The Rod of Seven Parts

  For Fred Schroeder,

  brother, uncle, and friend

  The Rod of Seven Parts

  ©1996 TSR, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved.

  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 herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc.

  Random House and its affiliate companies have worldwide distribution rights in the book trade for English language products of TSR, Inc.

  Distributed to the book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.

  Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors. Cover art by Jeff Easley

  All TSR characters, character names, and the distinct likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

  ADVANCED DUNGEONS & DRAGONS and DRAGONLANCE are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is a trademark owned by TSR, Inc.

  First Printing: February 1996

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 95-62073

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 0-7869-0479-8

  8040XXX1501

  TSR, Inc. TSR Ltd.

  201 Sheridan Springs Road 120 Church End, Cherry Hinton

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  Cambridge CB1 3LB

  U.S.A.

  United Kingdom

  Books by

  Douglas Niles

  The Moonshae Trilogy

  Darkwalker on Moonshae

  Black Wizards

  Darkwell

  The Maztica Trilogy

  Ironhelm

  Viperhand

  Feathered Dragon

  The Druidhome Trilogy

  Prophet of Moonshae

  The Coral Kingdom

  The Druid Queen

  DRAGONLANCE® Novels

  Flint, the King

  The Kinslayer Wars

  Emperor of Ansalon

  The Kagonesti

  The Quest Triad

  Pawns Prevail

  Suitors' Duel

  Immortal Game

  (February 1996)

  PROLOGUE

  The wind changed suddenly, in the space of a heartbeat. Arquestan discerned the subtle alteration and knew that the creature of chaos, his quarry, must be near.

  The outcast wind duke halted, standing as rigid as any of the gnarled willow trunks that surrounded him. The trees jutted from the rancid swamp water for as far as Arquestan could see—though on this bleak, fog-bound world, that distance was not terribly great. In such a misty landscape, the motion of air was so faint that no ripples disturbed the placid water, but still the hunter sensed the change in the ephemeral current.

  Arquestan's ink-black skin glistened like oil in the murky haze that passed for daylight here, the slick darkness of his body contrasting sharply with the muddy brown of lifeless trees and putrid water. The wind duke remained as still as a rock as he listened and looked and waited for the next motion of the thick, rot-infested air.

  Brackish water rose to Arquestan's knees, concealing a bed of twisted roots intermingled with pockets of soft silt. The willows rose from the water like frozen ghosts, their supplicating limbs draped in ragged foliage and moss. Nearby, the trees loomed in clear detail, though those in the middle distance vanished like ghosts into the thick gray air.

  No noise rippled through the heavy mist as the tentative wind, barely a feathery wisp of motion, again brushed Arquestan's bare back. Centuries of decay masked the air in thick, heavy perfume, cloying vapors that coated the wind duke's nostrils with each breath. Arquestan's dark chest, a coil of wiry sinew, rose and settled only slightly as the outcast hunter waited for thirty heartbeats, probing the unknown, mist-shrouded distance by sight and sound and smell.

  Momentarily satisfied, Arquestan advanced, stepping so slowly that no sound, no single careless splash of water, signaled his movement. With long strides, he parted the oily liquid, moving toward a rise of tree-studded land that broke the monotony of the apparently eternal swamp.

  A bubble of pale light drifted nearby, a floating sphere nearly as large as the wind duke's head. Brightness diffused across the entire silken surface of the globe, though the light source itself was visible as a tiny spark of vitality floating inside the filmy ball. The sphere floated gently, glowing softly, following the tall black figure through shallower water as he finally emerged onto the small circular island.

  Once on dry land, the wind duke again froze, repeating his patient, multisensory probe of the surroundings. Finally he was satisfied that nothing moved in the murky distance.

  "Stay here, Bayar."

  Arquestan's voice was deep, but even more soft than the rustle of wind through distant willows. The globe halted, poised over the outspread branches of a low, gnarled willow. Craggy limbs formed a cradle of sorts, as if to seize the sphere if it should drift too low.

