The Glass Prison

by Monte Cook

  “Perhaps you were right,” Vheod whispered.

  “What?” Whitlock asked.

  “Perhaps you were right not to trust me. Perhaps I am a fool for trusting myself.”

  “Look,” Whitlock continued, “the Ravenwitch—she’s insane—mad and evil. I don’t credit her with one word of truth. As far as I’m concerned, the things she said change nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Melann interjected. “You mean you still think we might be able to lift the curse on our family?” Vheod couldn’t tell if she was hopeful or incredulous.

  “I think that we would be fools to end our quest on the word of someone who was in the process of changing me into some raven creature.” Whitlock almost laughed. Vheod had to admit, in the light of day, miles away from the tree, it did almost seem absurd.

  “And even if every word she said was truth—” he glanced at Vheod, then back to Melann— “and I’ll admit I probably didn’t hear everything, she did say the magical staff we seek might actually be with Chare’en, whatever his nature.”

  “So you want to press onward,” Vheod said.

  “Of course,” Whitlock answered.

  “You never have told me,” Vheod said, “how you came to find out about Chare’en and the staff in the first place.”

  Whitlock and Melann exchanged glances, as if to decide who would relate the tale. Melann began to speak. “In Archendale, we conducted research. We knew that ages ago an ancestor of ours had offended some powerful wizard, and that the wizard cursed him and his entire line. The curse strikes down family members erratically, sometimes in childhood, sometimes as adults, sometimes skipping entire generations altogether. Each time it’s the same thing—a wasting malady weakens and finally overcomes them. That was really all our family knew.

  “We were lucky in that we encountered a pair of traveling sages passing through our town. When we spoke to them, they told us that the wizard—who’s name, they said, was Chare’en—had kept a magical staff that could lift any curse he had bestowed. The staff, they said, was buried with him in his crypt.”

  “These sages,” Vheod asked, following a hunch, “what do you remember of them?”

  “Not much,” Whitlock replied, shaking his head. “I think their names were Gyrison and ah … Arach.”

  Vheod’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Did that make the whole tale more believable, or less? He really couldn’t be sure. Thinking back, he knew he’d never told Melann and Whitlock the names of the priests he’d encountered in those spider-infested woods.

  “I’m afraid that after hearing what the Ravenwitch had to say,” Melann spoke up, “I believe we’ve either been lied to or we’ve made some horrible mistake.”

  “If we don’t go and find out for ourselves, we’ll never rest,” her brother said. “We’ll never forgive ourselves if Mother and Father succumb to the curse. As much as ever, we’ve got to go. We’ve got to find the crypt of Chare’en—or his prison, or whatever it is.”

  Melann sighed heavily. “You’re right, Whitlock. You’re absolutely right.” She turned to Vheod. “We have to go. The Ravenwitch said we wouldn’t find anything without you, but I would understand if you didn’t want to go.”

  Vheod couldn’t help but admire their convictions, and their bravery. This was the point at which circumstances put his convictions, and more, his faith in himself, to the test. The Ravenwitch had said he’d come to Toril to free Chare’en. The Taint seemed to be leading him onward, and he had little remaining doubt that the Taint was evil and untrustworthy. Still, he had to believe he was ultimately in control of his own actions.

  If I can’t trust that much, he thought, I should just give up on myself right now. If I can’t believe that I control my own actions, I don’t want to live.

  Besides, if the Ravenwitch had been lying and Gyrison and Arach spoke the truth, then he could be on hand to make sure that Whitlock and Melann didn’t free Chare’en accidentally.

  But there was more to it, as well. He only now considered that if they parted company, he would leave Melann. He didn’t want to do that—the sudden pain at the thought of not seeing her again scared him. He cared for her deeply. He also liked the part of himself that found the wonderful qualities within her attractive. He thought about how a part of him had initially reacted to the Ravenwitch, and it frightened him. Was there really a part of him that missed his life in the Abyss?

  In short, he liked himself more when he was with Melann, and he feared being apart from her.

