Nergei did not speak. He simply stared ahead. Luzhon, Sten, and Spundwand stepped to his side and followed his gaze. He was looking at the observatory.
“Have you gone to see your master, boy?” asked Sten.
Nergei forced himself, after a long pause, to speak. Fear trembled his voice. “No,” he said. “I have not.”
“What’s wrong, Nergei?” asked Luzhon.
“Can you not see it? My master’s home?”
“See what, child,” said Spundwand. “It’s dark and my eyes are old. And Sten’s older still.”
Luzhon strained to look, but at first saw nothing, as well. But then, yes. Perhaps. The observatory was as it always was, but not. Something about it … rippled. Something about the grass around it, the trees, the fence—something was not right. But she did not know how to think about it, let alone describe it. “Nergei, what’s happening to it?” she asked.
“It’s there and not there at the same time,” he said. “It is—I don’t know how to say this, really It’s shifting at its edges.”
“Magic,” said Spundwand. “The old man’s magic?”
“I would guess,” said Nergei. “He has not been well. Not been himself.”
“And now neither is your home, boy,” said Spundwand. “I begin to see it, too.”
Ribbons of light flashed around the outside of the observatory. The windows seemed to crack and heal in an instant. The building appeared to breathe. Sten stepped forward a few paces and turned to urge the others on. “Come along. Spundwand and I will go with you.” Luzhon and Nergei let the old man lead, but found the courage to follow. As they approached the observatory, they felt a prickling on their skin, a surge of heat in their lungs. They saw themselves moving forward, but for paces would not feel the ground beneath their feet. All was still; all was silent. From a single step to the next, the world went from late afternoon to late dusk.
“It is dark before its time,” said Spundwand.
Nergei worried for his master. When they were close enough, he saw that the ribbons of energy that slithered like eels across the walls of the house began at the top, on the deck above the roof, where his master stood to look at and commune with the stars. “He’s up there,” Nergei said, pointing above. “He ponders the stars from the roof deck.”
“Well,” said Sten, “let’s go up and speak to him.”
They approached and entered the observatory tentatively, Nergei first and Sten close behind. Spundwand followed and turned to discourage Luzhon from joining them, but saw the resolve in her. He saw, also, that she stared with rapt attention at Nergei. Spundwand had seen that kind of attention in a person’s eyes before and, for a moment, the foreboding feeling in his belly melted away a little, and he allowed himself to consider the great wonders of devotion. If it had been a different moment, he would’ve offered them a blessing. But entering the building, all thoughts but the present were shaken free of his mind. Within the foyer of the observatory, energy rippled along the walls. The breathing—the expansion and contraction of the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the windows—continued, but to a greater degree. The curtains fluttered, but there was no wind—they were, in fact, closed. Their skin burned a little deeper, their hair like an ember in its death throes, uncomfortable but not bubbling their skin.
“We go up the stairs here,” said Nergei, “and then from the end of the hallway above there is a ladder.” How, wondered Nergei, had the old man climbed the ladder. In truth, it had been months since he seemed to have the energy to do so. Except for the council meeting when the kenku first attacked, the old man hadn’t moved from his chair in weeks. He had barely lifted his arm.
As they climbed the stairs, they noticed a rippling in the very air in front of them. It appeared to flash and tear and, briefly, pinch open. Nergei, closest to the cleave, observed a flickering of fire, and thought he saw a shape like that of a wing enrobed in flame. As quickly as it opened, the tear closed.
“What was that?” asked Luzhon.
“Some magic can let us see the other worlds,” said Nergei. “The ones right on top of our own. Some magic can let us touch the places where the fey live, some where the dead go.”
“Magic allows us entry,” she asked, “or keeps us separated from them?”
“We know only what we see, child,” said Spundwand. “And we see only what the gods allow.”
“It could’ve been nothing more than a trick of the light,” said Sten. “Press on.”
At the top of the stairs, Spundwand fell back and let Luzhon move up closer to Nergei. “I’ve never been in here before,” she said. “Is it always like this?”
