“I might.” Albanon dipped his hands into the pouches on his belt, digging through the esoteric bits and pieces that wizards tended to accumulate.
His fingers closed on something cold and hard, with edges sharp enough that they nicked him-and in his memory, he was standing again in the study at the top of Moorin’s tower as Immeral challenged him to confront Vestapalk and the Abyssal Plague rather than hiding from what that confrontation might do to him. He remembered thinking he needed a talisman, something to remind him of the importance of what he had to do. He’d chosen a remnant of the battle that had taken place in that very room.
Albanon drew his hand from his pouch and held out his talisman for Kri to see. A tapered oval of red stone-roughly broken, slightly crystalline, and no bigger than his thumb-rested on his palm. Kri’s eyes opened wide.
“When Tharizdun sought the seed of change,” the priest said reverently, “he reached through the Living Gate to retrieve it. When the other gods bound him, they forced him through the gate. When cultists of the Chained God summoned the Voidharrow to our world, they used a fragment of the Living Gate to open the Vast Gate. The founders of the Order of Vigilance shattered that gate but kept a piece of it to study, until I used it to open the Vast Gate again in Moorin’s tower.”
“And that was shattered, too,” said Albanon. He turned the stone between his thumb and forefinger. “A fragment of a fragment of a fragment.”
“That has known the touch of both the Chained God and the Voidharrow. In Sherinna’s tower, I think Tharizdun called to me through it.” Kri smiled. “Well done, Albanon. We have our catalyst.” He reached for the stone.
Albanon closed his fist around it. “No,” he said. “It stays with me.”
For an instant, Kri’s face twisted into a mask of fury, like a child throwing a tantrum. Then it was past as the priest forced himself to remain calm. “You don’t trust me?” he asked. “After what we’ve just accomplished? I’m not going to try anything. I still need your help to work the magic.”
“And if you find a way around that?” Albanon put the stone back into his pouch. “You said Tharizdun told you one would come who would help turn the key. I’m keeping this until that key has been turned and the Voidharrow has been destroyed.”
Kri’s expression turned cold. “As you will. The words of Tharizdun are fulfilled.” He raised his face to the shadows of the ceiling. “Chained God! Patient One! We are ready. Deliver us from this place!”
Albanon felt a little bit sick. “That’s it?” he asked. “That’s your plan for getting us out of here-”
From the darkened stairs, rolling up from the depths of the cloister, came an echoing boom. Albanon spun around to stare. “What was that?”
“Deliverance,” said Kri. He picked up the crystal lantern and headed for the stairs.
The boom came again, the sound of something heavy striking stone. Albanon ran after Kri. The lights he’d conjured in the chamber winked out as he left them behind. He caught the priest on the stairs just as the boom rolled up for a third time. “If I was anywhere else, I’d say that someone was trying to knock down a really big door.”
“It might be.”
“You said there was no way in or out!”
“I said I didn’t think the dwarves came in and out, but they must have gotten in at some point. A door is the simplest explanation.” Kri shook his head. “You have to use your wits sometimes.”
Albanon resisted the urge to strike the old man from behind. “So there is a door!”
Kri shrugged. “I assume there is. I didn’t look for one. Tharizdun told me you would be coming. Why would I leave?”
A scream of frustration built in Albanon’s throat-then died as he considered Kri’s words. “Either that actually makes sense,” he said, “or I’m going as mad as you.”
“One doesn’t rule out the other,” said Kri.
The booming continued in a regular pounding rhythm as they descended the stairs. Albanon saw doorways opening into other chambers and passages-the cloister must have been vast once. Even as the sound guided them farther and farther down, Albanon felt no urge to go exploring in the madness-tainted place.
The deeper they went, the louder the echoes became. They filled the stairs with a roar of sound. Albanon could feel them in his belly. Even pressing his hands over his ears barely muffled them. The sound was so mind-numbingly loud that it took several turns of the stairs before he realized it had changed. He grabbed Kri’s shoulder.
“We’ve gone past!” he shouted. “It’s coming from above us now.”
