Oath of Vigilance

by James Wyatt

  Shara looked at Quarhaun and blanched at the realization of how weak he was. She nodded to Roghar and hurried along toward the inn. The jeers resumed as they walked, but Roghar paid them no heed.

  “They’re scared, Shara,” he said. “Getting angry at them isn’t going to soothe their fear. They’ll change their attitudes when they see what we do.”

  Shara nodded and gritted her teeth, and they reached the Silver Unicorn without further incident. Uldane spoke to the halfling proprietor, Wisara Osterman, and returned with the happy news that rooms were available, albeit expensive. Apparently, Wisara had addressed the high demand for rooms in Hightown by raising her already high rates beyond the amount that most of the displaced folk would be willing or able to pay. Unfortunate for the refugees, Roghar thought, but lucky for us.

  He helped Shara get Quarhaun upstairs, half dragging him, and laid him into one of the down-stuffed beds for which the Silver Unicorn was justly famous. The drow’s eyes opened wide in surprise at the comfort of the bed, then closed again as exhaustion claimed him.

  “Platinum Dragon,” Roghar whispered, “let your power flow through me to soothe Quarhaun’s injuries and ease his weary body. Grant him patience to face the fears and mistrust of the good folk here. And grant him the faith to trust in your goodness and mercy.”

  Roghar felt strength leave him and flow into the drow, soothing Quarhaun’s rest. “He’ll be all right,” he told Shara. “He should sleep easier now, and he’ll feel better in the morning.” He stood up to leave.

  “Roghar,” Shara said, stopping him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, of course,” Roghar said. “But I hope he truly deserves the trust you’re placing in him.”

  Shara smiled down at Quarhaun, a little wistfully, Roghar thought. “I hope so, too,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Shara sat by Quarhaun’s side for hours, watching him sleep. He seemed troubled—from time to time, he’d furrow his brow, murmur in a language she didn’t understand, or even thrash his head from side to side and cry out. In the worst times, she put her hand on his hot forehead and whispered his name until he settled down again. Once, in a long string of what she guessed were Elven words, she heard her name repeated several times in what might have been an impassioned plea or perhaps an angry tirade.

  If only Albanon were here to translate. Or maybe that would be too embarrassing, she thought, as Quarhaun’s voice shifted to a deeper, softer tone.

  She dozed in the chair beside him for a few minutes at a time, waking up each time with a painful knot in her neck or a plate of armor biting into her skin somewhere.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous,” she said to herself at last. With a glance to make sure Quarhaun’s eyes were still closed, she started working the buckles of her armor, grimacing at the caked blood and grime that glued leather and metal to her skin in places and the painful wounds that she pulled open again as she worked.

  “Do you need any help?”

  Shara gasped and replaced the breastplate she’d just started pulling free from her chest, then wheeled on Quarhaun. “You’re awake!” she said, holding her armor carefully in place.

  “I am gifted with incredible timing,” Quarhaun said, smiling weakly. He blinked hard, making an effort to keep his eyes open.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Stiff and sore, but that’s better than I’ve felt in a while. How long have I been asleep?”

  Shara started working the buckles that would keep her armor in place without help from her hands. “Only a few hours,” she said. “I don’t think Roghar and Uldane have even come up to bed yet. You can keep sleeping.”

  Quarhaun shook his head. “I need to get out of this armor,” he said.

  “Why don’t I step into the hall and give you some privacy?”

  “I might need help. I’m still weak.”

  “Well,” Shara said. “Certainly I can get your boots off.” She pulled her chair to the foot of the bed and sat on it. She tugged at one of his boots, but his whole body moved and he gave a yelp of pain. “Sorry!”

  “Buckles,” Quarhaun said.

  “Of course.” She loosened the buckles that held a boot tight around his calf and slipped it off easily.

  “Shara?”

  “Hm?” She turned her attention to the other boot, carefully avoiding his gaze.

