T. H. Lain - The living dead

From the creators of

the greatest roleplaying game ever

come tales of heroes fighting

monsters with magic!

By T.H. Lain

The Savage Caves

The Living Dead

Oath of Nerull

(September 2002)

City of Fire

(November 2002)

The Bloody Eye

(January 2003)

Treachery's Wake

(March 2003)

THE LIVING DEAD

2002 Wizards of the Coast, 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, Inc.

Distributed in the United States by Holtzbrinck Publishing. Distributed in Canada by Fenn Ltd.

Distributed to the hobby, toy, and comic trade in the United States and Canada by regional distributors.

Distributed worldwide by Wizards of the Coast, Inc. and regional distributors.

Dungeons & Dragons, D&D, and the Wizards of the Coast logo are registered trademarks of Wizards of the Coast, Inc., a subsidiary of Hasbro, Inc.

All Wizards of the Coast characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by Wizards of the Coast, Inc.

Made in the U.S.A.

The sale of this book without its cover has not been authorized by the publisher. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for this "stripped book."

Cover art by Todd Lock wood First Printing: May 2002 Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2001097132

987654321

US ISBN: 0-7869-2848-4

UK ISBN: 0-7869-2849-2

620-88230-001-EN

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Living Dead-ications

This book is dedicated to Dave,

Toby, Chris, Jesse, Shoe,

Thomasson, Will, and Cam.

Mungo live. Mungo smash.

Mungo die.

The author wishes to thank the

3rd Edition D&D illustrators

for the creepy wights and

slinky wizards; Messrs. Gordon,

Jackson, O'Bannon, Raimi, and

Romero for all the flesh-eating

creeps; and Mrs. Lain.

Special thanks to the

supernaturally patient

Jess Lebow.

"The prophecy!" howled the little old woman. "Your coming was foretold!"

Every head in the crowded, smoky confines of the Silver Goblet tavern turned to peer at the goggled-eyed, humpbacked crone. She jabbed her index finger at a tall, young elf woman in golden robes and a man with a lute slung over one shoulder. The two swiveled in their seats, regarded the harridan with equal degrees of puzzlement, glanced at each other, then tried to concentrate on their drinks. Although the pair sat on adjacent stools at the bar, they seemed not to know one another. The elf woman sipped self-consciously from a glass of white liquid while the man guzzled his second mug of ale.

"It is you! The lute and thethe hair! The wild black hair! It is prophesied!" She let the last word end in another good screech for emphasis, but undercut herself by asking, "Or is that 'prophesized'?"

The elf woman was obviously a traveling wizardher waist was hung with leather bags and scroll pouches, her shoulders were crisscrossed by packs laced with pockets and sleeves, and a black wand tipped with a flame-colored stone was thrust through her belt. She opened her mouth to ask if the old woman might accept a copper coin and leave, but the lutist held up his hand. He was curious to hear where this was going. The wizard, Mialee, held her tongue but could not restrain a smirk. The bard had finished a set of ballads half an hour earlier. It had been impossible not to notice him staring at Mialee while he sang. Happily, his attention diverted the moment the first mug of ale hit the table in front of him.

His stare was not that surprising, she supposed. His softly pointed ears betrayed his partial elf blood. Other than him and Mialee, there were no other elves in the place. He probably thought shed be a pushover to his brooding musician act.

The man grinned and ran a hand through a thick head of black hair. As the shriveled creature argued with herself about word choice in public prophecy, he broke into a melodious laugh that boomed throughout the smoke-filled tavern.

Mialee sipped her milk and rolled her eyes.

"It was a message," the woman whispered. "A warning, of black days and horrors to walk the earth." She sidled up to their stools and rather rudely stuck her nose between them. The woman might have been four and a half feet tall, but she looked even shorter than that because a grotesque hump and twist in her spine forced her into a bent stance. Mialee wondered how the woman could walk without a cane to support herself. The old body was bent down as if tremendous weights were hung about her shoulders. She wriggled her backside to the bar and sat on the wooden foot rail below the counter.

The tiny woman peered up at the pair with twinkling, mischievous eyes. "You don't believe old gakkakkgek"

Mialee blinked and turned back to her glass of milk. This was not the woman's name, but a sound the hag made when preparing to spit something truly monstrous onto the bar floor.

"old me! Listen up!"

She jammed her fingers into either knee that sat a few inches from her tiny, cauliflower ears, and cackled as the pair jumped in tandem. The old woman hacked and spit once more for good measure, then launched into a singsong ditty that made no sense whatever to Mialee.

"One and one and one is three,

"One for the elder, one is for me,

"The Buried walks beneath thee,

"The Buried walks beneath thee,

"Elf on my left, lute gold and prudent,

"Elf on my right, black-haired student,

"Elf yet to come, guardian true,

"One elf is the teacher,

"The last one is his muse.

"Death beneath the sleeping mount

"But wait they must for the day he counts."

Something about the way the old woman looked at Mialee made her uneasy, and it wasn't the smell, the twisted hump, or the bug-eyed stare directed somewhere above her right ear. The old woman smelled of illusion. She also had terrible grammar.

Mialee spoke the soft elvish words of a minor detection spell to take a closer look at the cackling little creature.

"What?" said the man on the stool next to hers.

Mialee faked a few coughs. "Nothing. Prophecies. Never had any use for them."

The woman raved about flame, death, and the end of the world as Mialee focused the spell. The old crone was wearing an illusion all right, it was all over her. Mialee couldn't make out what sort of creature was hidden beneath the magical energy. Whatever she was, the crone had not actually threatened anyone, but only warned them about the end of the world.

"Old woman," Mialee said, "or old man, why do you disguise your true appearance with illusion? I admire the strength of the spell. Who are you? What is your true shape?"

"Whaer, arr! Fire, and doom, dead walk the earth! Await the one in the garish robes with the silver hair! It is foretold!" the crone babbled quickly, suddenly sounding much younger than she looked, and much less sure of herself.