  Again came a whisper of air, a mere touch of moisture against the wind duke's skin.

  Now Arquestan was sure—the wind direction had shifted. For the last three days, since his arrival on this hellish world, he had steadfastly maintained his progress into the barely perceptible current of sluggish, stagnant air. A faint scent, and the instinct of deeper senses, had driven the outcast after his elusive quarry. During all that time the feeble sun, a spot of brightness against the eternal gray haze, had never moved. The orb remained barely visible through the misty stratus, providing the ranger with a steady reference for his bearings.

  Together with his faithful hound, the wind duke had followed the subtle spoor of the lycosyd through this forsaken waste. It was a feat of tracking that no other ranger, human or half-elf or vaati, could have accomplished, the product of knowledge that was present without arrogance in Arquestan's mind. Instead, it merely underlay a truth: There was no other mortal in all the planes who could perform the tasks that the outcast vaati had made a way of life.

  A sound disturbed the swamp some distance away, and Arquestan turned his head slowly. Bayar's dim glow faded almost to nothing as the hound swooped behind the wind duke's angular shoulder, the glowing sphere waiting and watching as patiently as her master.

  Another ripple of noise came to the outcast's ears, and he knew that the deadly lycosyd was near. This time, Arquestan vowed in grim silence, the beast would not escape. The spyder-fiend had been sorely wounded during their first encounter three days ago. With one of its eight legs sliced off and a deep stab into the abdomen, the monster had teleported wildly, unable to return to its hideous mistress, the Queen of Chaos. Yet the tanar'ri had still escaped through the planes, seeking refuge in this nether world. Arquestan had tracked it here, following the faint spoor through ether and air, finally trapping the beast in this seemingly eternal fen.

  The lycosyd was a powerful foe, fanatically loyal to the Queen of Chaos and, together with all the spyder-fiends, a sworn enemy of the wind dukes. Traveling among the planes even more freely than the vaati outcast, the queen's tanar'ri were vicious and implacable foes. The antipathy between vaati and spyder-fiend alone would have been enough to compel Arquestan into his grim pursuit.

  Yet this time there had been an even greater inducement, a thing no vaati, whether an outcast like Arquestan or a loyal and lawful dweller of Aaqa, could dare to ignore. This lycosyd had reeked of a spoor that the hunter had not sensed for more than seven centuries, a magical essence that compelled him unquestioningly into this deadly chase.

  The wind duke was certain that this tanar'ri spyder-fiend had, very recently, held a segment
of the sacred rod. That certainty was a tiding of both hope and fear, a portent that the outcast must do everything in his power to confirm, for if the rod was again scattered upon a world of mortals, the great war of law against chaos would once again rage into open battle, spyder-fiend and vaati would again strive for the ultimate victory, a triumph that had eluded both sides upon the ancient and bloody field of Pesh.

  Again came the faint sound, rippling water caused by something moving through the swamp with insufficient caution. Carefully Arquestan edged to the side, patiently shifting his stance in the water, too slowly to make even a hint of splash. Though his feet were bare, they were well toughened, inured to the barbs and branches that lay tangled across the floor of the stagnant swamp. Likewise, his naked skin was slick and perfect, unaffected by elements or abrasion. Unlike a human, the wind duke lacked the apparatus of either sex; in battle, he was spared the need to protect what would have been an exceptionally vulnerable part of his body.

  Arquestan held a vaati blade in each hand. The swords were keen, double-edged weapons, far stronger than any normal steel. One blade was long, the other short, both mounted in hilts especially formed to fit the outcast's long-fingered hands. Forged in the Valley of Aaqa, the weapons had been given to Arquestan by the vindeam Xathwik, one of the few vaati who would grudgingly acknowledge the worth of his outcast cousin's endeavors. Of course, even Xathwik deplored the chaotic impermanence of Arquestan's life, the whirlwind of places and companions that were the outcast's lot. Xathwik, vindeam sorcerer to the core, had spent all the centuries of his life in the rigid world of Aaqa, and would no doubt remain in the wind dukes' precisely ordered homeland until the end of time. To Xathwik, and to most of his kinsmen, the wendeam outcasts were mysterious and frightening.

