“Ah,” said Chereth, looking past Berun’s shoulder. “Look who is back.”
Berun craned his neck around to see Sauk climbing over the ledge of the tower. He no longer held his blade.
“I thought you might be too stubborn to fall,” said Chereth. “Hail and well met, Sauk.”
“I …” Sauk dropped to the ground and sat, his chest heaving. “I have no quarrel with you, Old Man. I’m here for … for him.” Sauk pointed at Berun.
“Taaki truly meant that much to you?” said Chereth.
“Why ask what you already know?”
“Your devotion is commendable, Sauk,” said Chereth. “It is one of the many things I admired about you. Had you taken a different path in your early years, you might have been a disciple to make me proud.”
Sauk snorted. “Damned leaf lover.”
Chereth smiled, though a dangerous glint filled his eye. “This leaf lover just beat you like a cur.”
“I seem to remember your leaves beating me,” said Sauk. “You haven’t faced me yet, Old Man.”
“Old I am, yes. But it seems I’ll outlive you. Look.”
Chereth pointed to the east. The clouds of last night’s storm still hung heavy in the sky, but they did not reach quite to the horizon, where the bright glow of dawn was already peeking over the edge of the world.
“The time approaches,” said Chereth. “The stars, the Tears of Selûne, the Dawn Heralds, the Five Wanderers … all are in perfect alignment, pulling the molten blood of Faerûn into the beating heart of Sentinelspire. Soon, the new world begins.”
Chereth walked to the very center of the roof. The vines holding Berun pulled him behind. The druid looked at Lewan, who had almost finished removing the last vines from around Ulaan’s legs.
“You could have been a prince in paradise, boy, with your choice of women,” said Chereth. “You chose poorly.” He looked at Berun. “A third time now, I offer my forgiveness, for the affection I still bear for you and the loyalty you once gave me. I will not offer again. Join me in a new paradise. Teach our ways to a new world. Or die here. Now.”
Berun tried to move his arms. He could feel his weapons in his hands, but the vines held him tight. He sighed and said, “What you offer isn’t paradise. It’s just a greener hell. You can rot there on your own.”
Chereth’s jaw stiffened and his lip twisted into a sneer. “So be it.”
He turned to face the entrance to the stairs and said, “Come!”
Two killoren emerged, moving with their unsettling, almost-human grace. Behind them walked Talieth, her clothes torn, her hair a tangled mess, skin scratched and bloody. Still, she walked like a queen. She took in the scene around her, glancing at Sauk, Lewan, and Ulaan. Her eyes widened when she saw Berun.
“Kheil, I—”
“I’m sorry, Talieth,” said Chereth. “It seems that your former love will not be joining us after all. He would rather die here than live with you in paradise.”
Talieth stopped, glanced again at Berun, then fixed her gaze on the druid. “I will not leave without him.”
Chereth returned her gaze for a moment, then sighed and said, “You have ruled here too long, it seems. You misunderstand me. You no longer command anyone or anything. I am not bargaining with you. I am offering you the chance to live, and serve me in a new world. Or you can die here.” He shrugged. “Understand—I don’t need you. I only need what you carry. And I can have it.”
Chereth raised his staff and pointed it at Talieth. The killoren leaped away as vines rustled forward, wrapping around her and pinning her arms. She struggled, frantically at first but then giving up entirely. One of the killoren grabbed a leather cord from round her neck and pulled, yanking Erael’len from Talieth’s bodice. Before the killoren could get a look at Erael’len, a long tendril of ivy darted out, grabbed the relic, and whipped it into Chereth’s waiting hand. Raising his staff, the druid began a long chant.
Berun heard rustling in the leaves that carpeted the roof, and looked over to see Sauk charging Chereth. The half-orc was still several paces away when Chereth glanced at him, almost casually, and flicked his staff. Vines snapped forward, seized Sauk’s legs, and the half-orc hit the ground, where more vines entangled him. The druid resumed his chant.
Berun felt it before he heard it—a low rumble, like distant thunder, only it did not dissipate. It grew, all the leaves on the roof rattled, and then Berun could feel the stone of the tower shaking beneath him.
