The Glass Prison

by Monte Cook

  “No!”

  He brought his sword down on the neck of the dying gnoll.

  Chapter Seven

  Tianna’s charm of longstepping proved to be as potent as she had claimed.

  Once he activated the charm, Vheod was transported—not instantaneously, but with incredible speed—across the barren landscape. As he watched, trees, rivers, hills, mountains, and even miles of open space passed before his eyes so quickly he could scarcely recognize them as anything but colored blurs. Rather than feeling the wind whip across his body, Vheod felt instead that he stretched his body the entire distance, as though, just for a moment, he existed in his starting and ending points at the same time, as well as all the points in between.

  The sensation ended, and Vheod dizzily lurched to keep his feet under him. Disoriented and reeling, he could tell that a city lay in the distance. Regaining his balance, his vision clearing, Vheod saw that the city was surrounded by a high wall, with a few buildings outside. Most of the outbuildings looked like animal pens or barns—perhaps a stockyard or something similar.

  The process of traveling so quickly made it very difficult for him to get his bearings. It was as though a part of his mind was left behind when he activated the magical charm and still believed that he remained, or at least he should have remained, back where he started. The disorientation made even walking difficult at first, but he adapted and accommodated eventually.

  This must be Tilverton, Vheod reasoned. Or at least he hoped it was. After taking a breath or two to recover and alleviate the pain in his aching head, he walked toward the wall and what appeared to be an open gate.

  Tilverton bustled noisily. Herders brought their flocks in for market, and farmers hauled produce through the gate on carts and wagons. People moved into and out of the city watched only casually by guards. Vheod wondered if he, too, would be allowed entrance to the city, or if the guards would stop him for the same reasons the villagers had driven him out of their community only hours before.

  Vheod ran his hands through his long hair, smoothing his red tresses and pulling them behind his head. He dusted off his dark brown pants and tattered violet cape. His long sword clattered in its sheath against his leg. He stopped suddenly. Something made him think of the Taint. He looked quickly but carefully over his exposed skin for it. It was nowhere he could find. That meant it had either moved to a spot under his clothing or armor, or it was somewhere he couldn’t see it, like his face.

  The thought that other people might be able to see the Taint while he couldn’t gave Vheod great concern. Who knew what shape it might take without his knowledge? Not more than a hundred yards away from the city gate, he drew forth his sword. Taking his cloak with his other hand, he tried to polish a bit of the sword’s blade as best he could hoping to shine it to a reflective sheen. His efforts were partially successful, and he gazed into the spot, angling the blade back and forth to look at different parts of his face and neck. Though it was far from a thorough search, he saw no trace of the tattoo anywhere on his face. With a sigh, he sheathed his sword and continued on to the gate.

  Vheod passed through without the guards so much as raising an eyebrow. No one in the street paid him any particular attention, in fact.

  From at least one point of view, a city is just a city, no matter where in this or any other world it might sit. It seemed to Vheod that only one city actually existed, and all the others were merely extensions of this metaphysical, ubiquitous city. Vheod looked about Tilverton and realized that at its heart it differed only slightly from any of the other cities he’d ever wandered through.

  Vheod had spent most of his time in the Abyss in cities made of dark bricks and bone. He resided longest in Broken Reach, a vast catacomb of intrigue and betrayal ruled by a succubus named Red Shroud. There he worked for a guild of assassins called the Bloody Dagger. Those of the Dagger killed for money, usually hired by some minor tanar’ri noble to kill an opponent or a superior. Even in the lawless, amoral plane of the Abyss, however, Vheod had occasionally thought his profession was less than ethical. Normally he’d been able to push such thoughts from his conscience, glad to see each and every fiendish victim die by his hand. The teeming streets of Tilverton, and his almost instinctual ability to blend into the crowd and avoid the eyes of those who passed by him, brought back those thoughts. The city—the ubiquitous city—was a symbol of shame to him now.

  Vheod entered the town from the north and wandered through the streets of Tilverton for quite some time. A melancholy washed over him, and he walked through the streets in a fog. Shaking his head, he brought himself back to the task at hand. He found Tilverton; now he needed to find someone whom Gyrison and Arach had described as being like him. Vheod needed information.