  “Well have to be wary of gnolls, of course,” Vheod stated.

  Both Melann and Whitlock smiled.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Everything was working perfectly. Wind tossed Orrag’s thin hair about his head, but he didn’t notice. His hideous face was gripped in an evil, toothy grin. He and his small band of followers crouched in the trees watching as the gnolls finished their work.

  The gnolls had arrived before Orrag and his men and cleared away all of the debris. The cave-like entrance, free of the fallen rock that had buried it for years, lay exposed for the first time in centuries. Convenient. Already his men had hidden the digging tools they’d brought in the underbrush.

  Of course, now there were two hundred gnolls between the crypt entrance and Orrag. He turned and looked at his men. They numbered six—no match for that many gnolls. Two of them had some particular talents that might help.

  “Gyrison, Arach, come here,” he whispered.

  Two figures, still crouching, sneaked to his side. They joined him as he watched the gnolls. The shorter, rounder of the two spoke up. “What is wrong?”

  “Yes, what is wrong?” the taller one also asked.

  Gyrison and Arach had taken some getting used to on Orrag’s part, but they were useful. “Can you do something to help get these gnolls out of the way?”

  “They’re here to help free their master,” Gyrison said.

  “Their shamen must have foreseen Vheod’s coming,” Arach added.

  “See how they assemble the stones of the ancient idol they once worshiped?” Gyrison pointed at some of the gnolls carrying green stones.

  “The idol of their—” Arach began

  “Fine,” Orrag interrupted. “Whatever. That doesn’t change the fact that if we try to go in there they’ll tear us apart.”

  Arach and Gyrison stared at the gnolls quietly for a moment, never once looking at each other. Then, almost at the same time, they both began softly chanting and making rhythmic hand gestures.

  Orrag could hear a rustle in the leaves. He looked around, startled, but saw nothing. The gnolls obviously heard it too. The creatures stopped what they were doing and looked into the forest around them.

  A horn sounded nearby, then another, and another—each from a different direction. The sounds of soldiers rushing into battle filled the wood. The gnolls grabbed their weapons and shields. They quickly formed defensive lines as a few barked orders.

  The sounds of hundreds of men became the sounds of thousands.

  The gnolls howled in fear, and one by one they retreated into the woods. They scattered, wide-eyed, clearly fearing for their lives. As soon as the morale of a few had broken, the gnolls fled in droves, until all had left the clearing around the entrance.

  “Excellent,” Orrag said with a grin. “The ruse won’t last long, but it should be enough.” He licked his yellow, pointed teeth with an almost-black tongue, but kept smiling as though this were the happiest day of his foul life.

  Gyrison and Arach ended their spell. The sounds of charging soldiers and blaring horns faded away.

  “We must hurry,” Arach said to Orrag.

  “We must get inside,” Gyrison added.

  “I’m here for the same reason you are, friends,” Orrag said, not dropping his toothy smile for a moment. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  The small group rose from their hiding places, still staring at the entrance. They’d traveled without stopping for the last few days to get here as quickly as p
ossible, but now Orrag wanted to move slowly. He motioned for the rest to follow him, and they crossed the clearing to the cliff. Orrag gazed into the dark opening.

  “The brother and sister I told you about either didn’t make it or have been slowed down,” Orrag told them. “Unfortunately, since the gnolls will return soon, we can’t wait for them.” He turned toward the others. Looking each of them up and down, he finally said, “Unther, Panish, grab Wenmer and bring him here.”

  The man named Wenmer cried out in surprise. Two of the others grabbed him by the arms and dragged him forward. Orrag commanded the remaining man to light a torch, and he led them into the opening in the cliff.

  The smooth-cut passage went straight back from the entrance, stopped, and turned to the left. When it stopped again, Orrag motioned for his men to bring Wenmer forward.

  “Hold still, man,” Orrag told the captive as he fought to get free. “The guardian must be appeased. I’ve been preparing for far too long to let anything distract me from my goal.”

  Orrag ran his hand over an amulet suspended around his neck then drew his knife. He looked for Arach and Gyrison, but they remained outside. No matter. He didn’t need them anymore.