“Lewan!” Ulaan screamed and kicked the last vines off her legs. Her limbs tingled as the blood began to flow again. A few burned twigs and leaves still clung to her clothes. “Lewan, we have to run!”
“It won’t matter now.” He looked at her, resignation in his eyes, then grabbed her in a fierce embrace. It hurt her burned skin, but she didn’t care.
The trembling increased, and Berun could hear the stones rattling. Chereth kept up his chant, his voice rising over the rumbling of the mountain.
Furtive shapes came up the stairs, ignoring Lewan and the girl, walking right past them. The killoren—all that had survived the battle below. They moved quickly, and Berun saw something in their eyes for the first time—fear. The killoren knew what was coming. More climbed over the tower’s ledge. Some ran and some shambled, almost beastlike, but all headed for the air shimmering between the statues and walked through, back to their world. Those who had been guarding Talieth joined their brothers, passed into the hazy air, and disappeared.
“Chereth!” Berun called out. “Master! Stop this! Stop it before it’s too late!”
Chereth turned to face him, an exultant smile on his face, but he did not cease his chant. He was still smiling when a dusky brown shape hit him in the face, all biting teeth and scrabbling claws. The druid’s voice broke and rose into a shriek. He dropped both staff and relic and slapped at the treeclaw lizard ravaging his face. As soon as the staff left his grip, Berun felt the vines around him lose their strength, and he dropped to the floor. He could feel the tower shaking, but the rumble in the air was quieting, and the tremors losing their strength.
Berun thrashed and kicked. Broken twigs and thorns jabbed his skin, cutting bloody swaths in his back and arms, but he didn’t care. He kept fighting.
Chereth’s cries stopped, and Berun dared to look up as he continued his efforts to free himself. The half-elf’s face was a ruin—bright red blood surrounding darker patches of shredded skin and flesh. Both eyes were intact, and they burned with fury.
“Damn you!” Chereth shrieked.
Berun heard a screech and saw Perch not far away, standing on his hind legs amidst the leaves. His forepaws hooked into savage claws, Perch looked up at the druid with his jaws open in a fierce show of aggression.
Chereth bent and retrieved his staff. He raised it, but even as he took in a breath to summon his spell, Sauk plowed into him from behind. They hit the roof hard, and Perch had to scramble away to keep from being crushed beneath them.
It gave Berun the distraction he needed. He lunged forward, tearing loose from the last of the vines, half rolling and half stumbling, then he dropped the hammer and reached out. His hand grabbed Erael’len.
“No!” screamed Chereth.
Berun looked up. Chereth stood again, staff raised, his face a mask of blood. Behind him, a tangle of vines had wrestled Sauk to the ground. The half-orc thrashed and cursed and screamed, but he could not break free.
Even as Berun watched, Chereth flicked his staff at Perch, and a smaller tangle of vines shot out and engulfed the lizard.
Chereth turned his bloody visage upon Berun. “Give that to me!”
Berun stood. Even as the last tremor passed through the tower and the stone stilled, Berun could feel Erael’len coming to life in his fingers, its warmth spreading through his hand and arm.
“No,” said Berun. “This madness ends now.”
Chereth’s chest heaved from exertion and pain. Blood dripped from deep cuts on his forehead and cheeks. His e
yes seemed very bright, even savage. His lip curled into a snarl and he turned, pointing his staff at Lewan, who was huddled with the girl not far from the stairs. Vines shot out with so much force that some cracked through the air like whips. They struck the boy, tearing skin off his face and hands, then wrapping around him. Lewan screamed but the vines kept coming, wrapping him tight and lifting him off the ground. One wound round and round his neck, then constricted, cutting off Lewan’s screams.
The druid turned to Berun. “Give me Erael’len,” he said. “Give it to me now, or the boy dies.”
Berun stood, wincing at the pain from the burns across his skin. Erael’len’s power was pulsing through him now, like blood, only a thousand times more alive, more vital, more powerful. “If I give you Erael’len, the boy dies anyway.”
The vine around Lewan’s neck tightened even more. His face was turning purple. Ulaan began screaming and pulling at the vines, but her efforts were futile.