The priest nodded and they turned around. It took trial and error before they found that the sound came rolling out of one of the side passages. Kri led the way into a long, high room lined with the moldering remains of barrels. A humble storeroom, except that one of the featureless walls trembled visibly with each impact. Albanon watched grit cascade down the wall as old mortar was pounded into dust. Loosened stones sagged, revealing the shape of a pair of arched stone doors behind. Hope and the anticipation of escape rose in Albanon.
Then the booming rhythm ceased. The only sound was the faint hiss of falling dust.
“They stopped,” said Albanon. He lowered his hands from his ears and waited for the sound to start again.
It didn’t.
“No!” Albanon ran to the wall and slammed his fists against it. “No, we’re here! Tempest? Shara? Anybody?” There was no sign of a response. He turned back to Kri. “Why would they stop?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cariss had sustained the worst injuries of any of them-deep gouges where the peryton’s talons had gripped her-but once other Tigerclaw warriors had caught her drifting body and brought her back to the clearing, even she wasn’t willing to wait longer than it took to have her wounds cleaned and bandaged. “Albanon saved me,” she said. “Do I honor his actions by hesitating when he is in danger?” She even took charge of the wizard’s staff from Uldane.
In less time than it had taken to battle the perytons, they set out across the valley for the scorch-marked cliffs. The Tigerclaws led the way, bounding through the forest with the grace and speed of animals. Shara, almost as at home in the wilds as the barbarians, and Uldane, very nearly as fast, followed close behind. Quarhaun, Tempest, and Belen came after, moving as quickly as they could.
Roghar brought up the rear, the shield and heavy armor that had saved his life on many occasions encumbering him as he ran. In a short dash, he might have kept up with one of the others. Sprinting in armor was part of his training routine, but one only intended to get him quickly around a battlefield. Over longer distance, he would only exhaust himself.
When Tempest and Belen slowed to keep pace with him, he just waved for them to keep going. “I’ll get there,” he shouted. “The trail’s impossible to miss.”
“You shouldn’t be walking alone,” Tempest called back.
“We just killed the largest predators in the valley. What’s going to bother me?” He banged a gauntleted fist against his breastplate for emphasis.
Tempest and Belen exchanged a glance, then the tiefling shrugged and they carried on. Just ahead, Quarhaun paused to give Roghar a long, thoughtful look. Roghar curled his lips and glared back until the drow had gone on with the two women.
He dropped to his knees in a soft clashing of metal. Alone! Truly alone for the first time in two days. Letting the shield slide from his arm, he pulled off his right gauntlet-and almost sobbed.
The abrasion inflicted by Vestagix’s tail had grown into an oozing wound. His scales were shriveling and falling out, leaving the raw flesh beneath exposed. The veins almost seemed to be rising to the surface. Red and pulsing, they snaked out from the wound to push aside healthy scales. Roghar could feel the infection, too. From the tips of his fingers almost to his elbow, his arm burned with a slow, aching heat.
And was it is his imagination or had his left arm started to burn as well? He didn’t dare take his other gauntlet off to look
.
Roghar clamped his hand around his arm just below the wound and squeezed as if he could cut off the flow of tainted blood. “Holy Bahamut, Righteous Dragon,” he prayed just as he had morning and night since Winterhaven, “I beg you to heal this wound!”
The sluggish stirring of divine energy was the same. It answered his call, a new warmth caressing his skin, but he knew in his heart that it wasn’t the same as it had once been. When he opened his eyes, the oozing wound had dried and scabbed a little, but it was still there. His arm still burned.
Bleakness settled over him like a heavy cloak. He’d tried to hold it back for several days, but what difference had it made? The Abyssal Plague had him in its grip. Prayer would not drive it away, only hold it back. And it was only getting worse. The night before, stumbling and exhausted in the forest, he’d briefly felt… something… inside him, like a nightmare intruding on his waking mind.
How long would it be before he lost himself entirely and became one of Vestapalk’s demons?
No, Roghar told himself, he wouldn’t let that happen. He picked up his shield and bent his head before the holy symbol on its surface. “If you can’t heal this plague, Bahamut, then give me the strength to fight it. Let me be myself until Vestapalk is dead, then I will surrender to my fate.” He clenched his burning, infected fist. “I swear it.”
