Lord Soth Read online

  “It is done.”

  Hearing the words, young Loren Soth breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Well done, Caradoc. You have served me well.”

  Soth’s seneschal stepped into the cottage and began disrobing. He tossed his clothes upon the hearth, watching the blood of his victims burn in shades of orange and blue.

  Aynkell Soth looked up at his son for the first time in hours. “Now when you take over rule of Nightlund, no other heir can come forward to lay claim to it.” He turned to Caradoc. “Thank you for the removal of the black marks upon my soul.”

  “The black marks may have been removed from your soul,” said Knight Soth, “but they are not gone. They have merely been transferred. The weight of my father’s sins is now mine alone to bear. What a lovely gift to receive so soon before my wedding day.”

  “Don’t be so quick to blame and condemn me, my son,” Aynkell said. “You are of my flesh and of my blood. You always will be. There’s too much of me in you for you to be so critical of my life.”

  The knight’s face darkened into a scowl. His father began to laugh. Loren stormed out of the cottage.

  As he joined Caradoc and began his homeward ride, the young knight could still hear his father’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears …

  Haunting him for many, many miles.

  From the Creators of the

  DRAGONLANCE® Saga

  WARRIORS

  Knights of the Crown

  Roland Green

  Maquesta Kar-Thon

  Tina Danieli

  Knights of the Sword

  Roland Green

  Theros Ironfeld

  Don Perrin

  Knights of the Rose

  Roland Green

  Lord Soth

  Edo van Belkom

  LORD SOTH

  DRAGONLANCE® The Warriors • Volume VI

  ©1996 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.

  DRAGONLANCE, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, their respective logos, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

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

  Cover art by: Jeff Easley

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6341-6

  640-A1723000-001-EN

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  DEDICATION

  For my brother, Lou van Belkom

  who thought I was pursuing a fool’s dream

  but thankfully kept his opinion to himself.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A lot of people played a part in bringing this novel into being. I’d like to thank Executive Editor Brian Thomsen for having confidence in my ability; Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman for creating such an interesting character to write about; editor Barbara G. Young for helping me smooth out some of the rough spots; fellow TSR author Ed Greenwood for advice and encouragement early on; and beta-testers Don Bassingthwaite, David Livingstone Clink and David Nickle for helping me make sure Lord Soth remained true to form.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Book One: Son’s Rise

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Book Two: Knight’s Fall

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Book Three: Dead of Knight

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Dear Astinus,

  I know it has been your intention for many years to pen a volume chronicling the spectacular rise and fall of Lord Loren Soth of Dargaard Keep. Understandably, work on the literally thousands upon thousands of other volumes in your wondrous library has always kept you from this important task.

  That is why I accepted this assignment with both eagerness and trepidation. While I was anxious to show you that your confidence in my abilities was well-founded, I was also unsure about those same abilities and concerned that they might not be up to the challenge of recording a life story so tangled and mysterious as that of Lord Soth’s.

  The history of the Lord of Dargaard Keep is a fascinating one, full of as much honor, devotion to duty, love, knightly law and discipline, as cruelty, jealousy, greed, falsehood, unbridled lust, infidelity and murder.

  Putting it to paper was not an easy task.

  For despite how well his exploits are known to the people of Krynn, the details of each are as varied as the number of people who are familiar enough to speak of them.

  Before this volume was completed, the life story of Lord Soth—also known to many by such names as Knight of the Black Rose, the Death Knight, or the Death Lord—had been a mixture of legend, fable, myth, spoken histories and long-lost tales.

  For example, there are many variations of the story concerning the death of Soth’s first wife, Lady Korinne Gladria of Palanthas. (Even in this, something as simple as a name, there have been errors as the woman has sometimes been incorrectly referred to as Lady Gladria of Korinne.) Lady Korinne wed Soth in a magnificent ceremony on the grounds outside Dargaard Keep. But while some histories have reported that she died during childbirth, or merely under “mysterious circumstances,” they are all only partly true.

  But you, Astinus of Palanthas, Master Historian of Krynn, did not become a master historian by chronicling half-truths and lies, and neither shall I. The reputation and respect you have earned in every corner of Krynn has been won by your tireless pursuit of truth in all matters pertaining to its history. It has been my goal to produce a history worthy of that same respect.