  A city, as an entity, thrives with a life of its own, serving the needs of those who live in it, yet feeding off them as they move through its streets. A city always contained major arteries and paths through which its life flowed, but also held darker, less-frequented areas where few inhabitants and fewer outsiders visited. A city always held some sort of authority or organization, even if it hid its presence very well in the cacophony and mayhem that teemed within its walls—such was often the way of Abyssal cities. Even in the Abyss, however, cities held gathering places, like taverns, alehouses, or festhalls. Even in the Abyss, when one sought information, it was just such a gathering place that offered the best chance to obtain what one needed.

  Using an urban instinct fostered by a life on the streets, Vheod looked for an appropriate tavern. In the Abyss, a wise cambion clung to back alleyways and the streets less frequented—better to keep hidden, to avoid drawing attention. These places provided peace from the bustle and din that always came to the life flow areas of the city.

  In one such forgotten, forsaken corner, wandering down a street that might not even have a name, he came on a door. The door lay under a sign that rocked back and forth on the breeze on rusty iron rings suspended from a pole. The sign read only, “Drink.”

  Vheod pushed the old, warped wooden door open and stepped into the smoky room. Three high-placed windows provided a little light, though a few oil lamps burned on tables. The place smelled of ale and humanity, both stale. Three or four patrons drank quietly, all of them alone. He stood in the doorway, looking at each individual and all the establishment held.

  He must have remained there too long, for finally a man sitting up against the wooden bar turned to him and said with a hoarse voice, “The Flagon Held High is on the other side of town,” as if that would mean something to Vheod. The speaker was short, with stout arms and legs, a thick brown beard, and a round face.

  Vheod ignored his words, but approached. Still watching the rest of the room, he peered into the man’s tight eyes, which reminded Vheod of nail heads. “Have you seen anyone … like me around here?”

  “My friend,” the man said with a narrow, sidelong gaze and an ever-so-slight slur, “I’ve never seen anyone like you in my life. What’s wrong with you?”

  Vheod studied him silently, then said, “There is nothing wrong with me, ‘friend.’ Begone.” Vheod dismissed the man with a gesture and stepped up to the stained wooden bar.

  “Same to you, beautiful,” the man muttered, walking away.

  “Watch out,” a woman said, carrying a tray of empty flagons and almost bumping into Vheod. She smiled without really looking at him and moved to the bar.

  “Excuse me,” Vheod said, following her. She was stout and short, with her mahogany hair pulled back into a round knob, though hours of work had coaxed some rogue strands down to lie by the sides of her face.

  “Yes?” She turned. “You need something to drink?” Her face was careworn, Vheod thought, but her eyes were friendly.

  “Ah, no.” Vheod shook his head. “What I’d like is for you to tell me something. It might seem odd, but, well—I’m new around here.”

  “What do you need to know?” The woman set down her tray and nodded toward him.

&n
bsp; Vheod chewed his lip a moment. “I need to know what you see when you look at me.”

  “What?”

  “What do I look like to you? Do I look like everyone else?” Vheod stroked his rough jaw. He glanced down to see the Taint once again on the back of his right hand. He covered it quickly with his left. His eyes darted.

  “No,” she said, raising her brow thoughtfully, “not like everyone else. That’s for sure.”

  What did that mean? “Have you ever seen anyone like me before?”

  She moved her mouth to one side, as if considering what to say. “Are you a half-elf?”

  “Half-elf?” Then people are familiar with halfblooded humans here, he thought.

  “Yes, you know,” she asked, “was only one of your parents human?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “He ain’t pretty enough to be a half-elf,” the man with the thick beard said from behind them. Vheod turned back to him and scowled.

  “I thought I told you to leave,” Vheod clipped.

  “Don’t listen to him,” the woman said to Vheod. “He’s a drunk.”

  “More like half-orc,” the bearded man continued, pointing a thick finger at Vheod.

  “Do not make me speak to you again,” Vheod hissed at him through clenched teeth, then turned back to the serving woman. She was already moving the empty flagons from her tray into a water-filled barrel burgeoning with other dirty dishes floating amid fading soap bubbles.

  A tall man with gray hair moved up from behind the bar. Though he’d just come into the room through the door behind the bar, he joined in the conversation as though he’d been there all the time.