  “Great and powerful Chare’en,” Orrag began to invoke, “Lord of the Seven Vengeances and Master of the Hosts of J’Duna …” His voice became a mumbling chant in a language men were never meant to speak.

  Wenmer cried out, but his screams were not heeded. The other men looked neither at Orrag nor at Wenmer, as if they had neither the strength nor the stomach to confront either. The two holding Wenmer kept him as still as they could.

  “Orrag!” Wenmer shouted, “you promised if I would help you, you’d give me gold. You promised me power from this demon we would free! Don’t hurt me! I’ll help you!”

  Orrag didn’t stop.

  “You betrayed me. You lied to me!”

  Orrag didn’t stop.

  Wenmer continued to cry out and struggle, but neither helped him.

  Orrag’s dark ceremony and Wenmer’s pleas for mercy ended abruptly and simultaneously as Orrag’s knife slashed the young man’s throat. Blood spattered on the ground.

  The men let Wenmer fall, and Orrag’s grin returned. When he looked at his remaining lackeys, who all now stared at Wenmer’s body, Orrag knew he’d better say something. “He was never a true follower.” He shook his head, attempting to shape a look of regret.

  “I knew that from the start,” he continued in his lie, “but his death serves us, Chare’en’s chosen. His loss is our gain.”

  The three men said nothing, alternately looking at their dead comrade or at their leader.

  “Now come on!” Orrag couldn’t spend all day coddling them. If they had to be sacrificed as well, he could still probably succeed without them.

  The four of them followed the passage and eventually came to a small chamber. As they did, Orrag heard sounds from behind. He turned and saw Gyrison and Arach catching up with them. The strange pair had evidently collected the stones the gnolls had left behind and now carried them awkwardly, using the fronts of their brown robes as pouches. Without a word, they came into the room and dumped their burdens on the floor.

  “What’s all this?” Orrag asked.

  “You knew that the stones were not without meaning,” Gyrison said.

  “Didn’t you?” Arach asked.

  As they spoke, the two got on their hands and knees and began arranging the stones on the floor in some sort of pattern.

  Orrag stood watching for a few moments. The other men did the same. “Is this really important?” Orrag asked.

  “Yes,” they both answered in unison.

  When they were finished, they stood and turned back to the half-orc priest and his followers.

  “You can handle the rest,” Arach told him.

  “We have things to prepare for the master’s arrival—in his real home,” Gyrison said.

  The two of them suddenly changed. The illusion of their appearance faded away, and they stretched their black, batlike wings behind them. Hideous, monstrous faces replaced their simple human features, and long, obsidian claws stretched out where soft hands once folded gently in front of them.

  “Don’t fail the master, human,” one of them—Orrag could no longer tell them apart—said.

  In a flash of fire and light the two demons departed, back, Orrag was sure, to the netherworld of the Abyss. He wasn’t sorry to see them go. His men stood rigid, covered in sweat. The sight of those two should keep them in line, Orrag thought.

  Everything was working perfectly.

  Now all he needed was a little help from his ally, Vheod.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I’m not as stupid as you must think,” Whitlock told Melann in a low whisper.

  The three of them had walked the entire day and the summer heat had them all soaked in sweat. Hiking through the rough terrain, climbing over rocks and up and down steep slopes, proved to be a great deal more work than riding had been, and so the heat took its toll. They still hadn’t reached the crypt of Chare’en, which they now knew to be the prison of Chare’en. They made camp, and Vheod moved out to find more game for their meal. Whitlock lent him his crossbow on a somewhat permanent basis, since Vheod hadn’t been able to retrieve his sword, leaving him without a weapon.

  With Vheod gone, the siblings spoke of the matters at hand.

  “What do you mean?” Melann asked forcefully but quietly. She’d gathered some roots and leaves from edible plants.

  Whitlock arranged the wood for a fire to boil what she’d gathered. “I’ve got eyes, sister,” he said. “I know you’re attracted to Vheod.”