He didn’t wait for his god’s response-it would hurt too much if there wasn’t one. Pulling his gauntlet on again, he rose, picked up his shield, and followed the trampled path of the others through the forest.
By the time he’d caught up to them, they’d reached the foot of the towering cliff. From so close an angle, the ledges where the perytons had nested were nearly impossible to make out. The black scorching from the brilliant burst of light stood out, though. Roghar joined Turbull, Belen, and Tempest as they stood staring up at it. “Where is everyone?” he asked.
“Looking for the best route of ascent,” said Belen. “Uldane thinks there should be a way up that he can climb. Quarhaun says it’s insanity but he’s looking, too. The drow has almost as much feel for stone as a dwarf.”
“Coming from the Underdark, he would.” The words came out gruffer than he’d intended-as so many of his words seemed to lately. It earned him a sharp glance from Tempest. He turned away rather than meet her gaze.
The trees grew thinner close to the base of the cliff, but the underbrush became heavier. Hardy vines clung a short way up the stone face itself. Here and there, they’d been torn back to expose the rock beneath. Where the vines had protected it, the surface was pocked by potential handholds. Farther up, however, it was weathered almost smooth. Uldane would need to find a more sheltered spot or a vein of some hard stone that might have resisted the weather.
If there was still any need to make the climb. The dragonborn cupped his hands around his muzzle and bellowed “ Albanon! ”
The echoes that rolled back at him were the only response. “We’ve tried that,” Turbull growled. “No answer. Not even a pebble dropped over the edge as a sign.”
“So we could be trying to rescue a corpse?”
Another glance from Tempest. This time it irritated Roghar more than it shamed him. He glared back at his old friend. “It’s a possibility.”
“He could be lying wounded. He might not be able to answer. We’re going after him.”
Roghar wanted to apologize, to tell her that he’d never meant to question whether they’d go after Albanon. Something dark and angry rose inside him, though. Who was Tempest to question him? He tried to fight the feeling down, but it still came out as a derisive snort. Tempest’s eyebrows drew together beneath her horns and she frowned.
Anything else she might have said was interrupted, however, by a shout from along the cliff face. There was a snarl to it, but also an uneasy whine, like a frightened animal-it must have been one of the Tigerclaws.
Long experience adventuring together took over. Roghar and Tempest exchanged a knowing glance and followed the sound. The paladin led with his shield up and a hand on his sword, while the warlock followed a couple of paces behind, her rod at the ready. But they weren’t the only ones to investigate. Belen fell in beside Roghar while Turbull raced ahead. Other Tigerclaws seemed to melt out of the forest and rush past them. Uldane caught up to them. “What was that?”
Roghar shook his head and shoved the halfling back with Tempest. Ahead, the Tigerclaws, together with Shara and Quarhaun, were gathered around something on the cliff face. The shifters were growling and unsettled, for the most part keeping their distance. Shara saw Roghar and the others and waved them forward. Roghar pushed through-and growled as well.
There, vines grew higher than normal on the cliff, but some had been pulled down. What lay beneath was not rough rock, however. The stone surface had been worked smooth and flat-and carved with a jagged spiral.
“The sign of the Elder Eye,” said Cariss. She made a gesture Roghar guessed was meant to ward off evil. “In Winterbole Forest, a few monstrous creatures with an affinity to ice and cold make offerings to it.”
“Packs of Riven, too,” Hurn bared his teeth and spat. “Filthy, feral traitors to the tribe.”
Roghar saw Belen flinch at the mention of the Riven-Hurn’s anger had struck too close to her secret. He tried to change the subject. “It’s the symbol of Tharizdun,” he said. “The Chained God tries to lure worshipers in the guise of the Elder Elemental Eye.”
“And not all exiles from the tribe turn to the Elder Eye, Hurn,” said Turbull. “They turn their backs on the Spirit of Hota, but they don’t become beasts.” His face tightened as he studied the jagged spiral, though. “Elder Eye or Chained God, I don’t like the sign’s presence in this valley. What is it doing here? Who carved it?”