  Looking at Vheod for a moment, he said, “Nah. The only half-orc I’ve ever seen ’round here is Orrag, and he don’t have no pointed ears like this here fella.”

  “Hush now, Ponter,” the woman said to him with a slight push of her hand against his shoulder.

  “Orrag? Who is Orrag?” Vheod asked.

  Orcs, Vheod knew, were an evil and bestial race that populated many prime worlds as well as other planes. Half-orcs? A human-orc crossbreed might not be all that dissimilar to a cambion, from a certain point of view. Is that who Gyrison and Arach meant?

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know,” the woman said.

  “But I do,” Vheod replied.

  “Orrag’d put a knife in your ribs, fella,” the tall barman said with a nod of his head.

  “Ponter, hush.” The woman finished emptying her tray and used it to lightly shove the tall man.

  “Look, I need to know more about this half-orc. I wish to meet him. I may have … business with him.”

  “Business with Orrag?” the bearded man said quietly, into his flagon. “I knew I didn’t like you.”

  Before Vheod could respond, the tall man, Ponter, reached across the bar and placed his hand on Vheod’s arm. Leaning in close, he whispered, “Listen, if you really want to meet up with Orrag, stay right where you are. He usually comes into the place on mid-tenday nights—he steers clear of The Flagon Held High and other more … visible places. My place ain’t on any maps, if you see what I mean.”

  “I think perhaps I do,” Vheod replied quietly. “I thank you, sir. I will remain.”

  “Why don’t you have something to drink in the meanwhile?” Ponter asked him in his normal, loud voice, straightening up and away from Vheod.

  “Good enough,” Vheod replied, digging into a pouch and wondering what they used for money here.

  Vheod fortunately had a few coins in his pouch that he could convince Ponter to accept, though none of them were minted on this world. The day in the tavern stretched on for what seemed like many. By the time the darkness of night consumed what little light managed to seep in through the small windows, Vheod had drunk his fill. More than once he wished that the establishment served food. The annoying short man left finally, and Vheod claimed a tottering, ale-slick table near one wall.

  With the advent of darkness, the tavern attracted more activity, but the patrons generally kept quiet and to themselves, content simply to drink. Vheod found it difficult to believe the inhabitants of a beautiful world like this, untainted by real evil, might spend their evenings in this vapid locale. Boredom began clawing at him, and he soon found himself growing drowsy. He leaned back in his chair against the stone wall, telling himself he would close his eyes just for a moment—

  “You got business with me?”

  Vheod snapped his eyes open. A large, wide-shouldered man with a fleshy face and a stomach that hung liberally over his belt stood over Vheod. His breath stank, and his narrow eyes hid little of the malice that lay within them. His porcine face and jowls, along with his pointed, yellow teeth made him the least appealing creature Vheod had seen since his encounter with the hairy spider-beasts in the woods.

  When Vheod didn’t reply immediately, the man spoke again. “I’m pretty sure I don’t know you, do I? I think I’d remember you.”

  “Are you Orrag?” Vheod asked him, pushing himself away from the wall and righting his chair.

  “Maybe. Depends on who’s asking.” He took a long draught from his flagon.

  “I see,” Vheod said. “I understand. My name is Vheod, and I was instructed to speak with you.”

  “You been talking to Ferd?” Orrag said, ale running down his flabby chin and running into one of the folds of flesh in his neck.

  “Ah, no, not that I’m aware of, in any event.”

  Orrag pulled another chair away from the table and thrust his bulk into it with such force that Vheod almost expected it would break. “Something about you interests me,” Orrag said, with a hint of a crooked smile. “What is it?”

  Vheod had seen smiles on fiends that seemed more pleasant. Still, this creature might have some information, and he’d certainly dealt with fouler beasts in the past. He would have to choose his words carefully, however. He suspected that Orrag was sharper than he appeared.

  Again annoyed at Vheod’s unresponsiveness, Orrag asked, “What’s your story, Vheod?”

  “It’s a long one,” Vheod retorted, “but perhaps some of it might be of interest to you.”