Chereth risked a glance at the boy, a flicker of indecision passed across his face, then the vines round Lewan’s throat slackened. Just enough for the boy to draw in breath.
“It need not be like this, my son,” said Chereth. His words were soft, cajoling, but Berun could see the cunning in his eyes. “I threaten, you relent. You threaten, I relent. Such are the ways of lesser men. They are beneath us. Give me Erael’len, Berun. Its glory is beyond you. Give it to me, and I will leave you to whatever you wish. You may follow me—or not. Give me the relic and let me go my way.”
“Your way is death for us all,” said Berun.
Chereth’s eyes hardened, and the vines tightened round Lewan’s throat again. Ulaan yanked at them and began to sob.
“Your way is death for the boy,” said Chereth. “A slow, agonized death while you watch. While he knows in his final agony that it is all your fault. His last choked breath, his last sight of the world as it fades to black … your fault. I’ll have my way, anyway. Or you can give me the relic and go as you will with the boy. Your choice.”
Berun swallowed. The top of the tower was strangely quiet. Even the drizzle had stopped, and there was no wind. So quiet that Berun could hear the vines tightening round Lewan’s throat. Through his heightened senses from Erael’len, he could even hear the thorns tearing through the skin of Ulaan’s fingers as she tugged at the vines.
“Talieth!” Berun called.
She was still trapped in vines. She looked up at him, and even from so far away Berun caught her scent. The sight of her and the scent of her skin brought a flood of memories to Berun. Kheil’s memories, true, but they hit him still—he and Talieth in the height of their passion had often come here at night, where they could enjoy the clean air, the sight of the open sky, and the quiet. It had been dark during their first visits, which did not hinder their purpose. But later, Talieth had learned to use the portals crafted by the Imaskari, calling up water and cool air through the tubes to the top of the Tower, to cool the lovers as they enjoyed each other’s company. Even in winter, when dark came early, the moon rose pale and clear over the steps to bathe them in her cold light, and frost gripped the tower from top to bottom, Talieth had called forth fire from other worlds, the flame roaring up the sides of the Tower to bathe them in light and warmth.
Berun could see that she was hurt, disoriented. He knew that she had seldom faced such a desperate situation. But that was good. Berun knew that Talieth was never more dangerous than when she was desperate.
“Remember the winters, Tali!” Berun called out. “Remember our nights by the fires.”
“Enough of his!” said Chereth. He spared a glance at Talieth. Apparently deeming her no further threat, he returned his attention to Berun. He clenched his fist and the vines round Lewan’s neck tightened further. His face was a deep red, darkening to purple. Ulaan screamed.
Berun took a deep breath and concentrated on the power flowing through him. It was not a part of him. Not exactly. More like a conduit, it joined his lifeforce and his will to all living things around him—including the vines and plants that Chereth was bending to his will. Berun felt their life, their vitality, their anger—
But that was Chereth. Berun knew that plants were far more complex than most people believed, but anger … no. That was the half-elf. Berun felt that fury, understood its contours within the web of living things around them, then formed his own—a sharp, direct point of will—and struck.
The vines holding Lewan went limp, and the boy struck the ground and gasped for air. The mass of branches and creepers round Talieth slackened, and she fell forward, free at last. Berun felt the will giving strength to the plants that had buried Perch. He struck that power, shattering it, and the lizard scrambled out of the leaves. In the deep part of his mind, Berun sensed Perch’s confusion and terror. Fighting steppe tigers was one thing, but plants that crawled like snakes … too much. Still, he could not bring himself to abandon his brother. Perch sat in the leaves, frozen by his own fear and indecision.
For a moment, Berun considered freeing Sauk as well … but no. In his present state of mind, the half-orc would be just as likely to attack Berun as Chereth.
Chereth looked at Berun in wide-eyed shock. Even Sauk, still pinned to the ground by the vines, only able to move his head, stared at Berun, disbelief and wonder warring with the rage in his eyes.
“I fear I wasn’t entirely truthful with Sauk some days ago,” said Berun. “I am no master, certainly, but I have had nine years to study and commune with Erael’len. I have unlocked more than a few of its secrets.”
