The Glass Prison

by Monte Cook

  Whitlock saw Melann pound her foe with the mace, but her well-placed blows only made the brute cringe. It stabbed at her with its spear, forcing her to step back. Whitlock knew that if the gnoll kept her at a distance, the longer spear would always win out against the short mace. Two gnolls rushed him, and Whitlock threw his weight into a swinging blow with his sword that broke both spears as they jabbed at him. He snarled with rage, shaking both his sword and shield above his head. Whitlock stared into the eyes of the pair of gnolls, baring his teeth, his eyes wild with rage.

  With roars that sounded almost like shrieks, the gnolls turned and fled. Whitlock ignored them and stepped over the felled creature to get to Melann’s side. Her foe, seeing him chase off the others, also ran into the darkness.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, looking down at her bloody arm.

  “I will be,” she said in a half whisper, obviously exhausted. “I was lucky in that I got the opportunity to call on Chauntea. Her power allowed me to hold a few and blind one. That gave me time to grab a weapon and free myself.”

  “I feared you were …” Whitlock couldn’t finish, perhaps because of her, but more likely because of himself.

  “I’m fine, really,” she said more forcefully, more reassuringly. “I feared for you, too.”

  Whitlock turned, his sword held in front of him. His wounded shoulder could no longer support the weight of the shield on his arm, so he let it drop. The light began to fade. The blinded creature ran down the hill, its hands still clutched over its magically bedazzled eyes. The gnoll took the light with him as it fled. The thought of giving chase burned in Whitlock’s heart, but his body begged him not to go. Every muscle screamed with exhaustion.

  He turned toward the unmoving gnolls, standing like statues in the quickly fading light. Each was captured in a pose of savagery and fierce attack. He raised his sword, but Melann put a hand on his shoulder.

  “No. Let’s just go,” she told him. “Let’s just get out of here. We’re alive and we’re free. They left the horses tied up at the bottom of the hill. I think they were trying to decide whether to use them or eat them. I think that they were definitely planning on eating me. Luckily, they thought they’d hurt me more than they actually did. By the time they carried me here, I was able to call on Chauntea for aid. Praise Our Mother.”

  Whitlock noticed for the first time that a thin trickle of almost dried blood marked the side of his sister’s face. They must have clubbed her in the camp and dragged her off, thinking she was dead or dying.

  “All right,” he said, clasping his hand around hers. The light was completely gone again. “Let’s go.”

  The unmoving gnolls, with their outstretched claws and snarling mouths, remained like standing stones at the top of the hill as Melann and Whitlock made their way slowly down the slope. They found their horses tied to a tree just as Melann had said.

  Whitlock didn’t even try to lead the horses or Melann back to their original camp. It would be difficult to find it now, but in the morning they could retrace their steps and gather up the equipment and food they’d left behind.

  The two pushed themselves to move at least a mile away from the gnolls’ camp on the bald hill, following the stream. At that point, Melann once again called on Chauntea’s granted magic and healed her brother’s wounded shoulder with a cool, soothing touch. He smiled in appreciation. When she finished with Whitlock she mended her own injured arm with magic, then her head wound, which still bled slightly.

  Now that his head had cleared slightly, Whitlock realized he’d left his shield on the hill. “Damn,” he said softly. No way were they going back. Always keep your wits about you, his father used to tell him. Damn.

  “The gnolls had a small bag of green stones with them,” she told him, still rubbing her arm. The leather armor had been cut away by a gnoll’s weapon. “They seemed to really value them. The one next to the brute that carried me away from our camp kept checking the bag.”

  “What were they, gems?” Whitlock asked, distracted with thoughts of what to do next.

  “No, I don’t think so, but I’m not sure what they were.”

  “Well,” he said after a moment, looking her in the eye, “I hope we never find out.”

  Melann smiled and nodded.

  Whitlock was more concerned with the practical matters at hand. It seemed that the gnolls would return. It was only a hunch, but somehow he felt they still watched from the darkness surrounding them. Behind every boulder or tree, in any hole or cranny, they might wait. They now knew he and Melann could defend themselves, but did that mean they would only return next time in greater numbers?

