EPILOGUE
A large crowd of Starmantle’s citizens had assembled underneath the Ziggurat, eager to cheer their champions to victory. Instead, they were treated to the Wormgod’s victorious exit from the apex of the Spire.
Thrusting his arms upwards in triumph, the deity’s victorious gesture threw the crowd into a blind panic. Whatever shred of hope they held for the salvation of their city was torn asunder, as they began to flee in all directions. A scant few made it safely into buildings while most were cut down by rampaging Broodfiends, mammoth Overworms, or by running into the green death fogs that were spread throughout Starmantle.
Prince Embuirhan alone remained. Only in this late hour did he realize the folly of what he had done. Only wishing to live a life of decadence, enjoy unquestioned rule over his subjects, and exult in the greater glory of Bane he realized far too late that Lashonna had played him for a fool for years. While this alone was enough to crush his fragile ego, the weight of the fate he had brought to the Realms left Embuirhan a broken man.
As he fell to his knees in abject despair he never noticed an approaching squad of Kyuss Knights. Offering no resistance, they cut him down quickly . . . only to have him rise once more as a Spawn of the Wormgod.
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In the history of Faerun the Three had never met face to face, only through the machinations of their mortal followers. Even now, given the desperate situation they faced, the Three could not trust one another. They met, therefore, in the only place in the Multiverse where each would be on equal footing.
Before the Three rose an unimaginably lofty spire, on top of which stood the planar metropolis of Sigil, city of gates. Here, all magic was annulled -- even those of greater deities.
“The mortals have failed. Kyuss yet lives to unleash Jergal’s agenda upon the Realms,” the Lord of the Dead stated flatly. A darkly robed figure with silver hair and pupiless eyes he glanced at his fellows without a hint of emotion.
“Ha! Though you are a god, you still think as a mortal. Honorable combat and heroes could never be relied upon to halt a threat of this magnitude.” A manipulator supreme, the Lord of Lies could still not hide his mounting fear and disgust from his two companions.
“Then we know what must be done, as we discussed.” The Dreadlord gestured with a jet black gauntlet wreathed in green energy.
Indeed, the Three would have to walk a hundred miles before their powers were restored. In an act totally uncharacteristic and, frankly, unbecoming of beings of their station, they ran . . . as if their lives depended on it.
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Through the perpetual haze of the ethereal plane, the Archmage Malchor Harpell and his entire clan of mages watched with increasing hopelessness as the members of the League were slain in turn by Kyuss . . . only to arise once more as spawn of the Wormgod. First came Grubber, his magic stripped by the fury of Kyuss’ disjunction, then the winged Mak – imploded by his own brother. By the time Storm fell, the League was already in retreat.
Once Faust, Havoc, and Hawk left the Spire, the arcanists knew they would not be coming back. Kyuss would triumph and herald the coming of the Age of Worms. They would have to give up their dimensional lock which encompassed all of Starmantle, gate back into the Prime Material Plane and try to finish off Kyuss themselves.
Together they were an awesome force to be reckoned with, not unlike the League. Unfortunately, weaving their powerful magic had sapped their power significantly. Indeed, they expected the worst but nothing could prepare them for what happened next.
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Returning once again to where he had defeated the League, Kyuss paced around the portal that had brought him back to the Prime.
Lashonna, Dragotha, and even Maralee had been utterly destroyed by his mortal adversaries. Yet with the coming rain of Kyuss worms upon Faerun, the demigod knew that many equally powerful retainers would join his side. His thoughts thus distracted, he would have hardly noticed the three gates opening around him had it not been for his portfolio sense.
The Black Hand, of course, he recognized. He had been one of the most powerful deities in Toril when Kyuss himself was mortal. The remaining two were not immediately familiar, but he could tell that their powers approached that of the Dreadlord.
Sensing the dimensional lock around Starmantle had dissolved, Kyuss immediately began casting a greater teleport.
Instead he was struck in the chest by a sickly green ray from the gauntlet of the Lord of Darkness, causing the spell to die on his lips, “You still think like a mortal Wormgod. The centuries of imprisonment have not been kind to you.”
