The Glass Prison

by Monte Cook

  The thorny dog leaped at him, snarling. Its yellow teeth were the same color as its flesh, and its tongue was simply a darker version of the same shade. Vheod suddenly realized the dog was more plant than animal.

  He slashed with his sword but misjudged the hound’s speed. The dog ducked under the swing and lunged at Vheod, teeth bared. Vheod’s breastplate protected him from the creature’s bite, but the force of the attack knocked Vheod to the ground. Worse, the creature’s thorn-covered hide slashed Vheod’s arms as he struggled to get the beast off him. He wriggled free—and a half-hearted slash with his sword caught the dog’s underbelly, slicing into it. The wound oozed more sap, and the beast howled and backed away, angrier than ever.

  The dog circled around Vheod, which gave him time to regain his feet. Lunging at him yet again, the beast went for Vheod’s throat, but he was ready this time. A quick thrust with his sword plunged the blade into the dog’s spine—if it had one—through the back of its neck. Vheod pounded the hilt of his sword with his off hand to shove it even deeper. Phlegmy sap bubbled up from the wound, and the beast fell silently to its side with a gurgling noise. Vheod didn’t know if it could really be dead, for he wasn’t sure what actually defined its life.

  He drew his sword out of the creature and wiped the sap and the blood from it on the sparse grass; the shade prevented much from growing around the looming tree. Vheod looked back to the horses and saw that the ravens had ceased their carrion feeding. Now they all stared at him. An urge to charge at them, scaring them off or killing them, rose to his throat and into his mind, but something made him look up.

  Silent, staring ravens teemed over the impossibly high branches of the trees. Some appeared, at least at this distance, to be as large as the giant raven at his feet, or the one that carried Whitlock away. This wouldn’t be a good battle to pick, he surmised. Not now. Besides, he wasn’t sure what it could accomplish.

  With the horses here, he reasoned, Melann could only be somewhere inside the tree. They must have entered together. Something stole away his memories, or his consciousness, or both. Perhaps the same thing had happened to her. Vheod thought of Melann wandering around inside the tree alone, and he picked up the torch again. It had gone out, but a few moment’s work with flint and tinder nursed the flames back to life. Vheod thrust himself back through the curtain, this time remembering to use his sword to move the thorny curtain aside.

  Something bid Vheod to check the stairway that descended into the earth. Though he thought it more likely that she was above, nearer where he found himself earlier, he crossed to the stairs.

  The torchlight proved valuable as he descended. The passage at the bottom of the steps was low and narrow. Roots, some huge, some small, wrapped around the passage and sometimes bisected it. Small roots dangled from the ceiling, and Vheod had to be careful not to ignite them with his flaming brand. Moist earth was all around him, which produced a thick, rich odor. Soon after leaving the steps, the passage split into two. Vheod chose the left path, but it split again after fewer than a dozen steps. He could hear dripping water in the distance, but there was little sign of occupation.

  Vheod had an idea. He kneeled down on the ground. Lowering the torch, he examined an area of soft earth on the floor between two roots. His search proved fruitful, for he found two booted footprints still fresh in the dirt. Neither was his, but they might have been Melann’s. He pressed onward.

  When he came to the next branching intersection in the root tunnels, he searched the ground for more tracks. Finding another boot print, he followed that branch of the passage. Occasionally, he had to duck underneath or climb over a root that stretched from wall to wall into the passageway. The going was slow, and the hanging roots and tubers continually made Vheod jump, for their startling appearance always resembled the movement of some creature. The weight of the earth above him and narrowness of the tunnel was oppressive. Perhaps it was only Vheod’s imagination, but it seemed the passages continually became narrower and narrower. His hair and clothing was soon caked with fresh, black earth that clung to him when he brushed too close to a wall or the ceiling above him. The rich odor of the fresh soil became a thick, gagging, overbearing atmosphere of worm-laden dirt and mud.