Quarhaun stepped closer to the rock face and his pale eyes narrowed. “The symbol isn’t the only thing here.” He drew his sword, stretched up and placed its tip in the center of the spiral, then pulled the sword carefully down the stone.
Dirt and fine debris peeled away after it, revealing a dark, straight line in the rock. “It’s a seam,” he said. “This looks like the work of dwarves.” He grabbed a handful of vines and pulled them away to expose more of the smooth surface. Shara went to help him. Then Tempest. And Uldane. And Turbull, and Belen, and others. In a short time, all of the vines along that stretch of the cliff face were down.
A pair of arched doors, as tall and wide as fortress gates, stood revealed. No handles or hinges were visible and there was no decoration except Tharizdun’s jagged spiral. More of the Tigerclaws made Hurn’s warding gesture.
“Do you think this is where Albanon’s urge was leading us?” asked Tempest.
“I’m sure of it.” Quarhaun ran his hands over the smooth stone, pushed against the doors without result, then stepped back and looked at the rest of them. “I’ve never known anyone who makes one door into a place that doesn’t make a second one.” He nodded to the cliff overhead.
“You’re going in?” asked Hurn.
“ We’re going in,” said Turbull grimly. “Albanon aided us. We aid Albanon. And if we intend to settle in this valley, we need to know all of its dangers.”
A murmur ran through the Tigerclaws at that. Turbull turned and silenced them with a snarl.
“I think a better question might be how do we get in?” Uldane said. “There’s no lock on the doors. I can’t open them.”
Roghar studied the doors and his lips twitched into a smile. For the first time since Winterhaven, he felt like he had a purpose again.
“I can,” he said.
It took longer to find, fell, and strip the necessary trees than it took for Roghar to rig them together with rope into a sturdy frame and suspended battering ram in front of the great stone doors. Personal combat wasn’t the only form of battle that Bahamut’s paladins were trained for. Roghar had never needed to conduct siege warfare, but he thanked the Platinum Dragon he’d found siege engines interesting enough that they stuck in his m
emory. The work almost made him forget the burning infection in his hands and arms.
Turbull looked at the rough timbers with some doubt. “I’ve heard of such things,” he said. “I’d thought that armies could just take a tree trunk and run it against fortress gates.”
“We would have had to clear a lot of underbrush to make enough room for a charge at the doors,” said Roghar. “This is easier.” He took hold of the hanging ram and used his entire body weight to drag it back, then took a deep breath and drove it forward. The ram’s head slammed into the stone doors with a resounding boom.
“Teams of ten,” he called out. “Five to a side. We work in shifts. This will likely take some time.”
“Are you sure you want to do this now?” asked Belen. She pointed up, not to the ledges, but to the sky. The sun had sunk well into the west, casting most of the valley into shadow and painting the steep slopes of its far side with gold.
“We have enough people who can see in the dark,” Roghar told her. She shook her head.
“That’s not what I’m worried about. If this is some lost shrine or forgotten temple of Tharizdun, I’d rather face it during the day.”
Roghar glanced around, then dropped his voice. “Tharizdun wanted us to follow Albanon here, didn’t he? What do you think we will have to face?” When she didn’t respond, he turned back to the ram, where the first team of ten-Shara and Quarhaun among them-had taken their places. “Ready!” he called. “Pull and… swing!”
The ram slammed against the doors a second time. “Pull,” called Roghar again, “and… swing!”
They quickly fell into a rhythm, the boom of the ram echoing across the valley on a regular basis. The siege engine creaked and groaned but hung together. There was no immediate change to the face of the doors, but that didn’t surprise or deter Roghar. The stone looked tough and if the doors were dwarf-made as Quarhaun suspected, they would likely be thick as well. At least there was no one trying to stop them from breaking in.
Fine cracks spread out from where the ram struck. Chips of stone started to flake away. He changed the teams swinging the ram, but didn’t leave his own post at the back end of it. Quarhaun, sweat glistening on his black skin, came to stand beside him. “What if it’s sealed on the other side?” he asked quietly. “A wall or something.”
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