Simultaneously, the Judge of the Damned struck Kyuss with his deific longsword – its positive energy absolutely anathemic to him.
The Black Sun grabbed the demigod from behind. Though innumerable Kyuss worms tried to burrow through his divine flesh, they were merely vaporized by deific power. “You were brought back to the Prime in ignorance, fool . . . now die in ignorance!”
The combined onslaught proved too much for Kyuss who simply collapsed into millions of worms which dissolved in an instant.
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The Spire of Long Shadows began to pulse with power despite Kyuss’ destruction.
The Three glanced at each other with trepidation. They had discussed the possibility of destroying Starmantle to prevent the Return. It seemed they had no choice. In the end, only the Master of the Crystal Spire paused before he completed the incantation to do the horrendous deed.
Slowly, but at an accelerating pace, a rift in the Multiverse was rent. It expanded to first cover the spire, then the Ziggurat, and quickly to all of Starmantle.
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When the reality of what was happening dawned upon the Harpell clan, it was already too late. Whichever regions of the border ethereal and astral planes overlapped with Starmantle were similarly obliterated from existence.
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In the Church of Tempus, Gabriel the Solar, unwilling to abandon his charges even in the face of death tried to evacuate as many citizens as he could – all in vain.
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There the Three stood, at the center of a large crater many miles wide. Not a blade of grass, a single bird, nor manmade structure stood. Nothing was left in the wake of their divine retribution.
As far as they were concerned, the Three would never see each other directly again. The Time of Troubles of course was an aberration, a trial brought upon them by the Overgod. This situation was similarly unique, an occurrence unprecedented in the history of the Realms – the cooperation of three deities who reviled one another.
Though this day was of unparalleled significance, it appeared that the surprises had not yet ceased. An unknown force pushed all three deities to their knees with a resounding crack as a final grey gate opened above them.
The Lord of the End of Everything had arrived.
Living short lives fraught with peril and despair, there is little in a mortal’s life or experiences to prepare them to comprehend the significance of the same emotions from a greater deity, let alone three. No words needed to pass between the Scribe of the Dead and his newly appointed Ebon Triad.
They would live only to serve Him.
Their millions of followers would be subsumed by Him.
All spells and powers granted to their myriad clergy would come from Him.
Yet, despite His triumph, it did not reach the potential He had hoped. Kyuss, who was to be his divine seed to re-enter prominence in this Crystal Sphere was severely weakened over time. His followers were butchered, his lieutenants cut down, and his immortal shell itself brought to the brink of destruction. All thanks to a certain group of impertinent mortals.
Yet, He gave this so-called League a measure of grudging respect. For though He did not return to supplant Ao, He nevertheless emerged as the single most powerful deity in existence.
Let mortal and immortal tremble alike under Jergal, the new Lord of Strife, the Dead, and Murder.
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Eastern Toril was, quite simply, an apocalyptic playground for the vile and wicked. Too many things had occurred in rapid succession, for even the mighty cities of Waterdeep, Hillsfar, and Arabel to continue to operate as normal. First came the Great Revenant War, followed by the Githyanki Invasion, then the political destabilization of Central Toril from a certain volcanic eruption, and now . . . the military resurgence of the Ebon Triad.
Given the bleakness of their situation it came as little surprise that the Lords of Waterdeep dissolved themselves as an organization and subsequently nominated Hawkins Veritas as both Commander and Warden of the fabled city with absolute military and political power. Though the rain of Kyuss worms had stopped, it was clear that a leader of unprecedented resolve, political acumen, charisma, and frankly, power was required.
Though flattered by the request, the Paladin flatly declined their offer. In truth, since the rise of Brokengulf and Queen Vlaakith’s assassinations of Elminster and the Seven Sisters, Hawk realized that the ethos of the City of Splendors had forever shifted. He was not comfortable with the moral turpitude through which he would have to navigate. In times such as these, he wanted to lead with clarity of conscience – now was not the time to make ethical concessions.