  “There are things I don’t know how to say in this language,” he said. “Things I’ve never said to anyone, expressing … feelings that are not really accepted among the drow. And not discussed.”

  “Quarhaun, I don’t think—”

  “Please let me finish.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She yanked his other boot off, harder than necessary, and he bit back another cry of pain.

  “Why not?” he said.

  “Gods, you’re impossible!” Her face was flushed again, which only fueled her frustration. “I … don’t want to disappoint you, Quarhaun.”

  “I don’t think that’s likely,” he said, the hint of a lascivious look in his eye.

  “You should get more sleep.”

  “I don’t want to sleep. I want to know more about you.”

  Shara settled back in her chair. “Very well,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

  His eyes ranged over her body for a brief moment, then came to rest on her sword, leaned against the wall in the corner. “Tell me about Vestapalk,” he said at last.

  She frowned. “Do you want to know about Vestapalk or about Jarren?”

  “Who’s Jarren?”

  “He was my lover,” she said. “We … well, I think we would have been married, though it was something we never really talked about, except maybe once. I put him off, told him we could think about it later, perhaps when we were too old or too rich to keep adventuring.”

  “And the dragon killed him.”

  “Yes. Uldane and I were part of an adventuring band, led by my father, actually. Borojon was his name. Me, Uldane, Borojon, Jarren, and Cliffside the dwarf. We had been tracking the dragon for a while, following the carnage he left in his wake. We finally found him, or he found us.”

  The horror of the day came rushing back to her—the stench of the dragon’s acrid breath, the sound of rending meat as it tore Cliffside apart, Jarren’s horrified face looking down at her as she fell into the river.

  “So you’re looking for revenge.”

  “I suppose so.” Shara ran her fingers through her hair, hit a tangle, and thought briefly about how wonderful a bath would feel. “But I already got it, in a way. I killed the dragon, or at least left it next to dead. I think the thing that irks me most is the failure of it all. I fell into the godsdamned river instead of standing with my friends and killing the dragon the first time. Then when I met the dragon again, I didn’t even manage to kill it properly. Now it’s back and worse than ever, and honestly, I don’t know what I’ll do if I find it. I think it might be more than I can handle.”

  “Don’t count a dragon as a drake, Shara.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re a dragon. You’re the greatest warrior I’ve ever seen. The swordmasters of my house wouldn’t last a minute in a duel with you. But you think you’re a drake—you think you’re weaker than you are. Don’t underestimate yourself.”

  Shara looked at the floor. “You’re too kind.”

  “And what human has ever before spoken those words to a drow? My people don’t give empty compliments—well, unless there’s something to be gained by it.”

  “So you’re not hoping to gain something by flattering me?”

  “Not in this case, no.” He smiled. “So tell me about Jarren. Was he anything like me?”

  Shara felt tears well in her eyes, and turned her head so Quarhaun wouldn’t see. “Jarren was my best friend,” she said. “He made it all mean something—all our adventures, all the excitement and bloodshed, all the pain we endured, all the treasures we won—he made it
worthwhile. He made me feel like the greatest treasure of all. He made me laugh, and then he could be so sweet that he made me cry. He made me feel desirable when most men were afraid of me.” Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she no longer cared what Quarhaun thought. She looked at him, met his eyes, and shook her head. “He was about as different from you as I can imagine. He was a summer day, full of life and heat and passion. And you’re a winter night, cold and dark.”

  Quarhaun looked away, disappointment plain on his face.

  Shara leaned over him, cupped his cheek in her hand, and turned his face back toward her. She searched his eyes for a moment, then kissed his lips—a long, hungry kiss. When she finally drew back, her face was flushed, but not with shy embarrassment.

  “And what better way to enjoy a winter night,” she said, “than to huddle under a pile of furs before a raging fireplace, safe from the chill?”

  A cloaked traveler made his way into the common room of the Silver Unicorn Inn. He shouldered up to the bar, ordered a glass of the finest wine, paid in gold, and took the glass to a table in the corner.