  The fact that his shoulder now felt both pleasantly warm and cool at the same time, rather than stiff with an aching pain, renewed Whitlock. Something within him begged for sleep, but he knew it would be better if they put even more distance between them and the gnolls. Once Melann had exhausted her power by healing the worst of her wounds, he put his arm around her for support and grabbed the reins of both horses. He led all of them even farther away into the night. Less than four hours before dawn, they foundered into a dry gully near the stream. They lay down close to the horses, without a fire. Both collapsed into sleep almost immediately.

  Chapter Nine

  The horse was as swift as Vheod had hoped it would be. He sped through the wilderness and into the mountains. The horse’s hooves and Vheod’s heartbeat were the only sounds either heard for hours on end. Vheod focused only on speed, and it seemed his mount took this as a sign to do likewise. He learned from his earlier experience with a horse that he should treat it well if he was to expect it to do as he wished. Here, unlike in the Abyss, it seemed that kindness could accomplish as much as cruelty or threats—perhaps more.

  He followed Orrag’s directions carefully, riding into the mountains toward the end of the first day. Even with the steeper, rougher terrain, Vheod attempted to keep a steady, rapid pace. The horse didn’t fight him, and they made good time. The Thunder Peaks rose high and jagged into the blue sky thick with a heat-born haze. Most of the time, no path offered itself to the rider and mount, and he charged headlong into thick, green brush full of flowering plants that had just passed their full bloom. Discarded, wilted petals scattered as they rode through the growth.

  As the horse crested the top of a tall hill, Vheod brought it to a stop to give it a short rest and survey the landscape ahead of him. Orrag, it seemed so far, hadn’t lied to him. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel as though something was wrong. It seemed as though he was being led rather than following his own path. Vheod spat on the ground and attempted to turn his attentions elsewhere.

  The horse breathed heavily but already seemed ready to continue. Vheod leaned forward and patted his mount on its neck. The horse, it seemed, was strong as well as swift. Moreover, after only one day, he and it had already seemed to form a bond.

  “I’ll call you Stonesong,” Vheod whispered in its ear, “because you are both solid and graceful.” He looked around at the wide open sky and the vast green and brown terrain stretching in all directions. “You do your world proud,” he added before straightening again on Stonesong’s back.

  He inhaled deeply of the warm, dry air and smiled. His eyes glistened in the sun.

  Just for a moment, Vheod considered that keeping Chare’en from wreaking havoc on this world might be a good thing all by itself, even if it didn’t benefit him directly. What an odd thought. He tried to think of something else.

  That night Vheod camped in the moonlight, enjoying a gentle, cool night breeze that rid him of the perspiration of the long day’s ride in the summer heat. The truth was Vheod really hadn’t noticed the heat much. In the Abyss, conditions varied from intolerably hot to deadly cold, and thus he developed a fair bit of immunity to such variances. His tanar’ri heritage helped in that regard as well. Vheod’s flesh was thick and tough, resistant to things that would bother or even actually harm a mortal man.

  Greater than
human endurance had its limits, however, and sleep eventually claimed Vheod. He dreamed of shadowy, winged shapes, tumbling rocks, and storms underground. Even with his body on this mortal world, his mind dragged him back into the Abyss. Or was it some baleful future he saw in his dream? His sleep fitful, he awoke before the sun fully rose above the horizon.

  Another day of hard riding took Vheod deeper into the Thunder Peaks. The terrain had grown steadily rockier and rougher. Stonesong’s path likewise became steadily more circuitous as Vheod was forced to guide him around steep hills and jagged rocks. The cool breeze of the previous night had become a hot wind blowing through the afternoon. Vheod ignored it, but his horse didn’t. By late afternoon, he could see that Stonesong probably couldn’t take this speed in this heat for much longer. Rather than run the horse to its death, he slowed down.