  Whether I have achieved that goal or not, only you are qualified to judge. On my own behalf I will say only this. While this is as well a researched history of Lord Soth’s life as I could pen, I cannot say in all honesty that it is the one true version. For while I worked diligently to confirm each f
act found in the various written records scattered throughout Solamnia and across the four corners of Krynn, far too many aspects of the story could only be verified verbally, and even then by—how shall I say?—less than reputable sources.

  Speaking in more general terms, I found Soth’s tale to be an utterly shocking one. Yet, as startling as it is, I suspect that there were even more disturbing elements that, even with the utmost diligence, I was unable to unearth. With much regret, I fear that those parts of Soth’s history might be lost to us forever.

  Nevertheless, I have combined all of the reliable facts concerning Lord Soth’s sordid life and gathered them together in a single volume for the very first time. The result is as true a history of the knight’s life as is within my ability to produce.

  I submit it for your approval.

  Verril Esteros, Second Aesthetic

  Great Library of Astinus of Palanthas

  401 A.C.

  Prologue

  Three moons might well have been in the sky, but only two dared show their faces. Lunitari glowed a dark shade of red while Solinari shone a bright white, leaving the dark moon Nuitari to be hidden by the night.

  Lunitari and Solinari hung over the dark rippling waters of the northern sea like a pair of watchful eyes, shining crimson and white light down onto the sleeping port city of Kalaman, and casting spiderlike shadows across its dim, quiet streets.

  A dark figure moved swiftly through the shadows. His movements were strong and sure, like those of a nobleman, but his dress was an ill-fitting patchwork of worn and tattered garments, suggesting the man was no more noble than a petty thief or common rogue.

  Whatever the man’s class, he moved quietly from shadow to shadow, avoiding the light as much as he shunned the open spaces between the scattered homes and shops.

  When he reached the open mouth of a darkened alley, he stepped into its blackness and paused for a moment to catch his breath. As he stood there, he felt for the weapons hidden beneath his cloak, making sure everything was in place. He’d have only one chance to complete his task and he knew failure would not be tolerated.

  After he had rested and his breathing had slowed, he ventured deeper into the alley’s uncertain darkness.

  After a short walk, he came upon the open back door of a popular tavern—The Rose and Thistle. From inside, the faint sound of laughter and song echoed into the alley while flickering firelight blazed through the half-open doorway like rays from the midday sun.

  The dark figure stopped and strained to hear the people singing merrily inside, all the while making sure to keep his distance from the warm light emanating from within.

  Next to the door, on the side closest to him, one of the tavern’s more inebriated patrons—a dwarf—was propped up against the back wall of the establishment, no doubt sleeping off the effects of an over-indulgence of its finest ale. The dwarf was sleeping so peacefully it seemed a shame to wake him, but there was no time for such polite considerations.

  Not tonight.

  So without further hesitation the shadowy figure reared back and gave the dwarf a hard kick in the upper thigh.

  “Ow!” exclaimed the dwarf, then muttered sleepily, “I assure you sir, I had no idea she was the daughter of a—”

  So the dwarf was a scoundrel as well as a drunkard! He gave the dwarf another hard kick, this time causing the dwarf’s ale-soaked eyes to flutter open. After taking a moment to wipe the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, the dwarf looked up at the dark, hooded figure standing over him.… And gasped in fear. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for a young man, a bard”—he said the word as if it were a bad thing—“by the name of Argol Birdsong. Is it true that he performs in this tavern on occasion?”

  “Now,” the dwarf said casually, foolishly thinking he held a position of power over the dark figure standing before him. “Who wants to know?”

  The hooded man stepped on the dwarf’s foot then, pressing down hard with the heel of his boot. “I’m not interested in, nor do I have the time for dwarven games. Is he here or not?” He turned his boot to emphasize the point.

  “Ow!” the dwarf cried, then quickly nodded. “Y-yes, he’s here, he’s here,” he said. “In fact, that’s him singing now.”

  The dark man held his breath for a moment and listened. He could just make out the sound of some ballad coming from inside the tavern. Satisfied, he lifted his boot from the dwarf’s foot and fished inside his pouch for some coins.

  “Go inside and tell Argol Birdsong there’s an old friend waiting for him out in the alley.” He dropped a few coins onto the dwarf’s lap. “Then remain inside until you’ve drunk your fill … and then some.”

  The dwarf immediately stopped rubbing his aching foot and picked up the scattered coins. “Yes sir!” he said, jumping to his feet and limping back inside the tavern.