It was these beliefs that led Hawk back home to Daggerford. Though relatively large, it was still small enough to have escaped the immediate notice of the Ebon Triad, making it the perfect staging ground for an insurgency. Here, Master Civilar Veritas created the largest temple of Helm on the continent as well as a new rallying point for the Vigilant Eyes of the God – an order of the most powerful Helmite paladins and clergy. Over the next several years, under his auspicious and inspired leadership, Daggerford was able to carve out a protectorate through which no armies of the Ebon Triad were able to penetrate.
Later christened by historians as the “Realm of the Watcher” and extending from the Border Forest in the north all the way to Cormanthor in the south, it would be known as a focus of pious worship and divine splendor – at times even patronized by Celestials from the Seven Mounting Heavens. In time, many other deities of good forced underground by the Ebon Triad found there followers here, under the protection of the Vigilant One.
Indeed, one of the most feared noises an invader could hear was an elephantine blast. This always heralded a legion of fanatical paladins and templars led by Vertias himself, mounted atop his ever faithful mount Alice. Let the Ebon Triad beware.
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If not for acquiring the secret knowledge that his deity had been subsumed by Jergal, Dreadmaster Amal would count his current situation as the best of times. Following the Githyanki invasion, his ascension to High Impreceptor, and the slavish devotion of red dragonkind courtesy of the Scepter of Ephelemon, Yulash had quickly been absorbed into the new Zhent empire.
Not even the chosen of Sune could turn back his advance this time.
Now, Hillsfar itself was under siege and it was only a matter time. In a few short years, Amal was on the threshold of accomplishing what Banites had dreamed of for nearly a hundred years – the conquest of the Moonsea. Not even Fzoul Chembryl nor Manshoon enjoyed success akin to his.
Strangely, his rapid string of victories was precipitated many months ago by the arrival of one Faust Cenodoxus. The Dreadmaster considered himself a learned man, but even he was baffled by the art of psionics, a supernatural ability somewhat similar to magic practiced by a few denizens of the Underdark . . . which is why Amal was more than a little skeptical when the élan offered his services as a chief lieutenant.
It was not until several weeks later when Faust returned with the news that he had somehow managed to identify and destroy all of the stasis clones of the Archmage Manshoon that Amal took him seriously. This was a feat that Chembryl (and Amal) had failed to accomplish despite many attempts to weaken the power of their chief subordinate. This impressed Amal enough that he sanctioned a duel between Manshoon and Faust for the role of his second-in-command.
Since Manshoon was his current favorite, Amal granted him the choice of venue for the battle. Not surprisingly, the Archmage chose Citadel Darkhold, former home of his apprentice Sememmon. Here, he would enjoy innumerable protective wards and abjurations to swing things in his favor. Giving Faust the choice of the circumstances to start the battle, Amal had assumed the psion would choose to begin the battle miles apart to prepare himself before entering the confines of Darkhold.
Yet, Faust’s request totally baffled the usually unflappable Dreadmaster. He requested that the duel begin a few feet apart but the participants must be chained, bound, gagged, and placed in a dimensional lock and in a zone of magical silence. Though Amal steeled himself for the longest duel in history, he gained a powerful insight into both Faust’s keen intellect as well as the nature of psionics.
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Faust incinerated yet another combined arms regiment of Red Plume soldiers and mages. His increasing mastery of the time stream made counter-attacks largely irrelevant.
In the end, he would endure. Unlike his fellows Havoc and Hawk, whom he would never likely see again, he had no natural limit on his lifespan being an élan. He was alive during the construction of Waterdeep and he planned to live for several more centuries. His primary goal was always to stop the Age of Worms and, in that, they were successful.
He was adaptable – how could he not be after so many years of living?
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The caravan master had ultimately felt sorry for the poor man and allowed him to accompany them on the admittedly dangerous trade route between the Realm of the Watcher and Northern Cormyr. Though for the life of him, he could not fathom why the young man wanted to wander a place infested by drow, undead, githyanki, and worse.