  For the briefest of moments, the outcast envied his cousin, longed for the precise security that was the wind dukes' homeland. Then came another trace of movement through the stagnant water, and all longing, all regrets, gave way to pure, taut alertness. The spyder-fiend approached, and it was time for battle.

  Even wounded, the lycosyd would be a formidable foe. Arquestan pictured the vicious, wolflike head, upper and lower jaws bristling with fangs and dripping with potent venom. The arachnoid body, the tanar'ri's most vulnerable area, was protected by a carapace of steel-hard shell. Two muscular humanoid arms grew from the shoulders, and each terminated in a powerful hand of flexible, taloned fingers. During the fight with Arquestan, the monster had kept those hands hidden beneath its belly, where, the wendeam suspected, the lycosyd had clenched a portion of the Rod of Seven Parts. The essence of that ebony shaft, the lost artifact of the wind dukes, had been a clear spoor in the air.

  The vaati and the spyder-fiend had waged a brief fight on a remote desert world. It was the outcast's ambush that had allowed any battle to occur at all. The spyder-fiend had tried to teleport immediately, to escape to the fortress of its queen, but Arquestan's attack had been too swift, too deadly. Even then the wendeam had sensed the spoor of the rod, knew that at least a portion of the sanctified artifact was within reach. He had pressed his assault until the tanar'ri fled in desperation, seeking refuge here until its strength could be restored.

  But the implacable wind duke had followed, and now, once again, the ranger's quarry was close. Breathing easily, hefting the twin blades in his hands, Arquestan made ready to fight. Creasing his forehead, shifting the tight curls of his hair, Arquestan concentrated upon the power of the wind dukes, the inherent magic that allowed him to exert the force of law over surrounding chaos.

  Responding to his will, the temperature began to fall. Immediately the vaati's skin was coated with a glistening layer of dew, shimmering droplets of water condensing from the air. The outcast held utterly still, feeling the specks of water turn to frost, grateful that much of the odiferous rot in the air sifted downward with the moisture. Arquestan watched as a film of ice formed across the swamp nearby, growing thicker and expanding as he maintained his concentration.

  The bubble that was the Hound of Law floated to the ground near the shore of the small island. In a blink of transformation, Bayar stood there, all flopping jowls, melancholy eyes of brown, and a cloak of skin that seemed several sizes too large for the lanky canine body. Her dark eyes glowed with intelligence and anticipation as Bayar stared into the mist. The dog's nostrils twitched slightly, and Arquestan knew that his hound monitored, by scent, the approach of their enemy.

  Then the fog seethed and the lycosyd burst into view, splashing through murky water with quick, lurching leaps, moving with alacrity on its seven good legs. Ducking around stooped willows in a brown froth, wolflike jaws curled into a vicious snarl, the monster attacked.

  Arquestan saw that the lycosyd's bulbous body had regained its bright green color, a sign of restored health. The wolf head was flat-skulled, covered in black fur, but emerald plates of armored chitin lined the abdomen and bristled in a wide collar behind the snarling head. The two humanlike arms were visible, growing from the lycosyd's shoulders, but these limbs were clasped out of sight beneath the creature's belly.

  The wind duke waited at the edge of the island, bracing his feet against stout trunks. The tanar'ri raced closer, until its forelegs struck the frozen water and the beast skidded. Ferocious jaws snapped at the wind duke as Arquestan slashed with his right blade, deflecting the bite with his short sword. Barking in challenge, Bayar leapt at the fur-covered abdomen, chomping hard. The dog's white fangs, no longer concealed by the deceptively harmless jowls, drove deep into the monster's body, tearing free a chunk of gory flesh.

