Oath of Vigilance

by James Wyatt

  “Apprentice,” Splendid chirped.

  “Hm,” Albanon answered, lost in a scroll in Sherinna’s library. It was a fascinating study of the magical principles underlying the use of fire, outlining the problems and techniques of fire magic in a way he’d never even begun to consider. The author of the treatise, according to a line at the top, had been Sherinna herself, and Albanon enjoyed imagining that she was teaching him. He wanted to try the techniques she was discussing, but didn’t want to stop reading long enough to leave the library and find someplace less … flammable.

  “Apprentice!” the pseudodragon said again.

  Annoyed, Albanon tore his attention from the scroll and scanned the library until he found the little drake perched on the top of a bookshelf, peering down at him.

  “I’m not an apprentice any more, Splendid.”

  “Of course you are. The great Moorin never finished your training.”

  “The great wizard Moorin, in case you’ve forgotten, is dead and never will finish my training. I have no master, so I am not an apprentice. But the acquisition of knowledge is a lifelong pursuit.”

  “According to the ancient traditions of wizardry that the great wizard Moorin followed scrupulously, no apprentice can claim the title of wizard until a master has certified that his training is complete.”

  “Did you have something you wanted to say, Splendid, or can I go back to my reading now?”

  “I wanted to say that you should be careful.”

  Albanon sighed. “About anything in particular?” he asked.

  “About the priest. I don’t trust him.”

  “Now you don’t trust him? All it took was a few strips of honeybark and some kind words in Moorin’s tower and you were his best friend. Practically everyone else we’ve met since we left Moorin’s tower, though, smelled wrong to you, starting with Roghar and Tempest. ‘The tiefling smells of pact magic,’ you told me. ‘And the dragonborn reeks of stale ale and—’ What was it?”

  “Stale ale and overpriced mead. He does!”

  “And he’s a paladin of Bahamut, and one of the most noble souls I know,” Albanon said. “Even if he does call me an elf,” he added under his breath.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong about the priest.”

  “It means you’re a terrible judge of character. What crime has Kri committed? Smelling like incense and scented candles?”

  “Well, he does.”

  “That’s because he’s a priest, Splendid. He’s a devotee of Ioun, the god of knowledge. And his knowledge is deep and wide! This library couldn’t contain it.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s working for good.”

  “He saved my life—twice—and kept me from turning into a demon. He fought by our side, helped us defeat Vestapalk’s second in command, and helped fight off the demons we found here. What part of that doesn’t seem like he’s working for good?”

  “He says he ran out of honeybark.”

  Albanon sighed. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

  “But I don’t believe him,” the dragonet said, her voice growing shrill. “I can still smell it on him.”

  “Through the incense and scented candles?”

  Splendid harrumphed, a sound somewhere between a meow and a squeak. “He’s hiding something, apprentice.”

  “All right, Splendid. You don’t trust him. What do you want me to do? I’ll keep a close eye on him.”

  “Do you know where he is right now?”

  Albanon looked around the library again, blinking. “I have no idea. He was here earlier.”

  “That was hours ago.”

  With a start, Albanon realized that the entry hall outside the library was dark—the sun had gone down as he read, and he hadn’t noticed. Several magical lamps kept the library well lit, and he’d been engrossed in the abundant volumes the library had to offer.

  “Perhaps he got hungry,” Albanon said, “or tired. How long has it been dark?”

  “I’m hungry,” Splendid said.

  “Fine. Leave me alone and get yourself some food.”

  “You should eat, too. The great wizard Moorin—”

  “Splendid, enough about the great wizard Moorin! He’s dead and gone!”

  The dragonet seemed to get smaller, furling her wings and drawing her tail close around her legs. Her eyes grew wide, and she looked down at him with a mixture of grief and reproach that only fueled his anger.

  “In fact, I’ve had about enough of you!” he shouted. “You’ve been following me around since Moorin died, hovering like a chaperone trying to keep me out of trouble. I don’t need a chaperone—especially an impudent, self-important, overgrown familiar like you!”