“Something is wrong,” said Nergei. “The master can and has for short periods of time played with the fabric of the world in this way, but never to this extent.” The hallway appeared to get longer and then shorter as they walked to the ladder. The threads at the edges of the rug unwove and danced in another unperceivable wind. Near the ladder was the door to the master’s quarters. It was on the floor, broken into a dozen pieces and still tearing itself apart. Nergei allowed himself a brief glance within, and saw nothing but black, nothing but void. Sten looked over, as well, and exclaimed. “What manner—” he said, but knowing no answer would be forthcoming, he let the two words stand there in the silence.
Nergei moved more quickly, his fear giving way to his worry for the old man. He led the others up the ladder, through the open trapdoor, and pulled himself up. And there in the center of the roof deck stood his master.
Or someone who appeared to be his master. The figure was alive with energy, pulsated blue and black. He was large—much larger than usual. He was wild with energy, too. Standing still but shaking and moving his arms in a way the old man could no longer do. But there were his master’s robes. There were his master’s hands and his master’s great white beard. The figure swirled his hand in the sky, and light formed a circle that spun and funneled. As the group approached, they saw that the sky seen through the circle was concave, magnified. Closer. The figure seemed to reach into the circle, to pull the stars within it closer. He looked, muttered angrily, pulled them closer, looked deeper, muttered more angrily, and then would swipe his hand across the stars, pushing them to one side or the other, and begin searching a new patch of stars.
“Where,” he shouted. “Where are you hiding? I will find you!”
He searched and searched, unaware or unconcerned with Nergei, Luzhon, Sten, and Spundwand. He searched and pulled and muttered and swiped. “Where?” he shouted. “Where?”
Nergei touched the old man’s robe. He seemed twice his normal size. “Master?”
The old man was startled, and the circle of light evaporated. The observatory ceased to breathe. “Master,” said Nergei.
The old man shuddered and his eyes, gone entirely pale, it seemed, cleared to their familiar icy blue. He lowered them to the boy. “Master, the kenku have fled or they have been killed. Haven is safe. It is over.”
The old man’s eyes softened. With a voice of greater warmth than Nergei had ever heard from him, the old man spoke to him. Directly to him. Spoke to him instead of at him. For the first time in the boy’s life. The old man’s size returned to normal, with the deliberate evenness of an icicle melting.
“No, child,” the old man said. “It is not over at all. Not at all.” The old man smiled gently, laid his right hand on the boy’s shoulder, opened his robe, and the fabric of the world ripped in pieces.
Sten woke first, and Spundwand soon after. The youths followed, but with difficulty. All felt as if they had been roused from a deep, deep sleep, their minds as clouded as their vision. It took time for the disorientation to abate. When it did, they stared around and wondered where they were.
“What is this place?” asked Luzhon. “How did we get here?”
They were atop a stone tower on the side of a mountain—a battlement. Nergei and Luzhon knew it to be their mountain—the mountain that was home to Haven—but also, not their mounta
in. The flora was not the same—not as lush. Not as thick. The trees were thin and dark as if in autumn’s grip. The sky was overcast, the sun falling over the horizon. No stars. A pale sliver of moon. The world wrapped in fog.
And about the tower was not Haven. It was another complex of buildings, all stone and metal and darkly stained wood. The complex was the size of Haven, but at the edges, thick stone walls rose, a crown of sharp pikes at the edges. Torches—their flames unnatural, subdued—guttered along the walls every few feet. It was not Haven. It was a fortress.
“The wall,” said Luzhon, pointing to the center of the fortress, to a great central structure. “The wall where you were sitting.”
“Yes,” said Spundwand. “Indeed it is. Or what it was, long ago. This is Haven’s past. This is where you live.”
“I don’t understand,” said Nergei. “Haven is a small village—not a stronghold. It has never been anything else.”
“No, child,” said Spundwand. “It was this once.”
“Is this an illusion?” asked Luzhon. “A vision? One cannot travel to the past. How are we seeing this? How are we here?” She directed the questions not to Spundwand, who seemed to understand, but to Nergei. “What has your master done to us?”
