Oath of Vigilance

by James Wyatt

Roghar and Tempest spread out so that they and Uldane more or less surrounded Nu Alin. Roghar knew they were fooling themselves—if the demon wanted to, it could escape with ease through one of the gaps between them, or even jump right over the halfling’s head to get out of their grasp. It certainly didn’t seem to feel threatened as they closed in around it.

  But he had to admit that the demon’s words were giving him pause. What right did he have to hurt or kill Belen, just because she’d fallen prey to the demon? He had a responsibility to her, to free her if he could.

  “Look at you,” Nu Alin said, turning in a slow circle. “You didn’t hesitate for a moment when I wore the flesh of that farmer. You set me aflame, burned the flesh from my bones. Did he offend you? Or was it something I said? Will you kill poor Belen if I start describing how eager I am to taste Tempest again? It’s strange, actually—I’ve never felt this way about a host before. Usually I wear them out and discard them. But I feel as though I’ve been deprived of a particular pleasure because I didn’t have the opportunity to really use you up.” Belen’s face leered at Tempest with an almost lascivious grin.

  That was more provocation than Tempest could stand. “You never will,” she snarled. “And you’ll never do that to another host. Rekhtha murkuhl Hadar rash!”

  Wind sprang up around Nu Alin, engulfing him in a whirlwind that lifted Belen’s body from the ground. Dust and debris rose up in a cone, and eerie lights shone all around him, weaving into a prison of light and wind that held him fast.

  “What is that?” Roghar said.

  Tempest shot him a wolfish grin. “I believe Quarhaun would refer to it as the seventh invocation of Hadar,” she said. “It’s worse than it looks.”

  Belen’s body writhed helplessly in the whirlwind for a moment, then her back arched in what seemed like horrible agony.

  “But Belen—” Roghar said.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Tempest spat.

  “I have to worry about her. I led her into this.”

  “Tempest!” a voice called from somewhere nearby. It was familiar, but Roghar couldn’t quite place it.

  Tempest didn’t turn toward the voice. Her eyes were fixed on Belen’s body, one hand outstretched to keep the whirlwind in motion.

  A man broke from the mass of warring demons and soldiers and ran toward them. Roghar shifted so he stood between Tempest and the onrushing man, then he recognized Albanon and the pseudodragon perched on his shoulder.

  “Stay back, elf,” he growled.

  Albanon stopped in his tracks, and the smile fell from his face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Shara said you were talking to the demon, that you let it escape.”

  Albanon’s brow furrowed and he looked down. “I … I don’t remember,” he said, meeting Roghar’s gaze again. “Listen, Roghar, a lot has happened. But I’m the one who brought a fey hunt to kill all these demons.”

  Roghar looked behind Albanon and noticed for the first time that the battle was clearly going against the demons. Hounds were barking and yowling, and he saw several green-eyed, flame-tongued beasts in canine form biting and tearing at demons. Eladrin warriors cloaked in starlight fought alongside the Fallcrest militia who had followed him, and Roghar could clearly see the hope written on the faces of his soldiers. Against all odds, this battle was looking like a victory.

  Perhaps I haven’t failed them after all, he thought.

  Albanon was staring slack-jawed at something to his left, and Roghar followed his gaze to where Belen’s body still hung suspended in the whirlwind. Her mouth was stretched open in a silent scream, and a long, snaky tendril of shimmering red liquid was emerging slowly from her throat. The eldritch lights of the windstorm shone brightest around that tendril—around Nu Alin as Tempest’s magic extracted him from Belen’s body. Roghar could see the lights searing Nu Alin’s substance. A black crust of ash constantly formed and reformed across the liquid surface, each layer blowing away in the wind before being replaced by the next.

  “Is that the demon?” Albanon asked. “Nu Alin?”

  Roghar nodded.

  Albanon stepped closer and looked up at the writhing serpent whose substance was slowly eroding under the alien lights of Tempest’s spell. “Worm,” he said. “You killed my master, possessed my friend, and sacked the town I called home. Now you and your plans are dust.”

  He stepped to stand beside Tempest and put one hand gently on her shoulder. With his other hand, he lifted his staff and pointed it at Nu Alin. The wind intensified and the lights grew brighter, dancing with lightning and fire in the heart of the windstorm. Nu Alin burned faster, and in a moment the serpent was reduced to a cinder, the cinder to ash, and then there was nothing.

  Albanon and Tempest lowered their hands and the whirlwind died, lowering Belen slowly to the ground. Roghar fell to the ground beside her, relieved to find her breathing in ragged gasps, though she was unconscious.

  “She’ll be fine,” Tempest said, coming to stand behind him.

  “Is he really gone?” Roghar asked.

  “He is.”

  Roghar stood and put a hand on her arm. “How do you feel?”

  Tempest blinked, and a tear streaked down her cheek. “Pretty good,” she said. She pulled him into an embrace, one of her curling horns clattering against his breastplate. “Pretty good indeed.”

  EPILOGUE

  Roghar led the triumphal procession back to the Silver Unicorn as the clouds melted away into a glorious blue autumn sky. His soldiers had suffered serious losses, but Albanon’s unexpected arrival with a half dozen fey knights and their hunting hounds had kept the demons from taking a much heavier toll. After Nu Alin’s death, the handful of demons that remained had scattered, offering no more resistance, and a circuit through Lowtown had turned up no further pockets of demon infestation.