  With each word, Splendid shrank back from his growing anger, and with his final exclamation she turned tail and leaped off the shelf, flapping out through the archway in bitter silence.

  “Good riddance,” he muttered, trying to find his place in the scroll.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Shara roared her fury and charged the enormous demon. Quarhaun groaned weakly as its claws sank deeper into his chest.

  “Get off him!” she shouted, then her sword bit into the thing’s leering face.

  “Remember, warrior,” Vestapalk’s voice said from the demon’s mouth, “wanting a thing does not put it within your reach.”

  “Oh, I’ll have my revenge,” Shara said, aiming another slice at the demon’s throat. It batted her blow aside, but at least that claw was no longer embedded in Quarhaun’s chest. “Believe it, dragon.”

  “Not dragon. So much more.”

  The demon shuddered and Shara knew, in a way she couldn’t explain, that Vestapalk was gone. The creature before her was full of destructive fury, intensified by the pain of its injuries, but it lacked the dragon’s sheer malice—and, for that matter, its guile.

  It doesn’t stand a chance, Shara thought.

  Her sword was a blur of motion as she jumped within the demon’s reach, standing over Quaraun’s inert form and slashing up at the demon’s belly, the tendons under its forelegs, and, as it tried to back up and bite her, its throat. Every swing drew thick scarlet blood, gleaming like crystal in its wounds.

  The lizardfolk had the demon surrounded, and they beat their clubs against it in a methodical rhythm, though they were attacking cautiously, avoiding the crystal growths on its back that had injured their fellow. Uldane danced in and out of the fray among the lizardfolk, always attacking exactly where the demon’s attention was not, striking vulnerable spots that made it yowl in pain and growing fear. The demon crouched low, bringing its belly within Shara’s reach.

  “It’s going to jump!” Uldane shouted.

  Instead of striking its belly, Shara rolled toward its hind end and slashed at the tendons of its rear leg, just as it started to spring. Her blow sapped the strength from its leg and it barely cleared the ground with its jump, then staggered forward, dragging that injured leg. Shara chased it, but it spun around and swatted at her with one great claw.

  Claws of red crystal slashed through her armor and bit into her chest, but fear drowned out the pain. The red crystal’s in my blood now, she thought. Am I infected with this plague? Am I going to change?

  And what about Quarhaun? She glanced back to where he lay and saw Kssansk crouching beside him, intoning his strange evocations to the water spirits.

  “Let’s finish this, demon,” she growled, ignoring the fresh wave of pain in her chest. She whirled her sword in an intricate display above her head as she advanced on the demon, driving it back a few steps as it tried to anticipate her next attack.

  Just when it thought it saw an opening and thrust another claw at her, she roared and leaped at it, driving her blade deep into its skull. It screamed in pain and thrashed around, knocking her away with one wild claw as it rolled onto its back, kicking at the air and the mist.

  Then the lizardfolk were around it again, shouting in triumph as their clubs battered it into stillness. Shara tur
ned, suddenly exhausted, and walked to Quarhaun’s side. She crouched beside him and took his hand, and his eyes fluttered open.

  “Estessa tha meletiere iam,” he said weakly, a faint smile on his lips.

  Confused, she looked at Kssansk, but the lizardfolk didn’t respond, and the words didn’t sound like Draconic.

  “What was that?” she said.

  “I knew you cared for me,” Quarhaun said.

  Shara felt her face flush, and she laid his hand back down on his chest. “Of course I do. No one on my team is expendable.”

  His wounds were serious, but Kssansk’s primal magic was already working to repair the deep wounds the demon’s claws had made in his chest. Water flowed over his body in a thin sheet, carrying blood back into his body and—she realized with horror—liquid crystal out of the wounds, leaving it to pool on the floor beside him. Each glob of the stuff that was deposited onto the floor flowed into the last, staying separate from the water and congealing into a mass the size of Uldane’s fist.

  “And speaking of which, I need to check on that warrior who was hit by the shards. What is his name?”

