The Glass Prison

by Monte Cook

  “Um, no, I think not,” Vheod replied, still watching her with scrutiny.

  “Well, I hope you are not traveling a great distance then,” she said.

  “Actually, lady, I have no idea how far I must ride.”

  “Really?” Her clear, gray eyes betrayed a hint of skepticism, and nothing more.

  “I am not from … from around here. My destination is known to me in name only.”

  “I see,” she said. “Well, my name is Tianna. I am riding to the mountains to the west. Do you believe your travels will take you there, or elsewhere?”

  “I go to a place called Tilverton, and my name, fair lady, is Vheod Runechild.”

  “Ah. Tilverton is a human city that lies almost straight south of here, in a place called Tilver’s Gap. The Gap itself lies between the Desertsmouth Mountains,” she said, pointing to the west with a long, elegant finger, “and the Thunder Peaks to the south.”

  Vheod followed her hand and looked about carefully, attempting to fully establish his bearings. “Then I am afraid our paths cross only here,” he told her. His voice conveyed his regret.

  Vheod wished he could ride with Tianna for a while. Only now did he realize the loneliness he’d felt since his arrival here. He had so many questions about the nature of this world, and it seemed as though she would be willing to answer them. He knew that haste was important and thus allowed himself only one question.

  “Tell me, Tianna, before we part company—for I must be on my way—why are you not alarmed at my appearance, as others have been?”

  She gave him a cautious smile, but one not without some warmth. “Vheod, we of the elves are not strangers to cambions, or to those traveling from other planes.”

  Vheod was taken aback. “Is it that obvious—my tanar’ri heritage?”

  Tianna looked at Vheod, studying his features for a moment. “No,” she replied, “not to one without any experience with beings from other planes. However, there is a certain, well, quality to you, an indefinable characteristic that gives you a sense of … otherness.” She paused to look at him, watching his eyes. Perhaps she was attempting to determine the effect her words had on him.

  “Many of those you encounter here may be able to sense that you are different in some way,” she said.

  “That will certainly make any time I spend here harder,” he said, looking at the ground, struck as severely as if he’d been in battle. His voice was edged with sudden bitterness, but he didn’t have the time to consider if its target was his own nature, or the people who were prejudiced against him.

  “Perhaps it will fade over time,” she said. “Or perhaps your own nobility will be enough to override anyone’s antagonistic first impression.”

  He looked up at Tianna again and smiled as though she’d just healed a bleeding wound. Her hair shone in a way that made him believe that a special place existed for it in the moonlight, and that its proper place didn’t lie in the sun. She was beautiful.

  “But you must be on your way,” she finally added with some regret, “as you said.”

  Vheod hated to hear it, but the truth couldn’t be denied. Duty and responsibility called to him with voices filled with fear. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Before you go, however,” she said, reaching into a saddlebag, “I think that you should have this.” She produced a small charm on a silver chain, holding it up to let it glint in the sunlight.

  “What is it?”

  “A magical trinket,” she said with a delicate shrug, “with a single use. It grants the wearer a power called longstepping. Essentially, it will allow you to travel to a destination in almost no time. You can use it to reach Tilverton today, rather than the three days’ ride it might take from here. It will also allow you to bypass a dangerous area known as Shadow Gap.”

  Vheod stared in surprise, taking in everything she said. “But, why?”

  She smiled slyly. “If you use this, then I can take back this horse to where you got it.”

  “What? How did you—”

  “I’m sorry, Vheod, but it’s obvious that you just arrived here at the edge of the Dales, let alone Faerûn and even Toril. Judging by your ride, the steed’s demeanor, and the fact that you have no riding tackle, it becomes fairly obvious how you came on your mount.

  “Further, I am a bit of a seer when it comes to people. You—at least a part of you—didn’t want to take the horse. I can return him, if you’ll tell me where he comes from.”