  Fallcrest would have a long journey to recovery, from rebuilding burned buildings to treating the citizens and soldiers who showed signs of the demonic contagion. That harsh reality was in the forefront of Roghar’s mind as he approached the flame-scorched inn.

  But then the cheering started. People spilled out of the inn and gathered from the square to welcome back the victorious soldiers, throwing hats in the air and flowers at their feet. Roghar scanned the crowd, looking for Shara’s red hair or the drow’s black-skinned face, but he saw neither of them.

  As he drew near the doorway, a portly man he recognized as the Lord Warden, Faren Markelhay, stepped out. The Lord Warden’s arms were crossed over his chest, and he cut an intimidating figure.

  Roghar leaned close to Tempest and whispered, “He can’t complain, right?”

  “Right. You’re a hero.”

  The Lord Warden stepped out of the doorway and spread his arms wide, smiling just as broadly, as if the crowd were cheering for him.

  “Heroes of Fallcrest!” he shouted over the crowd, prompting them to cheer even louder.

  Roghar braced himself for a long speech and perhaps some attempt to claim credit for the victory. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to see the Lord Warden step out of the doorway and gesture for Roghar to enter.

  “There will be time for speeches and acclamation later,” the Lord Warden said as Roghar ducked through the doorway. “But the last thing Fallcrest needs right now is for me to stand between it and a good party.”

  Roghar clasped his hand and clapped the Lord Warden on the shoulder. “Well said, my lord.”

  Shara shifted her pack and stepped out of the inn. She looked down Market Street and saw the last straggling soldiers of Roghar’s little army disappear out of sight behind the temple of Erathis. Shaking her head, she set her back to Roghar and his army and made for the Knight’s Gate out of town, Quarhaun at her side.

  At least half the garrison of the gate had abandoned their posts, probably running off to join Roghar. Nobody challenged them or gave them more than a glance as they passed through the gate. The road took them a quarter mile out of town and then hit the King’s Road,
stretching off to the east and the west. Westward lay the Cloak Wood; Gardbury Downs and its ancient, ruined abbey; and eventually her home town of Winterhaven, nestled in the foothills of the Cairngorm Peaks. To the east was the lush vale of Harkenwold and then the forbidding Dawnforge Mountains, or they could take the Trade Road northeast through the Old Hills to Hammerfast. She stood at the crossroads for a long time, considering the road in both directions.

  “Where are we going?” Quarhaun asked at last, rather stupidly, she thought.

  She stared straight ahead, and her eyes rested on the gleam of the Nentir River under the morning sun.

  “Forget the road,” she said. “We’re going north. Sooner or later, we’ll figure out where Vestapalk is hiding.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime, there’s a whole world out there to explore. I’ve never been north, up to the Winterbole Forest, so we’re going there.”

  In the meantime, she thought, we’re together.

  Belen stumbled into the common room, looking wild-eyed and frantic, as if she’d just awoken from a nightmare. Roghar was reminded of the way Tempest had barged into the same room the night before, and half expected the soldier to proclaim that Nu Alin was in the room.

  Instead, she forced her way through the crowds of revelers to the table where Roghar sat with Tempest, Uldane, and Albanon, celebrating their victory.

  “Roghar,” she said, “I need to tell you something.”

  Tempest stood and put an arm around Belen’s shoulder, then gently lowered her into the chair she’d vacated, at Roghar’s left hand.

  “How are you feeling?” Roghar asked gently.

  “Never mind that,” Belen said. “Listen. The thing—Nu Alin, when it was inside me.” She shuddered. “It tried to shield its thoughts from me, but I saw something. Something it didn’t want me to see.”

  Roghar leaned forward on the table. “What did you see?”

  “A … a memory, I suppose. Nu Alin stood before an enormous creature of green scales and red crystal, a hideous monster something like a dragon, but not any of the dragons I’ve ever seen in a book.”

  “Vestapalk,” Albanon said.

  “The dragon-thing was lying in a pool full of red liquid, almost like blood, but also like the red crystal on the demons we fought. The pool bubbled and churned, and at the edges where it met stone, it flashed with fire and lightning. The pool was at the bottom of an enormous shaft, and the shaft was full of the same sort of—of chaos, like the earth unformed and reduced to its component elements.”

  “Has Vestapalk made his lair in another plane?” Tempest asked.

  “No,” Belen said emphatically. “Nu Alin had a name for it—the Plaguedeep. But it’s in the world, Nu Alin knew this. It’s in a volcano to the west of here, past the Ogrefist Hills, not more than a hundred miles from Fallcrest.”

  “Are you sure?” Roghar asked her, meeting her eyes.

  “I’m positive.”

  Roghar sat back in his chair and looked around the room, his thoughts a jumble.

  “That’s not all, though,” Belen said, seizing his hand. “Roghar, we fought perhaps two dozen demons this morning. But in the demon’s memory, I saw hundreds of them. They gathered all around the pool, like it was some sort of spawning place for them.”

  “Hundreds of demons,” Roghar said. “And so close.” He sighed and took a deep drink of his mead. “Tomorrow, Fallcrest begins its work of rebuilding. And we head west.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  James Wyatt is the Creative Manager for DUNGEONS & DRAGONS R&D at Wizards of the Coast. He was one of the lead designers for 4th Edition D&D and the primary author of the 4th Edition Dungeon Master’s Guide®. He also contributed to the Eberron Campaign Setting, and is the author of several DUNGEONS & DRAGONS novels set in the world of Eberron.