothing short of murder was in Raedel’s face. Aeron retreated another step, and the hot forge fueling his resistance suddenly failed him. Phoros means to kill me, he realized. Abruptly he turned and fled toward the village. He darted and leapt down the trail with the swiftness of a panicked stag, not daring to look behind him.

  “Come back here! Come back here, damn you!”

  Aeron didn’t look back. He kept up his sprint until the older lads’ voices faded into the forest behind him.

  Half an hour later, Aeron burst out of the forest into a small holding on the edge of the woods. Gasping raggedly, he came to a jarring halt, his chest and
legs burning. The house where he’d grown up was a rough-hewn woodsman’s cabin, sealed with mud and thatched with straw. A small farmyard penned goats, chickens, and a handful of pigs nearby, and around the house plots bloomed with green, even rows of radishes, turnips, and potatoes.

  A brown-haired girl in a blue linen dress straightened up from scattering feed as Aeron staggered into the yard. She was a year younger than Aeron, with a lean and athletic build. “Aeron! Where have you been? You …” Her voice died as she spotted the dusty red streak of blood on the side of his head. “Oh, Aeron. What happened?”

  “It was Raedel,” he panted. “I think I’m in trouble, Eriale. Is Kestrel here?”

  “He’s splitting wood behind the barn.” Eriale picked up the hem of her skirts and hurried past Aeron, circling the barn. Now that Aeron had a moment to listen, he heard the dull tchunk! of an axe biting wood. “Father! Aeron is back!”

  The rhythmic strokes fell silent. A moment later, Kestrel ambled into the yard, dusting off his hands. He was a small gray man, only a few inches taller than Aeron. Like the younger lad, he had a wiry frame, but he seemed more weathered than fit. His coarse mustache and dark, close-set eyes gave him the appearance of a sea otter. When Aeron’s parents died, Kestrel and his wife had taken him in for the sake of old friendship; he and Eriale were all of Aeron’s kin now. “What’s the trouble?” he asked. “Swords and spears, lad, what happened to you?”

  Aeron leaned over to set his hands on his knees, still trying to regain his breath. “I ran into Phoros, Miroch, and Regos on my way home,” he said.

  “The lord’s boy and his friends?”

  “Yes. They’d been drinking. I tried not to provoke them, but … they started in on me. Regos fell into the stream, trying to shove me in, and that angered him past all sense. He drew his knife and said he was going to dock my ears. Make me look like an elf.”