  He tracked the passage of the booted prints farther, but after two more intersections, he noticed something odd about them. It appeared that the person making these footprints was dragging something, or two things. Twin marks marred the earth. Farther on, Vheod found still more such tracks. Now, however, he could tell that the load the individual was dragging was a body—the marks he found were another pair of boots sliding along the ground. He hurried forward.

  Finally, the narrow passage gave way to a larger chamber. The ceiling remained low, but the chamber stretched out to the left and the right farther than the light of Vheod’s torch allowed him to see. His tanar’ri eyes allowed him greater vision in the dark than most men, but he still couldn’t make out the extreme edges of the chamber. The torchlight passed over the dangling and protruding roots creating strange, snaky shadows. These serpentine shades danced and writhed in his flickering light, disturbed by his own movements.

  The sound of dripping water was louder now. In fact, Vheod could hear what sounded like the gentle splashes of slowly running water somewhere ahead in the darkness. He advanced and saw that the chamber was cleft in two by a chasm at least fifteen feet wide. Gazing down into the trench, Vheod saw that water ran slowly over twenty feet below in an underground stream.

  A single wide root stretched across the chasm like a bridge. Vheod approached and judged the root to be about three feet wide—enough to allow him to cross. He climbed on the rounded, twisted root, and made his way across. Numerous branching roots eased his passage, allowing him something to grasp as he walked across the treacherous, makeshift bridge. This tactic had forced him to sheathe his sword, but his weary arm was glad not to carry it for a while anyway.

  His boot slipped on the soft, damp root, and his body slid to one side of the bridge. As his feet gave way underneath him, he flailed out with his free arm. He frantically grasped for anything he could get his hands on. He found himself dangling below the bridge, hanging from nothing but a single root strand. His shout of surprise and fear echoed throughout the underground chamber and across the submerged river.

  He needed both hands to pull himself up and fast—before the root he clung to tore free. That would mean dropping the torch, however. Vheod considered trying to hold the torch in his mouth for a moment, but visions of his long hair catching fire forced him to drop it into the darkness and water.

  Vheod heard a muted splash, then all went dark.

  He cursed himself for a fool as he realized he could have thrown the torch to either side of the chasm, hoping it might rest, and if it went out, he would at least have a slowly diminishing light rather than the darkness that now enveloped him. Vheod’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden jerk and a cracking, tearing sound. He was breaking free from the root bridge.

  Using his weight to his advantage, Vheod swung himself on the quickly tearing rootlet and grasped in the darkness like a blind man. His now-free hand found another hanging root strand, and he grasped it just in time as the first tore away. The sudden added weight, however, caused this new strand to begin to tear, so he thrust his hand upward to find another.

  Somehow he managed to grab hold of yet another strand. Summoning all his strength, Vheod pulled himself upward so he could grasp another, higher strand. His hands clawed at the side of the massive main root as he found higher and higher minor roots that branched from it to pull himself up. Finally, he sat atop the bridge, straddling it like a wide horse. Vheod’s tanar’ri vision began to adjust to the complete darkness enough to allow him to see a few feet ahead of him. Crawling and scooting along the bridge—not wanting to risk walking across again—he made his way across it to the other side.

  Once on the opposite ledge of the chasm, Vheod stood. Without his torch, he could see only a s
hort distance ahead of him, so he drew his sword to use to feel ahead in the dark. He didn’t care for the bright light of day, but the utter finality of darkness was worse, and more limiting, though he could see a little. He preferred the light of an overcast day, or twilight—those were similar to the lighting conditions on the layer of the Abyss in which he’d grown up.

  Where had he gotten a torch from anyway? Had Melann given it to him? Vheod seemed to remember vaguely there being a few torches mixed in with the siblings’ other equipment on the horses. In any event, he moved forward into the darkness.

  Since he couldn’t see, after two dozen steps or so, he allowed himself the dangerous luxury of calling out again. The danger, of course, came from the fact than everything that might be down here would hear him—even something that meant him only harm.

  “Melann?”