“I’m not sure,” said Nergei. “But I don’t think we have been given a vision of the past.” He reached out to the wall of the parapet, struck the stone with the palm of his hand, and ran his hand across it. “This is too solid, too real to be a vision.”
“No,” said Spundwand. “Not a vision. This is how Haven appeared in its past, but this is not a vision of its past. We have not moved in time, child, and not away from where we were. We have stepped through from one world to another.”
“I don’t understand,” said Luzhon, panic setting in. “What does that mean? How can we be in Haven and not in Haven, in the now but not in the now?”
“The light,” said Sten. “The atmosphere. Do you feel it?”
Nergei nodded. He had, on occasion, stolen an hour or two in his master’s library, read from the books he kept on the top shelves when he had been sent to dust and to tidy. He knew a little, enough about the other worlds. The fey world from which the natural races came—the creatures of the trees and the soil, the ones who found strength in the untamed riot of vegetation and rivers of raw, arcane energy. He had read of the planes of fire, where great and terrible monsters of pure malice and ambition conspired to find bridges to the other worlds, empire-building, the conquering of all other races their greatest ambition. He knew of the worlds of near complete emptiness, where ships floated not on water, but on the aether, where the decaying bodies of giants were the continents and between the shoulder blades of a titan, a compound held a retinue of contemplative masters of the power of inner discipline. And he believed he knew this place, as well.
“The gloom,” Nergei said. “Luzhon, we are in the land of the mistress of the dead.”
“The Shadowfell,” said Sten.
“We have died?” asked Luzhon, her voice breaking. “We were approaching your master, Nergei. Did the Old Stargazer—”
“No, child,” said Spundwand. “I think not. Your cheeks are as pink and flush as they were.” Luzhon stared at the dwarf, unsure what he meant. Nergei noted her confusion.
“The denizens of the Shadowfell have a—gray cast to their skin. They lose their color.”
“They quickly begin to resemble the murk of their home, child. You live still, my dear. Do not be frightened.”
“You live,” said a voice from deep within the shadows, “but this does not mean you should not be frightened.”
Sten pulled his blade from his belt, as did Spundwand. They spun to the sound of the voice, pushed Nergei and Luzhon behind them, and stood side by side, prepared to engage who or whatever had discovered them.
“No,” said the voice. “You do not need to be afraid of me. Not anymore, anyway.” From within the shadows stepped the speaker. Tall, gray-skinned, armored in black leather, a blade still in its sheath at his side—he stepped not out from the corner where he had concealed himself in shadows, but from the shadows themselves. When he had fully emerged, he reached into a pocket inside his cloak, pulled out a small amount of dark green root, and he rubbed it on his neck.
“Who are you?” asked Sten.
“It is of no consequence, Captain,” said the gray figure. “None at all. There are much more important things to discuss.” He saw the slight surprise on Sten’s face. “Yes, I have been made privy to your history, your former rank. Your failures years back. Many of your soldiers live here now. If there was time, I could take you to see them,” he said, stepping forward.
“Shadow creature,” said Spundwand, “if you move closer to us, I will call on Moradin’s blessing to turn you to ash.”
The man—the revenant—sighed. “You are in the land of my mistress, now, little dwarf. The queen of the dead reigns here in Gloomhaven. The gods tend not to grant such boons in the territories of their equals, unless they are making open war on one another. So I will stay here.” A stunned fury descended over Spundwand’s face, but a hand on his shoulder from Sten kept him from acting rashly. “Perhaps I will take a seat, yes?” The revenant lowered himself to the ground and bundled himself in his cloak. “Now. You have murdered my champion, Captain, before he was able to carry out his task. Because of this, you have unwittingly put yourself in much greater danger. Put Haven in much greater danger. Put the world in much greater danger. And you must put this to right.”