  The slowing pace was a stroke of good luck in Vheod’s search, for now he moved slowly enough to grow more aware of his surroundings. A few hours before sunset, Vheod heard the sound of metal against metal. A moment later came a cry of pain or rage.

  Battle!

  Alerted and wary, Vheod followed the sounds. A narrow path led up a short but steep ridge, and he passed through some leafy green trees and underbrush quickly but cautiously.

  Over a hundred yards ahead of him, Vheod saw what appeared to be a battle. Only after a moment’s consideration could he determine that actually a large force was attacking a small one. Huge, hirsute footmen surged around a pair of mounted combatants, attempting to bring them down.

  The mounted warriors were a man and a woman.

  Vheod drew forth his long sword and galloped into the fray bellowing out ti’teriinn akinni! a tanar’ri battle-cry meaning “blood of my enemies, seek my blade.”

  Some of the hairy brutes were clad in leather armor; some wore the hides of creatures Vheod couldn’t begin to guess at. Many wielded long spears, but a significant number brandished large, heavy weapons like morning stars, flails, axes, and gargantuan blades. He knew these creatures were gnolls, bestial humanoids familiar to him because some of them served—even worshiped—tanar’ri masters.

  As Vheod crossed the distance he saw the two humans at the center of the melee—almost certainly the pair he’d come looking for. Each had the dark hair and high cheekbones of the people he’d seen in Arach and Gyrison’s pool. The woman swung a mace, warding away attackers hoping to dismount her with their long weapons. The man wore chain mail and hacked at his foes with a broadsword in one hand and a flail that appeared to have come from one of his assailants in the other. Both fought well, the man particularly impressive in his skill.

  Vheod slowed his horse. It occurred to him that if the gnolls slew this pair, his troubles might indeed be over. If they were to free Chare’en, their deaths would insure Vheod’s victory. Watching the brutes tear into the two mounted figures caused the hair on Vheod’s neck to bristle. His hands flexed around the hilt of his blade. No. He couldn’t. Vheod spurred the horse into the battle.

  The attacking creatures noticed Vheod’s charge when he was halfway to them. The gnolls were at least two dozen in number. Most of the terrifying swarm were unable to get at their prey—only so many could reach the two defenders at once. Many of them turned, attempting to set themselves for Vheod’s charge, but they weren’t quick enough.

  Vheod crashed into them, his horse knocking two over before he could even reach an opponent with his blade. Vheod’s sword bit into one that had fallen, forcing him to reach down farther than he would have liked. He wasn’t accustomed to fighting on horseback. Spears lashed and stabbed at him, but his breastplate served him well, turning away those points he couldn’t dodge.

  Though Vheod could spare little time to notice, the woman used the distraction he caused to take the time to cast a spell. A large hammer of magical energy appeared near her, wielded by no hand. This shimmering blue weapon lashed out into the crowd of humanoids, striking even as she defended herself with her own weapon. She shouted something, but the only word he really heard held no meaning for him.

  “Chauntea!”

  Inspired by her actions, Vheod uttered the words of a spell of his own. He learned this minor spell from a spellbook he’d stolen from a foul and disgusting human wizard who lived among the tanar’ri for a time in the city of Broken Reach. With a gesture, a handful of knives—created from a reddish, magical light—flew from his hand and unerringly struck a pair of the bestial foes as they approached. Both gnolls fell under the sorcerous onslaught, not to rise again.

  Even as he cast his spell, a terrific blow struck him from behind, and Vheod found himself hurtling toward the ground. He managed to roll as he landed, to soften the impact. The uncoordinated attack of the gnolls even allowed him time to get to his knees before any of the creatures could react. They charged at him, but his blade stabbed into one advancing gnoll’s heart before the creature could ever swing its own weapon. He fended away two other gnolls’ spear jabs before a particularly large specimen circled behind his horse hefting a large axe-mace.