  Vheod’s mouth hung agape as wide as the young boy in the doorway earlier that morning. He quickly closed it, feeling quite the fool, but remained entranced by Tianna and her kindness. Without a word, he slid down off the horse’s back and stepped toward her. Tianna urged her mount ahead a few steps until she reached him. She held out the silver charm.

  “It only works once,” she reminded him.

  “Thank you,” Vheod said as he grasped the tiny charm in his weathered hand. “How can I repay you?”

  “You cannot, to tell the truth,” Tianna said, “but that’s not the point. I want to help you.”

  She looked deeply into his dark eyes and leaned down close to his face. “I just thought that you probably needed to see a little of the good in the world. You needed some kindness. My gift is really a minor one.”

  “But there you are wrong,” Vheod returned her look with a slow shake of his head. “This is a great gift, one I will remember for all my years.”

  “May there be many of them,” she said, straightening in her ornate saddle.

  Tianna rode over to Vheod’s grazing horse, and drew an extra bridle from her saddlebag. The horse looked at her with calm, welcoming eyes. It nuzzled her thigh with its nose. She placed the bridle on the beast and readied to lead it away, then turned back to Vheod.

  “The village lies almost directly in your path, at the edge of the woods to the west.” Vheod gripped the charm even tighter in his sweaty palm. “They may have unkind things to say of me,” he told her. “They may not welcome you if you claim to be my friend.”

  “Do not concern yourself with such things. I can take care of everything. Safe journey, Vheod, and be well.”

  “Yes, ah … safe journey to you as well, Tianna.” Vheod was unused to pleasantries. Tianna turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Vheod called out.

  Tianna turned to look back at him. She kept her smile.

  “You said you are a seer when it comes to people. Can you tell me—is it possible for a place to change a person? Can this world be changing me?”

  Tianna shook her head gently. “No, Vheod, only you can change yourself.” She turned again, whispered something to her horse that Vheod couldn’t hear, then rode off in the direction Vheod had come.

  He turned southward, in the direction he understood Tilverton to be. He opened his hand to look at the silver, arrow-shaped charm in his palm. Its shape beckoned him to look back at the Taint, still on the other side of his hand. It remained in its arrow shape, and still pointed, as if directing him where it wanted him to go.

  It pointed south, toward Tilverton.

  Chapter Six

  No wind blew through the hot summer air. The stillness made for a stiflingly hot ride through the grass-covered hills. Whitlock and Melann could see the Thunder Peaks rise higher and higher before them as they approached, yet no pace they kept could satisfy their desire to reach their intended destination. Melann was quiet, but she gave Whitlock the impression she was very pleased with all that had happened. Obviously she was still confident that her god was guiding them.

  Whitlock, however, grew ever more pensive as he rode. The mountains ahead would be dangerous—he remembered clearly what they had heard about an amassing of gnolls. Further, who could guess what other sorts of dangers might lie there? He knew he was up to the challenge, but he also knew that the coming days might require him to use every bit of his skill and experience to insure that both he and his sister survived.

  The sea of green and brown grasses occa
sionally broke on rocky islands that seemed to grow in frequency as they approached the mountains. Birds occasionally flew across the virtually cloudless blue sky. By midday on their first day out from Tilverton, they were covered in sweat as they stopped for a noon meal. They ate dry bread and even drier venison purchased way back in Essembra. The harsh sun would soon scorch their skins, so Melann took the time to mash some herbs she brought, mixing them with water to create a thin paste to spread over their exposed flesh.

  “We should have remained in Tilverton, at least long enough to obtain more information about where we’re headed,” Whitlock said between careful swallows from his waterskin to wash down the dry lunch.

  “And waste valuable time?” Melann countered, finishing her herbal mixture.

  “We could have at least confirmed what he told us,” Whitlock said. “Further, we could have restocked our supplies a bit.” He tore at the dry bread with his teeth like a dog, shaking his head back and forth before gaining a crusty mouthful. “Not that we have much in the way of gold left.”

  “Once we get into the mountains, there will be wild game, and Our Mother will provide berries, roots, and other things to collect. I’m not worried.”