  The man was well muscled from years of farm work, and Nu Alin enjoyed the feeling of strength in the body—strength and health that he knew would slowly ebb, the longer he retained control. In these first hours after taking a new body, he always felt so alive.

  He adjusted the hood of his cloak, ensuring that his face stayed in shadow. As fresh as this body was, he could already feel the skin around the eyes cracking, revealing some of his true substance. It was always the first sign that he was not the pathetic human creature he appeared to be, which meant he had to take such precautions when he wished to move around undetected. But the benefit—the terror his eyes inspired when he revealed himself in a conflict—outweighed that minor inconvenience.

  He made the body as comfortable as the hard wooden chair would allow and pretended to sip the wine as he scanned the room. Only nine other people were gathered in the common room—most citizens of the doomed town were too frightened to venture from their homes at night with his demons running wild through the lower part of the settlement. Their fear pleased him, as did the serious expressions on the faces of most of the people around him. The demons had people concerned, and as Nu Alin focused his own senses—which were much more sensitive than those of his host body—he could hear their frightened whispers and conspiratorial muttering. He and his demons had nothing to fear from these people.

  Then his eyes came to rest on the farthest table from his seat, where a hulking dragonborn and a diminutive halfling sat behind a dozen mugs and glasses. They were laughing—Nu Alin could not stomach the audacity of it—and telling stories to a tight circle of very interested listeners. And then he recognized them.

  The dragonborn had pursued Nu Alin as he chased the Voidharrow and its thief from this town to the place where the trail of the Voidharrow had disappeared. He had traveled then with his wizard friend and the tiefling, who had proven a most disappointing host. After Nu Alin had taken the tiefling, the dragonborn and halfling both had been among those who confronted him in the depths of the Labyrinth, forcing him out of the tiefling’s body and bringing his search for the Voidharrow to a premature end.

  Nu Alin believed he was above the petty and tumultuous emotions that seemed to drive his hosts, but he could appreciate what they called hatred or loathing when he considered the two adventurers across the common room. Without question, they were the greatest threat, in the room or anywhere else in the pathetic town, to his plans—and to Vestapalk’s plans. He set his glass down and focused all his attention on listening to them.

  Their stories were full of improbable boasts and unlikely twists of fate, but Nu Alin recognized the danger represented by their laughter and the smiles that slowly spread out from their table through the other patrons. They represented hope for the people of Fallcrest—hope that could not be allowed to blossom into resistance.

  Nu Alin was so focused on the pair of adventurers that he almost didn’t notice a new figure appear in the doorway and start toward their table. He glanced in the newcomer’s direction and recognized the tiefling woman he had taken—Tempest. He could still taste her delicious fear, her fury at his possession, and her determination to resist him.

  “He’s here!” she suddenly cried.

  The dragonborn and the halfling whirled to look at her, and the room fell silent.

  “Who’s here, Tempest?” the dragonborn said.

  “Nu Alin!” A note of hysteria tinged her voice. “I can feel him!”

  The dragonborn and the halfling leaped to their feet, and it was their panic that gave Nu Alin the opportunity to escape. When the others in the room saw the two adventurers’ reaction, their faint hope dissipated, replaced at once by fear. The room erupted in a clamor of confusion. Others sprang out of their chairs and milled around the room or made their way out, and it was a simple matter for Nu Alin to weave his way through the chaos to make his escape.

  As he slipped out through the door, he heard the dragonborn trying to calm Tempest, assuring her that she was suffering the effects of a nightmare. Further proof, if any was needed, of the boundless capacity these mortal creatures had for self-delusion. Some part of him, perhaps tied to the emotions of his host body, wanted to laugh.

  “Damn it,” Tempest said, “why won’t you listen to me? Yes, I had a nightmare. I woke up. I came down here to find you. And then I felt his presence.”