Chereth stiffened again, the haughty arrogance returning to his posture, and he said, “Pray it will be enough.”
Time slowed for Berun. All around him, he felt the very substance of the air, and within those millions of tiny eddies and flows, he felt a charge swelling, crackling, and building as it gathered. Chereth pointed his staff at Berun and spoke a word of power. The charge in the air coalesced and lightning shot out from a half-dozen directions, every bolt arcing right for Berun. But through Erael’len, Berun’s will was tied to the power, and he turned the bolts away. Some struck patches of vegetation, shattering them in an explosion of scorched vines and leaves. One narrowly missed Lewan and Ulaan, striking the top step and cracking the stone.
Chereth stepped closer, his staff held at the ready. “Impressive,” he said. “Your faith, your power, would be worshiped in my new world, Berun. Berun—‘Hope,’ I named you. Do not betray that hope now. You have so much to offer a fresh world, a world of life, a world ready to grow according to our will.”
“Your will, you mean,” said Berun. “You’re no different than any tyrant or upstart warlord. Your way or no way. That is not the way of the Oak Father. That is not the Balance.”
Chereth snorted. “Stupid fool,” he said. “You know so little. Your half-orc is subdued, your boy and his whore are whimpering on the ground, and your woman”—he turned to look at Talieth, who had stumbled over to the statue of the Imaskari hero holding the sun —“mad, apparently. You stand alone, Berun, and you have made me very, very angry. Give me what is mine now, and I will grant you the mercy of dying beside your friends. Otherwise, I’ll kill you here, take what is mine, and I’ll take little Lewan with me as a pet for the killoren. They have developed quite a taste for manflesh here at the Fortress.”
“Lewan!” Berun called out, but he did not turn to face the boy.
“Yes, master?”
“You remember two summers ago, hunting the bear?”
A short silence, then, “Yes, master.”
“Take my bow and go, Lewan! Run! Get out of here, now!”
A longer silence this time, then, “Yes, master.”
Berun saw Chereth glance toward the stairs. He did the same. Just in time to see Lewan—Berun’s bow in hand—leading Ulaan down the stairs.
“You think I will not find him?” said Chereth.
“Threats,” said Berun, “cruelty … those are not the ways of the Oak Father.”
Something grabbed at Berun’s legs and he went down. He was halfway to his feet when the vines that had tripped him began to wrap themselves around him. Rather than struggle and fight them, he calmed his mind, concentrating on the power flowing through him by his connection to Erael’len. He sensed the power controlling the vines. Bending them to his own will would have meant a war of minds with Chereth—a war Berun wasn’t sure he could win—so he snapped the connection. All mobility left the vines, and they were ordinary vegetation once more.
Berun rose to his feet. Chereth stood only a few paces away. Berun eyed him, needing him to move to his left a bit. Talieth stood ready beside the statue, her hand poised to begin her spell. The golden sun in the hands of the statue connected to the Imaskari tube, a window-sized portal that wound its way down and around the exterior of the tower before plunging deep into the heart of the mountain.
Keeping his eyes fixed on Chereth, Berun called out, “Ready, Talieth?”
Silence. For a moment, Berun feared she was dumbstruck—or worse, misunderstood his reference to the winter nights and the fires. But then he heard her, her voice haggard and rough, beginning the incantation.
Erael’len in one hand, knife in the other, Berun charged. He kept the relic behind him—well away from Chereth—and brought the knife around in a swipe aimed at the druid’s throat. Chereth took a half-step back and blocked Berun’s first strike with his staff, the second with his forearm, then countered by jabbing the end of his staff at Berun’s face. Berun dodged and the blow merely scraped the side of his check.
Berun stabbed, forcing Chereth to leap back to avoid the blade. Berun backed away to catch his breath—and to keep Chereth right where he stood.
“You could have been a king in a new world,” said Chereth. “Now, only I will remember you, and I will not mourn you, Berun. I was wrong to name you Hope. In all my years, you have proved my greatest disappointment.” He shook his head, raised his staff, and said, “Ebeneth!”
Sentinelspire Page 32