  The lupine head lashed around, seeking the hound's spine, but Arquestan was ready with his long sword, chopping a lethal slash to the back of the monster's skull. The lycosyd leapt away, skittering to the edge of the ice and splashing into the shallow water as ichor streamed from the gash in its head.

  Growling, baring her long white teeth, Bayar crept after the monster. Arquestan, too, approached the motionless form, studying the once hateful visage. The wolflike head glistened with smooth black fur, evilly handsome now that the hooded lids were closed over the infernal, fiery eyes. The two arms, knotted with muscle and covered with patches of coarse black hair, curled downward, the hands still clenched beneath the green-plated body.

  Again Arquestan caught that tantalizing spoor—the rod! He stiffened, leaning down, trying to see underneath the massive arachnoid body.

  The red eyes opened suddenly, and the wind duke sprang back, both swords raised in defense. But the lycosyd didn't attack. Instead, it snarled once, then vanished.

  A less experienced warrior might have thrust forward with his sword, angrily striking the space vacated by the teleporting spyder-fiend. Arquestan merely froze in place, listening, and was quickly rewarded by a rustling sound.

  The tanar'ri, still wounded, had not traveled very far. Now it limped through the woods, still on this very patch of ground! Stalking silently, moving like a shadow between the trees, Arquestan approached the center of the island. He worked his way between gaunt willows, drawing ever closer to the source of the subtle noise. Soon he discerned a large hummock of ground rising from the mist. At the base of the hill was a dark aperture, and the wind duke's keen nostrils told him that the wounded lycosyd had sought shelter within this shallow niche.

  Once again came that other, seductive spoor, an aura of magic that tingled along Arquestan's scalp. Surely a piece of the rod was near!

  The lycosyd lay just inside the shallow niche, legs coiled beneath the bloated belly. The green-plated flanks heaved as crimson eyes glared hatred at the approaching wind duke. Arquestan raised his long sword as the creature's eyes flashed wickedly, though the glare of hatred had dimmed like a suffocating coal.

  "You fail, vaati wind duke. Even as you slay me, you and your kind are doomed!"

  The lycosyd spoke in a tone of smooth, cultured elegance and a deep and abiding confidence that brought Arquestan to a halt.

  "You smell of the rod, spyder-
fiend. Speak to me—tell me what you know."

  "You wendeam roam the planes seeking word of the rod, do you not?" pressed the wolf-head with a sneer of contempt. "Outcast even by your own, you perform a fruitless quest!"

  "What could a weakling such as you know of the pride that drives a wendeam?" the wind duke asked calmly. "Our quest has borne fruit in the past. No doubt it will do so again."

  "Proud words... but do you know that pride is merely a useless outgrowth of law?"

  "Only a servant of chaos could make such an assumption. The loss is yours."

  The tanar'ri chortled a wicked laugh. "I do know of the rod. I know, too, that your will shall be thwarted. The artifact has already been discovered—by agents of the queen!"

  "It has been many centuries since any piece of the rod has appeared on a world of mortals," Arquestan remarked cautiously.

  "Yet it has done so again." The lycosyd spoke sneeringly, cruel arrogance loosening its tongue. The seven segments came to rest upon a place of humans and ogres, halflings and dwarves. Already we have claimed two of them!"

  The spyder-fiend shrilled with laughter, the sound tainted by the madness of imminent death. "And still the tanar'ri gather, waiting at the gates for signs, for the command to embark upon the ultimate quest! At the word of our queen, we strike across the planes, sweeping forward with a wave of chaos like the worlds of life have never known!"

  Gasping, its long tongue trailing from foaming lips, the wolf-head flopped forward onto the ground. The light of cruelty still blazed from the twin embers of its eyes.

  "The tanar'ri gather... but they wait? Why?" Abruptly Arquestan knew what the spyder-fiend meant—and that the creature had revealed more than it intended.

  "You may have two of the segments," the wind duke declared with sudden insight, "but they must be only the largest, the sixth and the seventh, else you would know the way to the remainder!"