Nergei and Luzhon looked at each other, unsure what was happening. But in the depth of her fear, Luzhon discovered a small cinder of bravery, and she reached out to hold Nergei’s hand. When her palm met his, he began to feel it, as well. Around them, the world was still and silent, inhabited only by the words of the gray man and the warriors. The connection added a warmth and a life to the situation.
“What champion?” asked Sten. “What must be put to right?”
“Temley,” he answered. “My mistress’s killer. The one you stopped before he could make it to the observatory and carry out the duties of the oath he had taken to the queen of death.”
“The old man?” asked Spundwand.
“The Old Stargazer is a great danger to the world,” said the shadow man. “Not just to Haven.”
“My master protected Haven!” shouted Nergei. “He was no threat to it.”
The revenant smiled and shifted. “You are out of your depth, child. But you more than anyone else here must be aware of the changes to your master.”
Nergei opened his mouth to speak, but did not. “You saw it,” said the revenant. “You know he was beginning to falter.”
“He was,” Nergei admitted, “seeming to go inside himself.”
“Not inside, young man. He was being pulled in two directions. One part of him was being siphoned out into the stars, to the things that granted him his connection to the forces of the arcane.” The shadow creature gestured skyward with his right hand. “The greater part of him, though, the part still aware enough of the danger, was stashing away bits and pieces of his power and his soul here,” and he gestured with his left hand to the world around him, “in the Shadowfell. He was hiding himself here.
“Because in Gloomhaven, the last great garrison of Nerath remains a powerful, difficult to penetrate fortress. In the Shadowfell, your master felt he would be safe.”
“Nerath?” asked Luzhon.
“The last human empire to control the continent from eastern to western sea,” said Spundwand. “When I was but a child, Nerath was gone. The garrison here, this village now called Haven, was but a story.”
“Quite a story though,” said the revenant. “Here three mighty heroes held the principles of the empire close; even as the empire itself was nothing more than a memory, a collection of books, a few songs still sung, and an ever smaller number of refugee encampments being overrun by the dark creatures of the east—the gnolls and goblin races. A warrior who had dedica
ted his life and his axe to Ioun. An archer with a skill not since seen—even by the elf woman you travel with. And a spellcaster who had traded his essence to entities in the stars for great power.
“The other two eventually succumbed to age. They were only human. They were fragile. When the last of the two passed away—the warrior with his axe beside him, the archer with his bow nearby—the spellcaster began trading away more and more of himself to stay alive. He pulled down the walls of the garrison, smashed the towers. The few young soldiers of the garrison had their memories altered or wiped clean. He made them farmers, hunters. He cloaked the village in fog and illusion. Generations passed, and for the love of his companions, he kept the village hidden and safe as a testament to them. Haven was their gravestone.”
The light on the parapet changed. Still, the murk settled over everything, but there was a flash and a noise from the center of the fortress. “He grows impatient,” said the revenant.
“My master? What have we to fear of him?” asked Nergei. “You yourself said he was the protector of Haven. He escaped from the corruption here with his power.”
“The outer corruption, yes. He was to be the harbinger of the powers from the stars. Their foothold. My queen desired him dead so he would be within her sway. The things beyond—they are scheming. They have designs on the world. They have designs on the living and the dead of the world. But the dead belong to her. And as all of the world dies eventually, the world belongs to her. So she would have the Old Stargazer dead before he becomes the focus of something cataclysmic.
“The outer corruption is partially held at bay for now. But there is an inner corruption. Age has led to a franticness in the old man’s mind. A dementia. The ones who granted him his power will find him, and take him over completely. Coming here was the last act of his rational mind. And now, in the Shadowfell, he is all the more dangerous to my mistress.”
“She sent the kenku to Haven?” asked Sten.
“A distraction. The raven men were meant only to split the old man’s gaze in another direction so we could send the assassin to kill that part of him still standing in the mortal world. We were not aware that the people of Haven would be resourceful enough to find you. I believe you two,” said the revenant, gesturing to Nergei and Luzhon, “have impressed the queen. She seems it, in her way. When the old man brought himself here, she made sure the four of you were brought along.”
The Last Garrison (Dungeons & Dragons Novel) Page 19