  “His name?” Quarhaun scoffed. “He’s Third Lizardfolk from the Left.”

  “Those warriors saved our lives. Twice now. And their shaman is in the process of saving yours. I think they deserve more respect than that.”

  Quarhaun shrugged, then scowled in pain as Kssansk hissed a reproach. The words meant nothing to her, but the meaning was clear enough.

  Shara smiled and stood, scanning the ranks of the lizardfolk warriors for the one who’d taken those injuries. She found him, a hulking specimen with a beaded band around his left bicep and a small silver ring pierced through his crest. Suddenly nervous, she approached him, carefully keeping her smile fixed in place.

  The lizardfolk noticed her approach and her smile, and he raised his crest and bared his teeth, hissing in what looked like a very aggressive way. She stopped, taken aback.

  “Don’t smile at them,” Quarhaun called from the floor. “All they see is teeth.”

  She let the smile drop as Quarhaun continued in Draconic.

  “Now bob your head just a little—you’ve seen them do it.”

  She had, and she tried her best to imitate it, ducking her head like she was walking beneath a low beam, keeping her eyes fixed on the warrior. He returned the gesture, and she could see his body relax. She stepped closer, then put a hand on her chest. “Shara,” she said, as clear as she could and a little too loud.

  The lizardfolk cocked his head in a very birdlike way, then repeated her name. “Sssha’rra.” He drew out the sibilant start, rolled the R, and inserted a heavy glottal stop in the middle, but she recognized her name and almost smiled again.

  “They know your name, Shara,” Quarhaun said, and she could almost hear his eyes roll with impatience. Kssansk shushed him, a look of amusement in his eyes as he observed the interaction.

  “That’s right,” she said to the lizardfolk, realizing as she said it that she sounded like she was speaking to a child. “What’s your name?” She put her hand on the lizardfolk’s chest.

  He lurched away from her touch and hissed again, his crest flaring like bright orange flame above his head.

  “I’m sorry!” she said, bobbing her head again and stepping away from his bared teeth.

  Quarhaun called to the lizardfolk and he turned slightly away from her, stretching his neck until she heard the muscles pop and crack. Then he bobbed his head slightly, only barely in her direction, as his lips twitched back over his teeth.

  “Gsshin,” he said, banging his club against his shield.

  “Gushin?” She knew it wasn’t quite right, but she hoped it wasn’t so bad as to cause offense.

  Gsshin bobbed his head and lowered his crest, and she knew she’d done well enough.

  “I want to see your wounds,” she said, pointing at the places she could still see where the demon’s crystalline shards had burrowed into his flesh.

  Gsshin flinched away from her finger, and looked over at Quarhaun as if waiting for a translation.

  “No, look,” Shara said, shifting into his line of sight. She pointed to her own eyes. “I look,” she said slowly. “Look.” Then she pointed at the largest gash, across his stomach. “At your wounds.”

  Gsshin rolled his eyes in a gesture so human it made her smile despite herself, and he called out something that could only mean, “What is this crazy human trying to say?”

  With a rhythmic rumbling that might have been laughter, Kssansk stood up from Quarhaun’s side and lumbered over to Shara. He bobbed his head at her, and she returned the gesture. Then he exchanged a few words with Gsshin, who reluctantly spread his arms wide so Shara could get a good look at his wounds. Kssansk pointed at the largest one and started speaking, addressing Quarhaun as if he expected the drow to translate.

  And to Shara’s relief, Quarhaun finally decided to cooperate. “He says that the crystal burrowed deep, and the water spirits had to work hard to flush it all out. He didn’t have time to fully close up the wounds, but he’s confident that the crystal substance is gone. And Gsshin fought bravely despite his injuries, and so on.”

  “Not ‘and so on,’ what did he say?”

  “He says that a warrior could do no less, with your example to lead them.”

  Shara felt a flush of pride and satisfaction, but decided not to gloat over Quarhaun—at least not any more than was strictly necessary. She bobbed her head to Kssansk and Gsshin, then to all the warriors looking on, and turned back to the drow.