  Vheod continued walking until his sword bumped into a wall. He followed it along, occasionally grasping the roots that reached out from the wall. He yanked them away from where they hung for no good reason other than to mark his path—a path he probably couldn’t see to follow in any event. Vheod considered attempting to make another torch, since he carried flint and tinder with him in his pocket, but he didn’t think he could make the moist roots burn well.

  As he grasped a root projecting out of the earthen wall, it suddenly grabbed back. Vheod looked down at his arm and saw with faint vision a root about half an inch in diameter wrap around his arm. He tried to jerk it away, but the root held fast. He raised his sword, still tugging to free his arm. When he couldn’t pull away, he tried to get as much of the root exposed between him and the wall as possible. Having done that as best he could, he hacked at it with his blade. It took two strikes to cut through the root, but when he’d succeeded, the severed part fell away, limp and lifeless.

  “Hello?” A voice cried from within the sea of darkness. “Is anyone there?”

  Vheod recognized Melann’s voice and stumbled toward it in the darkness, moving away from the wall to keep out of the reach of any more strange, grasping tendrils. “Melann! It’s me, Vheod.”

  “Vheod, I’m here!”

  “Wait,” he said in the direction of her voice. She sounded close. Vheod knelt down, setting his sword at his side. He took the flint from his pocket and tried to get a light, even a tiny spark that might set fire to one of the root tendrils he’d torn. After a few moments, he managed to get a spark to light the end of one of them. It wouldn’t burn long, but it provided a tiny jewel of light for now.

  Vheod saw Melann just a few feet away, up against the wall, held fast by a number of roots that had entangled themselves around her wrists and ankles, as though she was shackled. In fact, the roots that held her resembled conventional manacles too much to be coincidence. Someone was holding her here.

  “Melann,” he asked her, still a little worried to get too close to the obviously dangerous wall, “is there anyone near?”

  “No,” she replied, “I don’t think so.” Her voice was hoarse and dry. Sympathy welled inside him, and he longed to go to her, to free her.

  “Who put you here?” Vheod nervously looked around, though he could see very little in the oppressive darkness. His tiny light was already dying.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice seemed a little frantic. “I remember a woman with dark hair. I remember moving against my will, as if I was dragged, then I just remember being here. What happened? How did we get here? Where are we? The last thing I fully remember was riding through the woods with you.”

  “How long have you been here?” he asked her.

  “Not long, I … I don’t think …”

  Perhaps their minds had been affected by the same thing, but she was abducted somehow, and he wasn’t. Still there was much left that needed to be explained.

  The light winked out. She gasped. Vheod stepped forward and grasped Melann’s hand. He was close enough now to see her without a light. He could see her smile and visibly relax in the darkness when he touched her. He pulled her hand away from the wall as much as he could and chopped at the root that held her. He could see more roots uncoiling from the wall.

  “Keep pulling as far from the wall as possible. I’m going to cut these bonds, and when I do, pull that part of you away.” He didn’t tell her why. He couldn’t afford to have her worrying about advancing roots that she couldn’t see anyway.

  Melann did as Vheod told her, and he managed to cut away the roots and avoid being grasped himself. She thrust herself completely away from the wall just as more roots reached for her. He guided her away from the edge of the cavern. The roots on the floor where they knelt to catch their breath didn’t react the way those along the wall had. Apparently the animate roots had been enchanted. Whoever lived in this tree fortress obviously used the lower level for a prison or dungeon.

  Melann didn’t speak for a few moments, and Vheod realized she was praying. When she finished, she raised her cupped hands above her, and they filled with magical light that illuminated the area around them much more brightly than Vheod’s pitiful little flame.

  When his eyes adjusted to the new light, he looked at Melann carefully. Moist dirt was caked all over her clothes, face, and hair.

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “Other than some chaffed wrists,” she said with raised brows, “I think I’m fine. You look as though you’ve been fighting.”