  “Of course you’re not worried!” Whitlock suddenly exploded. “I have to worry for the both of us. You’re so busy praying and thinking about your god that I have to work twice as hard to keep us safe, provide food, and find our way. Don’t you realize the responsibility that is placed on me? The burdens I must face?”

  Melann sat in stunned silence, staring at her brother, which made him feel guilty and self-conscious. He brushed bread crumbs out of his beard and took a drink of water—anything to divert his gaze from his sister’s wide-eyed stare.

  “Is that really what you think?” Melann asked quietly.

  Whitlock said nothing.

  “You think I don’t worry?” Melann asked. “All I do is worry. I worry that when I spend all my time focused on my religious duties I neglect you, and Mother, and Father, and even myself. I worry that when I do what I personally feel compelled to do that I am not truly as devoted as I should be to Chauntea. I worry that I’m not worthy to be a priestess, or that as a priestess, I make a poor daughter—or sister. Don’t tell me I don’t worry. If it seems I let you take care of things like navigation or keeping watch at night, it’s because I trust you and know how capable you are.”

  She added, after a moment’s thought, “Besides, if we need food, the Mother of All can grant me the power to create it. You know that.”

  Whitlock wasn’t an eloquent man. So many things jumped to his mind to say, but the words to explain them escaped him. Instead, he stood and began to gather up what they had unpacked for their meal.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally, glancing only momentarily at his sister.

  Melann sighed softly. She smiled a little and helped him pack their things into saddlebags so they could continue their journey.

  By nightfall, Whitlock and Melann were well into the rocky, mountainous region known as the Thunder Peaks. Night in the mountains came quickly once the sun disappeared over the mountains, and it came with an utter darkness for which neither Whitlock nor Melann was really prepared. Tall peaks to all sides blocked out even most of the starlight, which encouraged them both to huddle even closer to their campfire. The darkness carried a chill with it, as well as an utter silence.

  Neither sibling spoke. Instead they simply ate their small meal absorbed in their own thoughts. Whitlock’s heavy eyelids bade him to lay back on his bedroll as he ate. His sister stood, mumbling softly something about checking on the horses before going to sleep.

  Thunderous sounds rent the silence of the cool evening, and Whitlock sat up only to see two large shapes looming out of the darkness toward him. He grabbed his broadsword and held it in front of him as the two figures—massive, hairy creatures standing upright like men—lunged at him. One carried a short spear and a shield. The other wielded a huge flail in both of its hispid claws. The musky, animal scent that clung to these intruders brought visions of kennels and caged animals to Whitlock’s mind.

  The first creature lunged with its spear at Whitlock, who blocked the blow with his blade. Following its initial attack, the canine-faced assailant jabbed at him. It forced him back and off-balance. Whitlock attempted to regain his footing just as the second beast charged at him, howling, with the flail held high over its head. Whitlock held his sword up to counter the blow, but his feet failed him, and he tumbled backward over his bedroll. The flail barely missed his head as he fell, his fortune owing more to luck than skill. The second creature stabbed with its iron-tipped spear, but it glanced off the mail on Whitlock’s chest making a resounding ringing noise. Whitlock would probably show a bruise there later, but if he’d not been too tired to yet remove his armor, he would probably be dead.

  Knocked off his feet, Whitlock only managed to yell out briefly to Melann as he fought off his attackers.

  Where was she? If he was attacked, certainly she was too.

  The growling, bestial figure with the flail brought it down at Whitlock, but he managed to roll out of the way. The flail struck the ground next to him with a dull thud. The warrior rolled again and half regained his feet, keeping out of reach of the spear-wielder. Still unsteady, he realized that he stood next to where he’d placed his shield by the fire and grabbed it. The gnolls charged at him as he pushed his left arm through the shield’s straps. Brandishing the metal shield with his family crest emblazoned on it, Whitlock threw himself at the advancing foes.