Staring at the perpetual gloom over the once mighty Arabel, Giovanni had wandered away from the merchant’s camp after several days of travel. Time had not been kind to him – haggard, with a ring of stubble around his face, and dressed in shoddy clothes --- this once noble-born son of the City of Splendors had fallen far.
He had retreated with Hawk to Magepoint via teleportation which was the last act of magic he was ever to perform. He had lost all of his arcane abilities, from the awesome power to generate spontaneous blasts of eldritch power at a whim to even the capability of reading scrolls and manipulating magic items. Despite days of rest and the research of the finest scholars of Magepoint there was no “cure.”
When Hawk finally returned south to Daggerford he had, of course, insisted that Havoc join him. However, the once-warlock had fallen into a deep catatonic despair. Over the next two years, he regained his composure enough to wander continually southward until he reached his current predicament. Strangely, despite the inherent peril of the times he lived in and his own helplessness, he always seemed to escape unscathed from dangerous situations. Perhaps it was a curse, his curse.
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The drow revenants moved slowly but quickly across the wasteland. Very few living things frequented Arabel anymore and the few that did, such as massive Githyanki Astral skiffs, were unassailable. Their pace accelerated as did their hunger for mortal flesh.
“To arms my men, they are coming!”
The merchants were bold, but not stupid. Anybody coming this far south did so with a slew of undead bane weapons and magic.
Giovanni simply sat as the battle raged, hoping against hope that one of the revenants would end his miserable existence. Unfortunately for him, his companions easily turned back the revenants, reducing them to dust in few minutes.
The caravan leader addressed his beleaguered underlings, “Let’s pack up quickly and move on, these undead rarely travel . . . . AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Multiple red-black rifts in reality opened up in the camp, each sucking their immediate surroundings into them like maelstroms. The merchants had survived their initial fate only to be consigned to a far worse one in the Bleak Eternity of Gehenna.
When the raging cacophony stopped, only Giovanni remained, still seated on a dead log. He did not notice a female in robes stride up to him nor seat herself beside him.
“I would not expect to find the son of the great Wormgod in such meager circumstances.”
Shocked, Havoc looked at the speaker and was momentarily stunned by her alien appearance. Though she was undeniably beautiful the third eye in her forehead was more than little disconcerting.
“What do you know of Kyuss!? Who are you?”
“Ah, but I know many things young Warlock. I know that you once wielded the epitome of arcane power and lost it all. Believe me, I can sympathize. But all is not lost, you see. You have tremendous potential in you, the divine spark if you will. Come with me and I will show you a better way.”
All at once, Giovanni’s fears and doubt melted away as he clasped her hand.
They both rose and disappeared.
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Kiaransalee had been too aggressive, too melodramatic, and ultimately bit off more than she could chew. Though powerful, she could not have hoped to win against all of Southern Toril. She failed.
Adimarchus represented the opposite extreme. He was too much a manipulator behind the scenes, allowing his minions to do virtually all of his work – even that which could not be trusted in their hands. Ultimately, it was his undoing. His glorious return to the minor Abyssal layer of Occiptus was marred by the utter annihilation of his followers not to mention his own abject humiliation. It would be perhaps centuries before he could regain his former stature.
Kyuss, on the other hand, nearly had it right. The Wormgod merely used his lieutenants as pawns to evaluate the weakness of his would-be slayers. In the end, when it really mattered, he intervened directly. However, his actions were too vulgar, they attracted far too much attention. And that proved his undoing.
They had learned these lessons well and would not make the same errors. They had co-existed since time immemorial, one always trying to outdo if not outright eliminate the other. The recent tension involving the living demonic heart of a certain half-field great wyrm in the Positive Energy Plane put a particular strain on their relationship.
Ultimately, they realized that their eternal conflict was their perpetual weakness. Until one dominated, their thinking went, they could never truly be whole.
It was time for a different track – reconciliation. As alien as it sounded, it was necessary for their ascension. Therefore the most logical decision was made in Abysm deep beneath the Brine Flats.
For Aamuel and Hethradiah to become whole once again, the Prime Material Plane must feel the fury of the Savage Tide.