  “And that’s leadership, Quarhaun.”

  “Nearly got me killed,” he grunted.

  “Eh.” She shrugged, holding back a smile. “Maybe you’re expendable after all.”

  A search of the ruin revealed nothing to indicate that it was any more than an elaborate warren for the pack of demonic beasts, as Uldane had suggested. With the pack leader dead, the survivors from the battle upstairs scattered, apparently for good. And Vestapalk was nowhere to be found. Shara led the way back to the surface, and finally they emerged from the ruins into the dim sunlight filtering through a film of haze across the sky.

  “Let’s get out of this swamp,” Uldane said brightly.

  “I’m ready,” Quarhaun said. Kssansk’s ministrations had gotten him back on his feet, but he needed more rest before he could face any more combat.

  Shara stopped and frowned back at the ruins.

  “What is it?” Uldane asked.

  “What are we doing, Uldane?”

  “Going home, right?”

  “No, I mean, what was that all about? I want revenge, so I led us into this swamp looking for the dragon. All we found was a nest of demons that nearly killed us all. And if it hadn’t been for Quarhaun and the lizardfolk, we’d be dead down there. We’re no closer to killing Vestapalk than we were when we started. Just worn out and broken down.”

  “It was worth it.”

  “Was it?”

  “You bet! Watching you try to talk to Gsshin was almost worth it just by itself. The way he snarled at you when you touched his chest? Better than gold.”

  “Hm.” Shara smiled. “I suppose I was hoping for something a bit more tangible.”

  “Gold and glory? The dragon’s head on a pole? Shara, we made a big difference. That demon was spreading the plague, turning lizardfolk and the beasts of the swamp into its minions. And they were killing a lot of lizardfolk as well as the animals they eat. We saved them, Shara.”

  “Well, we helped them save themselves, I guess. And all this time I thought they were helping us.”

  “Isn’t it funny how that works?”

  Shara turned around and saw Quarhaun bobbing his head to Kssansk, evidently in the midst of a farewell. She watched, smiling, as he exchanged some more words with the shaman. He seemed at ease, in a way that made her feeble attempts to communicate with Gsshin all the more comical by comparison. And for all his talk about the lizardfolk warriors bein
g expendable, his respect for Kssansk was plain to see, and somehow that increased her respect for Quarhaun.

  Gsshin came and stood next to the shaman, speaking quickly to Quarhaun and gesturing in Shara’s direction. Quarhaun laughed—covering his mouth as he did, she noticed—and nodded to both lizardfolk, then turned to her.

  “Shara, Gsshin wishes me to convey his appreciation for your leadership and your martial skill.”

  Shara bowed, feeling overcome with emotion.

  “He says that as soon as you learn to speak, you will be a human worthy of respect.”

  “How do you say ‘thank you?’ ”

  Quarhaun turned back to the lizardfolk, but Shara stopped him with a hand on his arm. “No, tell me. Teach me the words.”

  “Just one word. Ashgah.”

  She stepped up to Gsshin, bobbed her head, and copied the strange sound as best she could. “Ashgah, Gsshin.” She repeated the gesture to the shaman. “Ashgah, Kssansk.”

  Both lizardfolk rumbled with laughter and bowed to her. Then they turned and walked into the swamp, leading the other warriors back to their homes.

  “Thank you, Quarhaun,” Shara said.

  He regarded her with a strange smile and said nothing, staring until she felt her face start to flush and she started looking for a path back to Fallcrest.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Roghar carried the four bound cultists, including Marcan, out to the hall and left Travic to keep an eye on them. He wanted Gaele to think she was alone, figuring that might make her simultaneously more afraid of him and less reluctant to show weakness in front of her followers. And Travic had been a friend of hers, which made him exactly the opposite of what Roghar wanted in the room. A hulking dragonborn and a sinister tiefling could scare information out of a helpless prisoner. A sympathetic, graying priest could not.

  He leaned over Gaele, rolled her onto her back and gently slapped her cheek. “Wake up, Gaele. Time to answer a few questions.”