  “Do you remember anything, Melann?” He helped her to her feet, so that both of them were standing in the chill chamber. The air was still, but the water moving in the underground stream echoed in the distance. “Do you remember arriving at this … giant tree filled with ravens? Do you remember a thorny dog, or lighting a torch and exploring the inside?”

  “The inside of a tree?” Melann asked, looking around.

  “Yes,” Vheod answered, nodding slightly. “We are below it now—in the roots.”

  “What you’re saying seems to strike a familiar chord within me, like you’re describing a distant dream. The events sound familiar, but I don’t really remember them.”

  She brushed dirt away from her face and hair, then patted the soil from her clothes as well. She’d left her traveling cloak on her horse—as she’d done most of the time during the day. She wore only her light leather jerkin and gray cloth trousers, both torn and dirty.

  “The same is true with me, I’m afraid. I’ve only been able to piece together what I’ve told you through interpolation. The last thing I clearly remember is riding through the woods with you.”

  “You said something about the tree being filled with ravens.” It was a statement, not a question. She stopped brushing the dirt away and stared into Vheod’s dark eyes. “Does that mean this is the lair of the Ravenwitch?”

  “I think so,” Vheod replied.

  “Do you know where Whitlock is?”

  “No, but I think I’ve got a good idea where to start looking.”

  Melann nodded, her eyes once again wide with optimism. “Well then, let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Melann couldn’t help but find the giant tree fascinating. As frightened and confused as she was, walking around inside a giant, living tree thrilled her. Despite the Ravenwitch’s evil—at least, Melann assumed the witch was evil—she obviously knew wondrous secrets about the care and nurturing of growing things. Melann saw nothing to indicate that the tree had been mistreated or was unhealthy. On the contrary, it appeared to be thriving, as did the rose vines that grew throughout the interior, climbing and winding their way around everything. How they grew without sunlight was a mystery to Melann, but the interior of the tree was far more mysterious and wonderful. Obviously, somehow, the Ravenwitch had communicated with the tree on some level, coaxing it to take the shapes she desired. Corridors, rooms, staircases, doorways—the place was amazing.

  Melann and Vheod briefly explored the subterranean root section of the tree, but Vheod seemed convinced that the Ravenwitch had Whitlock with her and that she wo
uld be in the upper reaches of the tree. Birds, he reasoned, stick mostly to the branches high above the ground, and Melann could find no reason to argue with him. The truth was, she really had no idea what to do next, but determination to find her brother drove her onward. It was good that she had Vheod to direct that driving need. She felt like some sort of wild storm, full of energy but aimless and without bearing.

  Vheod, it appeared, didn’t share her appreciation of the tree, but she couldn’t blame him. Anyone else except perhaps a Brother or Sister of the Earth would most likely find this place frightening and strange. Remaining very quiet since he found her amid the roots, Vheod seemed more pensive than she’d seen him before. Of course, Melann was not completely without fear herself.

  Whitlock was somewhere inside the tree, and she had to find him. She realized that if something happened to Whitlock, she would be utterly alone. Vheod provided intriguing and pleasant companionship, but she was entirely dependent on her family for support and nurturing. As a garden grows dependent on its caretaker, she found it difficult to imagine that she could possibly succeed in her quest without her brother—and that would mean losing her mother and father as well.

  Vheod had spoken about the loss of memories, but Melann had assumed that she’d just been waylaid in the woods and brought to the tree—perhaps by magic. He was sure that the two of them fought their way into the Ravenwitch’s lair and something had attacked their minds. He was convincing. The fact that their horses lay slain outside of the tree certainly lent credence to his idea, but Melann simply couldn’t remember any of it.

  They stood in the round chamber one story above its almost identical counterpart on the ground level. The wooden table and stools grew up from the floor in a manner that occupied much of Melann’s attention. She marveled at the way they had been somehow shaped, presumably as the tree grew. The whole room had obviously been shaped by careful planning and great skill with plants. Her mind drew back to the Ravenwitch. Melann considered their predicament, and the need to find Whitlock.