  “I doubt it,” Orrag lied, “but I must admit there’s something intriguing about you. You’re not from around here, are you?” Before Vheod could answer, the half-orc continued. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s make this interesting. You tell me a tale, and if I find it interesting, I’ll listen to whatever business you’re supposed to have with me. Sound fair?”

  Vheod had expected Orrag to be less than reputable from Ponter’s brief comments earlier that day. His disgusting appearance and mannerisms were almost unnoticeable to someone who had spent his entire life among the fiends of the Lower Planes. However, something about Orrag puzzled him. The half-orc’s manner suggested an unspoken agenda—almost as if he recognized who Vheod was, or what he was.

  “Perhaps I can come up with something that might pique your curiosity,” Vheod said slowly. “I can tell you of the place from which I hail. My homeland holds many tales, let me tell you.”

  Orrag simply nodded and took a small, noisy sip from his flagon.

  Vheod cleared his throat and began his tale. “Many centuries ago, so I was told, the Abyssal Lord Demogorgon commissioned a ship to be built.”

  “A ship?” Orrag asked.

  Vheod scowled. “Yes.”

  Orrag said nothing, but sipped his drink once again.

  “This ship wasn’t just a normal craft, meant to sail the seas. No, wind and oarsmen were not to propel this craft. This was a ship that would sail the River Styx itself. On the Styx, a craft can travel between any of the Lower Planes—the Abyss, Gehenna, Pandemonium, even Baator. Furthermore, this ship would ply the waters between all the planes and travel to any world that its captain might choose to visit. Its enchanted rudder would direct the ship on a sorcerous journey anywhere in the multiverse.”

  Orrag raised his brow and took another sip, his eyes never leaving Vheod.


  “A tanar’ri shipwright by the name of Reyniss had garnered a reputation among important circles deep within the Abyss. His skills were well known.” Vheod paused for a moment, considering his words. “There are more malignant seas and fetid rivers flowing through the Abyss than you might think.”

  Orrag continued to stare silently.

  “Demogorgon contacted Reyniss,” Vheod continued, “by means of a mephit, a tiny, dark servitor of the Lower Planar lords. It flitted through the brooding caverns and dismal swamps of the Abyss to bring him this message: ‘I, Demogorgon, Tanar’ri Prince and Lord of All that Swims in Darkness, wish to commission you to undertake your greatest achievement,’ it said. ‘Come to me, and I will tell you of the glories and riches that will be yours should you craft the ship that I desire.’

  “Reyniss knew better than to trust Demogorgon, for even the greatest of fiends can know treachery at the hands of an Abyssal Lord. Thus the shipwright gathered together all of the sorcerous protections he could muster and filled his own dark lair with defenses and traps to ward away intruders. Cautiously, he made his way to Ungorth Reddik, Demogorgon’s fortress.

  “Ungorth Reddik rose from a grotesque bog deep in the Abyss. Swarming about it were Demogorgon’s fiendish servants and all sorts of scaly monstrosities that worshiped him. Reyniss ignored them, and entered the fortress through gargoyle-protected gates.

  “Demogorgon greeted the shipwright with caliginous smiles across both his houndlike faces. Within dark Ungorth Reddik, the two fiends forged their agreement. Reyniss agreed to build the ship that would sail the Styx and throughout the planes of existence. Demogorgon agreed to pay him in gold, jewels and the lorn currency common to the Lower Planes.”

  Vheod paused to see if Orrag understood his reference. The fat man widened his bulging eyes ever so slightly and shook his face just enough to make his jowls wobble.

  “Souls, my friend. The spirits of evil mortals. On the dire planes, these souls are traded among the powerful fiends the way mortals might exchange a gem or a trinket.” Vheod wondered if these statements would have any effect on Orrag. Did the man worry about his own eternal fate? Orrag, however, showed no sign that Vheod’s words had any meaning for him. Vheod wasn’t surprised. He smiled inwardly. The fate of evil souls wasn’t something he relished dwelling on himself. Vheod had no idea if he truly had a mortal soul, and if so, what fate awaited it. Was damnation a foregone conclusion for a cambion? Was he already so damned? Was he, because of the tanar’ri blood in his veins, not a true mortal at all? He didn’t know, and most of the time, he kept himself too busy to contemplate it. Purpose.