  Roghar nodded. “All right. Is he still here?”

  Tempest closed her eyes and tried to relax, but Roghar could see that her whole body was shaking. He wanted to kick himself for not taking her seriously sooner.

  “No,” she said at last. “He must have slipped out in the confusion.”

  “Then he can’t have gone far,” Roghar said. “Let’s look outside.”

  “I’ll get Shara,” Uldane offered, heading for the stairs.

  Roghar took Tempest’s arm and led her out onto the crowded street. He scanned over the crowd, looking for … for what? He wasn’t sure. When they had faced the demon in its halfling body, the shimmering crimson of its true substance had shown through a number of gaping wounds in the halfling’s flesh. By the time they caught up with the demon in Tempest’s body, the only sign of its presence inside her was around her eyes. He had to assume that, if the demon had been lurking in the common room of the Silver Unicorn, it had taken pains to conceal its presence in whatever host body it was using. He decided to look for hooded figures moving quickly away from the inn.

  At first glance, he counted seven people that fit that simple description. He picked the nearest, ran to catch up to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said.

  The person wheeled around and the hood fell away from his face. A middle-aged human man with a neat salt-and-pepper beard and dark brown eyes frowned at him. “What do you want?”

  Roghar stared at the man’s eyes, searching the shallow wrinkles at the corners for any sign of glowing red crystal liquid. He slumped. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I thought you were someone else.”

  Tempest caught up to him, looking around the crowd helplessly. “He could be any of these people.”

  “Can you feel him now? Is he still nearby?”

  “I’m not a bloodhound, Roghar! It’s not like I can track his scent.”

  “Well, I just thought …”

  “I know. But it was just a sudden impression, overwhelming for that moment, then gone.”

  “Let’s walk a bit,” Roghar said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe it’ll come again and we can do something about it, and maybe it won’t.”

  Tempest nodded, and Roghar chose a direction and started walking.

  Tempest walked beside him in silence for a while. They passed the House of the Sun and then the Temple of Erathis before she spoke again. “What do we do if we find him?” she said.

  Roghar shrugged. “Kill him.”

  “How?”

  “What do you
mean?”

  “Well, when he’s in a body, he’s so terribly strong. I’m not sure the two of us can defeat him alone. And even if we do, if we kill the body he’s in, he just slips out—the way he did when Erak stabbed me. Then what?”

  “Well, I’ve thought about that some,” Roghar said. “You didn’t see it, but when the demon was trying to take Falon’s body, it recoiled from divine light. I figure that’s the way to destroy it. Bahamut’s light will consume it.”

  “It could be anywhere, Roghar. It could be in any of these people.”

  “No more overwhelming impressions?”

  Tempest shook her head.

  “Then let’s get back. Shara and Uldane will be wondering what’s going on.”

  “You want to just let him go?”

  “I don’t see any other choice. But listen—we’ve gained some useful information. We know he’s here, moving around in the town, and we know that we have at least one way to detect his presence. He won’t be able to spy on us again. And next time, we’ll get him.”

  “But he’s gained useful information, too. He knows we’re here, and he knows that I sensed him. He’ll keep his distance now—there might not be a next time.”

  “We’ll get him, Tempest,” Roghar said. “I promise.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Albanon knelt beside Kri and put both hands on the old priest’s shoulders. “It’s this place, Kri,” he said. “The taint of the Chained God fills the whole tower. You can hear the maddening whispers if you listen too closely.”

  Kri nodded, covering his face with his hands.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” Albanon shifted around to Kri’s side and lifted him to his feet. “Come on, one foot in front of the other.”

  Kri’s arm lashed out, striking him in the abdomen and breaking free of his grip. “I know how to walk, damn it!”

  Albanon stared at him, trying to catch his breath while Kri glared wildly back. “Fine,” he said at last. “Walk yourself. Follow me, or don’t. I’m getting out of here.” He didn’t wait for a response, but turned to the stairs and started up.