  Still on his knees, he could no longer see the pair he’d charged into the fight to aid over the heads of the gnolls that surrounded him. The large gnoll obviously wanted to fight him, but Vheod had other plans. He reached out with his free left hand and grabbed one of the nearby gnolls’ spear. As he hoped, the creature clung to its weapon with all its might. Rather than attempt to disarm it, Vheod used the leverage to gain his feet, then flung the gnoll with all his might toward the large oncoming foe. As they crashed together, roaring in protest, Vheod parried away two other attacks and dived between the slow-moving, hyena-faced humanoids to reach the pair defending themselves in the middle of the fray.

  Already, dead or injured gnolls piled around their rearing horses, felled by the warrior’s blows or the woman’s spells. Vheod sliced into a gnoll from behind as he charged toward them.

  “I must talk to you,” Vheod shouted earnestly up at the two of them.

  The chainmail-clad man ignored him, too preoccupied with at least four foes all around him to notice. The woman only stared at him incredulously—as if he were a madman.

  “Talk?” She shouted. Her assailants drew her attention away from him so she couldn’t finish whatever she was going to say.

  Vheod ran between them, using them and the fact that the gnolls were focusing on them to gain himself a free moment. He called forth a power he used very infrequently, one that drew on the dark, fiendish portion of his soul. As he felt the chill energy run from the pit of his stomach to his hands, he dashed out and laid his hand on the shoulder of the nearest gnoll. The creature howled as if struck and ran off, out of the battle and toward the nearby hills.

  Vheod touched another, then another, each suddenly gripped by terror with his merest touch. They fled the battle in terror, as if the cambion’s touch called up their greatest and most horrific fear. After the first three or four so affected, some of those gnolls not touched by Vheod’s terrifying power retreated of their own free will, seeing their fellows running from what appeared to be something more dreadful than they wanted to face. Soon the pair on horseback simply watched as one by one their foes retreated into the wilderness.

  The gnolls eventually all fled, but not before more than ten of them lay scattered about, dead or dying. The man’s leg bled from a terrible wound. As Vheod looked around for surviving gnolls, he saw that his horse lay on the ground, a spear protruding from its side.

  Putting the horse out of his mind, Vheod turned his attention to the two humans. This was a moment he’d both been looking forward to and yet dreaded. What were the right words to say? Vheod wondered if these two knew what they were doing, and if so, if he’d done the right thing in helping them against the gnolls.

  The woman stared at him. “Thank … thank you,” she said, clearly out of breath.

  “What’s going on?” Vheod asked. “Why were the gnolls attacking you?” He wiped the blood away from his sword.

  “There seem to b
e a lot of them around here,” the warrior said, pained, though it was no answer to Vheod’s question. Besides his chain mail, the human wore simple clothes covered with the dust of extensive travels. His face was covered in a dark beard and mustache, and his dark hair was short.

  “They came out of nowhere,” the woman answered. “That’s the second time we’ve been attacked. Just last night they came into our camp. They’re everywhere around here. We’ve heard they’re gathering for some reason.”

  Vheod found the young woman compelling. Her long dark hair was tousled from the battle, and even though her clothes and cloak were covered in dirt and blood, her eyes were soft and gentle. She guided her horse nearer her companion and bent over in her saddle to look at his wound. He motioned her away.

  “We’ve got to get moving,” the man told her. “They might return at any moment.” He spoke through gritted teeth and swallowed heavily. His face was clenched in obvious pain, but the woman left him alone.

  She turned to Vheod, who was preparing to see to his horse. Stonesong shook his head, whinnying in short bursts. The horse’s body twitched and convulsed, his stiff legs now and again flailing against nothing. Vheod almost couldn’t bring himself to look at the animal. I brought you to this, he thought, and I am sorry.

  As eager as he was to speak with these others, he couldn’t focus on anything until he did all that he could for Stonesong. It appeared that all he could do was end the animal’s misery. The mercy of death was a concept that came easily to him. In his lifetime he’d seen many who were in such pain that death brought only relief. Stonesong was in as much pain as anything he’d seen in the Abyss. The sight seemed particularly offensive here away from the hellish Lower Planes.