  With his shield to parry the spearman’s jabs, Whitlock thrust his blade at the other gnoll. The blow slid along the creature’s leather-armored side, but he drew blood. The monster howled in pain. Sidestepping the campfire, Whitlock positioned himself where the wounded gnoll couldn’t get at him without first going around the fire. With that in mind, he broke the other creature’s spear with two mighty hacks on its haft and slashed at the creature’s arm, driving it back so that it cowered behind its own shield. Unfortunately, his attacks had taken too long. The flail-wielder had already gone around the fire and came up behind him. All Whitlock could do was bring his shield around as he turned to face the flanking foe and even that came too late. The flail crashed into his side, sending him sprawling toward the fire.

  Fortunately, Whitlock hadn’t lost his wits, despite the terrific blow. He drew the shield underneath himself, so that it not only protected him from most of the flames but gave him an instant leverage point to fling himself out of the fire. Unfortunately, he inhaled a lungful of smoke and lay hacking and coughing on the ground as both gnolls rushed toward him. Through teary eyes, Whitlock saw his foes advance and raised his singed shield arm to protect his battered body.

  “Melann!”

  He still heard no answer. Gods help him if anything had happened to her. He realized then that while he fought these gnolls, he had no idea how many might actually be out in the darkness around the camp.

  Whitlock slashed at the approaching gnoll. His blow sent the creature toppling to the ground. The other beast-man, still weaponless, paused just long enough for Whitlock to stand again. It bared yellow, pointed teeth as it stepped forward. It raised its clawed hand like a weapon. The gnoll blocked Whitlock’s sword blow with its wooden shield and lashed at him with its claws. Again Whitlock caught a good whiff of its animalistic scent, but it actually helped clear his senses. His second thrust caught the creature on its exposed, shieldless side, and it crumpled as the blade slid into its flesh.

  The other hirsute gnoll regained its feet, but its crooked stance betrayed that it was obviously quite hurt. It dropped its heavy flail and backed away, but Whitlock charged. He bashed into the creature with his shield, knocking it down again. A sudden chop from his sword made sure it wouldn’t rise again. A small, greenish stone rolled from its dead hand as it fell to the ground.

  Whitlock breathed deeply, trying to expel the last bit of smoke and soot from his lungs and mouth
. His shoulder ached from the heavy blow he’d suffered from the gnoll’s flail, but he pushed that from his attention.

  “Melann!” he called into the inky, black night.

  Whitlock stumbled to where they’d put the horses. They were gone. He found no sign of Melann either. The dark night kept its secrets well hidden.

  Whitlock saw a dark shape near or on the ground, farther into the darkness.

  “Melann?”

  No answer. Whitlock ran back to the fire. His scuffle through it had scattered the wood, and the separated flames were dying quickly. He grabbed a flaming brand, its end unburned but painfully hot. Whitlock returned to where he’d seen the shape. It was a body. A gnoll. Further, the beast-man still lived, though the sounds of its breathing were heavy and thick, as though it had suffered a wound against its chest. Sure enough, a closer look revealed that its crude leather armor was stained with dark blood.

  “Where is my sister?” Whitlock demanded.

  The creature turned over to face the warrior. Its large, brown eyes showed only incomprehension and pain. A snarl escaped its bristling, bloody snout.

  Whitlock placed his booted foot over the creature’s chest and pressed down. “Where … is … my … sister?” he said, each word forced through clenched, bile-coated teeth. The creature didn’t reply.

  Perhaps, he thought, Melann managed to run into the woods. Maybe when the gnolls appeared, she saw them coming and slipped away. It seemed too much to hope for, but Whitlock looked around him, wishing to see her come out of the darkness unscathed.

  How was this gnoll injured? Whitlock looked down at it and saw that its wound might have been inflicted with a blunt object, like a club. Melann carried a small baton to use in self defense. She must have fought them. Perhaps she drove them off, as he had done, but then where was she?

  His mind searched for an answer when, just a few feet off to the gnoll’s side, Whitlock saw a bit of cloth lying on the ground. It was a small piece torn from Melann’s traveling cloak.