  When the dwarf was gone, the dark figure looked up and down the alley then retreated into the safety of the shadows. There, he waited for the singing inside to come to an end. When the tavern was filled with the soft mumble of drunken voices carrying on in contented conversation, he tensed his body and listened for the sound of approaching footsteps.

  When the sound came moments later, he drew back his cloak and took hold of the heavy dwarven warhammer that had been hanging from a loop on his belt.

  “Hello?” called Argol Birdsong in a melodic voice. “Is someone here?” The bard paused a moment, then smiled broadly. “Aristal, my love? Are you here waiting for me?”

  The man in the shadows took a moment to examine the features of the bard. Yes, the singer certainly bore the family resemblance that he had been told to look for. He stepped forward, partway into the light, but his face remained obscured by the folds of his hood.

  “Who are you?” asked the bard, his voice no longer so birdlike and perhaps just a little bit frightened.

  The stranger ignored the question and asked one of his own. “Are you Argol Birdsong?”

  “Yes, but—”

  The man’s next word died in his throat as the warhammer suddenly appeared, glinting at the top of its arc for a brief moment before slamming down onto the bard’s head.

  Once …

  Twice …

  Three times …

  The bard’s body slumped forward, then crumpled lifelessly, thudding heavily onto the alley floor.

  And then all that could be heard was the rustle of a cloak and the fading click of boots as they hurried out of the alley.

  Into the night.

  The assassin ran quickly through the streets of Kalaman, staying away from the main roads and always remaining close to the protective cover of shadows. After running for several blocks, he slowed his pace and added a slight stumble to his gait to suggest that he’d spent most of the night sampling ale and wine of dubious merit.

  When he reached the livery stable housing his horse, he tipped the stableman handsomely and was quickly on his way, riding fast enough to appear as if he were headed somewhere, but not so fast as to appear as if he were running away from something.

  Outside of the city’s limits, he hastened his horse’s pace to a trot and then to a full gallop. He continued riding hard and fast for several minutes until he came upon a sharp bend in the Vingaard River.

  The water was as black as the darkest night, even in the middle of the day. It was also deep as a well, as much as a hundred feet or more at its center.

  It was the perfect place to make something vanish.

  Remaining on his horse, the assassin moved to the edges of the southern river bank and opened his cloak. He unfastened the blood-stained warhammer from his belt and swung it wildly over his head by the leather thong tied to the end of its handle. After several quick rotations, he let go of the thong, flinging the hammer out over the water. The weapon whistled slightly as it twirled and sliced through the air, then made a faint splash as it broke the water’s surface midway between the two banks.

  The hammer rema
ined on top of the water for a moment, reflecting a sliver of moonlight as the hammerhead turned for the bottom, and then it was gone.

  Without a second glance, he turned from the river, kicked at his horse’s ribs and was soon riding hard once more, heading west.

  One more stop. One more task, and this night would be over.

  As the moons slowly arced overhead, he came upon a small hamlet on the western outskirts of Kalaman called Villand. When he began to recognize the outlines of individual homes and cottages, he dismounted from his now heaving horse and gave it a hard slap on its haunches. The startled horse reared back and leaped forward. After two frantic strides it slowed to a more comfortable pace that would see it return to its home in a day or two.

  Now alone in the village, the assassin again moved stealthily through winding streets, clinging to the cover afforded by the rough-hewn buildings and scattered trees. When he was near what felt like the center of the village he took a map from his inside cloak pocket and unfurled it beneath Solinari’s generous moonlight.

  Several of the bigger homes and shops were detailed on the map and after recognizing two of them, he was better able to orient himself and learn of his position within the village. If he wasn’t mistaken, his destination was just four houses down the street on the left.

  He clenched the map in his left hand and quietly counted off the houses as he passed.

  When he arrived at the small unassuming cottage, he checked the front door for a sign. It was there. A double loop connected at its center.

  He checked the sign with the one scribbled next to the note on the map. It was the same double loop. The sign of Mishakal—a benevolent goddess known as the Healing Hand—had brought him here to this home. Except, unlike Mishakal, the assassin wasn’t here to heal.

  With the careful and deft hand of a thief, the assassin picked the lock on the door and eased it open, praying that the owner of the house had been particular about keeping his hinges well oiled. Fortunately he had been, and the door swung quietly open and closed. In seconds he was inside, moving about the house in utter silence.