  Melann didn’t reply, but stared at him silently.

  “I just don’t think it’s a very good idea.” He pulled flint and steel from his belt pouch, striking it to set fire to the kindling he’d piled.

  “You don’t think what’s a good idea?” Now Melann’s nostrils began to flare. Her face reddened. Whitlock knew she was angry or embarrassed. Perhaps she was angry because she was embarrassed, or embarrassed that she was angry.

  “You and Vheod,” he replied, spreading his hands wide and dropping the flint. “It’s not that I don’t trust him, though I don’t mind telling you I certainly didn’t before. The growing attraction between the two of you made it worse, not better.” He picked up the flint and began working it against the steel again.

  “As I was saying, I do trust him now—he’s earned that from us—but let’s face the truth here, Melann. He’s a demon.”

  “He seems to prefer tanar’ri,” Melann replied.

  “Whatever,” Whitlock shot back, irritated. “It doesn’t change the fact that he’s not human.”

  “And he’s only half tanar’ri,” she said in his further defense.

  Whitlock looked up from his work and grimaced.

  He began working at the fire again and said, “So you’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

  “To be truthful, Whitlock, I don’t know,” Melann said, then looked off, down the hillside where Vheod had gone to hunt. “I thought I might be, but then I caught more than one glimpse of his dark side—and it really frightened me.”

  Finally, a blaze started in the twigs and grass Whitlock had gathered. He prepared the wood to add once the fire really got going in earnest. He made a grunting noise and seemed to pause in thought for a moment. He didn’t speak until the fire really started. “That’s for the best, Melann,” he said, looking up at her.

  She’d filled their small pot with water and set it over the fire to boil. Melann placed the roots into the water right away, for they would need more time to boil than anything else. Once softened, they would complement just about anything Vheod might bring back. Of course, they were better heavily seasoned, but Melann was quickly growing used to doing without such pleasantries.

  She wondered if she was indeed carrying out Chauntea’s will. Everything she’d been taught had been about the Mother of All’s love
for growing things, and about nurturing and caring for others. Now Melann found herself wandering through the wilderness, fighting for her life at every turn against enemies she didn’t even know she had. Where was the divine direction she’d come to count on? Melann suddenly felt very alone and distant from all she knew.

  Vheod returned with three quail. Soon the three travelers feasted on the roasted birds, garnished with the boiled roots and leaves that Melann found. By the time they finished, the moon had risen high into the night sky, and a cool wind blew away the day’s heat. After dinner, Melann prepared for sleep, knowing the next day they would probably come to the end of their long journey. Orrag’s directions indicated that they were only three or four hours’ walk from where Chare’en lay—either entombed or imprisoned, depending on which story one believed.

  Melann watched as the others also prepared to go to sleep, even Vheod. She knew he’d not slept the night before. She could almost imagine what had been going through his mind, or at least she thought that she could. She knew what it was like to fear what the future might hold. Each day that passed for her brought new doubts. Melann continually wondered if she was good enough, if she did the right thing. For Vheod, it must be even worse. As frightening as it was to see the darker side of her new friend, it was more troubling still to realize that even he was just coming to fully realize what he was—and what he was not. Vheod, she surmised, felt as confused, and perhaps as alone, as she did.

  As Vheod laid back into the cool night grass, she moved to him and knelt wordlessly at his side. He looked at her and opened his mouth to speak. Melann put a single finger to his lips to quiet him. Whitlock’s soft snores already accompanied the crackling of the dying fire. Melann took Vheod’s hand in hers, feeling the coarse, hardened skin that covered his fingers. Kneeling there, under the stars, Melann silently gazed into his deep, dark eyes, until he fell asleep. She slept at his side.

  * * * * *

  By morning the night’s cool breezes had transformed into chilling winds. Dark clouds sped over the tops of the mountains like swarming warriors preparing for battle. Vheod saw that he was the last to wake. He thought for a moment about Melann, and remembered her holding his hand until sleep claimed him. She’d said nothing. It seemed almost like a dream now.