by James Wyatt
“This is no time for a nap, Shara,” Quarhaun called as he stepped into the arch.
Shara stood up, scowling. “Listen, demon,” she announced to the room. “I’ve spent enough time flat on my back in the last hour. No more.”
Uldane’s laugh betrayed his position, already almost a quarter of the way around the edge of the chamber. But the demon didn’t reveal itself.
“Everyone get ready to hit it as soon as it shows itself,” Shara said. “Hit it hard.”
Keeping her center of gravity low, she stalked toward the middle of the room. The mist swirled around her feet and rose in clouds around her as she moved, and her feet splashed in shallow pools of water.
“It shouldn’t be so easy to hide in here,” she said. She stopped walking and listened. The lizardfolk were quieter than she was, but their feet made noise in the water as well, and the mist revealed the signs of their passage. But no such signs betrayed the movement of the demon, which meant it was either standing still or—
She looked up, and saw the demon slinking along the ceiling almost directly overhead.
“Up! Up!” she shouted. “It’s on the ceiling!”
With a yowl that chilled her blood, the demon dropped down onto her, twisting as it fell so its ruby-tipped claws led the way down. Shara lifted her shield and crouched down, and as the demon hit she blocked its claws and drove her sword deep into its shoulder. Its yowl turned into a hideous, screeching scream as it crashed to the floor on its side, scrambling to get its feet beneath it again.
The two nearest lizardfolk were on it before it could stand, bludgeoning its head and its hips with blows from their maces. She heard the crunch of bone and saw some of the crystal growths on its hind parts shatter, then the lizardfolk who had struck the crystal shouted and drew back in pain. The shattered crystal had pierced the warrior’s scaled hide, and he looked down at the wounds with wide, terror-filled eyes.
The demon found its feet and crouched to pounce. Shara’s blade cut the creature’s flank, then the demon leaped over the terrified lizardfolk and vanished in a rising cloud of mist.
“Quarhaun!” Shara called. “Bring Kssansk to look at this!”
The injured lizardfolk had dropped both mace and shield and started clawing at his own wounds as if trying to dig out the shards of crystal that had buried themselves in his flesh. Shara thought of the way Vestapalk’s infusion had taken hold in Albanon and Quarhaun, starting to change them both into demons like these.
Again she was reminded of the dragon’s commandment to his minions. “Spread the abyssal plague!” he had cried. She shuddered as the lizardfolk threw his head back and screamed.
Kssansk came and laid a hand on the frantic warrior, whose convulsive movements stopped at once, the scream squelched in his throat. Shara scanned the chamber for any sign of the demon’s return, checking the ceiling as well as the billowing mist. This time, eddies in the mist signaled the demon’s movement to her left, approaching the warriors on the far end of the lizardfolk line.
“This way!” she shouted, breaking into a run.
The demon was fast. It emerged from the mist and crashed into one of the lizardfolk, much as it had when Shara first entered the room. The lizardfolk, though, kept its feet and managed to get a solid blow on the creature’s shoulder as it darted past.
The demon never stopped moving. After colliding with the warrior and his club, the creature leaped onto the wall and ran another ten yards before dropping back down into the mist. Shara stopped, frustrated.
“It’s too fast,” she said. “We could spend the next hour running back and forth across the room, and it’ll just keep attacking one of us at a time.”
“We need to group up,” Quarhaun said. He shouted something in Draconic, and the lizardfolk responded immediately, pulling back to where Shara stood.
Kssansk led the injured warrior, the last to join the ragged circle. The wounds were still visible and the warrior’s eyes had a glassy look, but he held his weapon and shield ready.
“How is he?” Shara asked.
“He’s ready to fight,” Quarhaun said.
“Will you ask Kssansk how he is?”
Quarhaun shrugged and relayed the question to the lizardfolk shaman, who answered with a long string of gurgles and hisses.
“He’ll make it,” Quarhaun translated.
“What else did he say?”
“I’m not an interpreter,” the drow snarled. “I said he’ll make it, he’s ready to fight. What more do you need to know?”
“Shara!” Uldane’s voice, full of terror, came from off to the right, not far from where Shara had last spotted the demon.
“Damn it, Uldane!” Shara shouted. “Join the circle!”
The halfling gave a short cry of pain, then Shara saw the demon leap up out of the mist again. It clung to the wall this time, craning its serpentine head around to watch the floor.
Shara saw the mist billow, then Uldane emerged from it, his face streaked with blood. He ran toward the circle as fast as his feet could carry him, then the demon hurled itself down from the wall to land right on the halfling.
A bolt of purplish lightning shot over Shara’s shoulder to strike the demon, knocking it away from Uldane. Shara ran, calling for the lizardfolk to follow. Quarhaun echoed her instructions in Draconic and the warriors surrounded her, forming a tight clump around her as she moved to stand over Uldane. She reached a hand down to help the halfling to his feet. He managed to get up, but he was badly hurt.
The demon had vanished into the mist once more, though great clouds billowed around where Quarhaun’s eldritch lightning had sent it sprawling. A reddish light filtered through the mist, as if the creature’s crystal protrusions had started glowing. Then a voice whispered from the mist, and Shara’s heart froze.
“This one is sorry not to be present. There would be pleasure in robbing the red-haired warrior of more of those she cares about.”
“Vestapalk!” Shara cried. “Show your face and get ready to meet your doom!”
“This one is no longer called Vestapalk,” the dragon’s voice said. “And though there is pain in saying it, this one is not present to tear the halfling apart and bite the drow’s head from his body.”
“It’s speaking through the demon,” Quarhaun whispered in her ear. “Some kind of telepathic link.”
“This one is the Voidharrow and the plague. Wherever the Voidharrow is, there are the eyes and the ears and the voice of this one also.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shara said, striding forward. “But I’m about to poke out your eyes and cut off your ears to shut you up.”
She took three steps into the billowing mist, then stopped as she realized, with a jolt of fear, that the mist right in front of her face was formed of tiny red crystals suspended in the air. The Voidharrow and the plague, she thought. That’s not a plague I want to catch.
Behind her, Uldane cried out again, and she whirled around. The demon was right behind her, right in the midst of the lizardfolk warriors—and right on top of Quarhaun, its horrid face looking directly at her as it sank its claws into the drow’s body.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Roghar, wait,” Travic said.
Roghar was poised to charge down the hall after the fleeing humans, but Travic’s words brought him up short. He turned to look back at his companions, and the battle fury ebbed from his heart.
Travic still lay on the ground, barely strong enough to lift his head. Tempest sagged against the wall, breathing hard, her eyes looking around wildly as if following the movements of spirits only she could see.
“We’re in no condition to keep fighting,” Travic said.
“Of course,” Roghar said. “I acted without thinking.”
“Again,” the priest said with a smile. “You need to learn to curb your youthful exuberance.”
“Bahamut was with me,” Roghar said. “Proud and fierce.”
“For all his talk of nobility
and justice, the Platinum Dragon is a warrior god at heart,” Travic said.
Roghar stepped to Tempest’s side. She recoiled, staring at him with wide eyes, then recognition seemed to sink in to her fevered mind. Her body relaxed, and she let her head drop onto Roghar’s shoulder.
“Easy, Tempest,” he murmured. “You’re safe now.”
Tempest threw her arms around Roghar’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Hesitantly, gently, he enfolded her in his embrace.
As Roghar held Tempest, Travic managed to roll himself up to his knees. Roghar heard the comforting lilt of his prayers to Erathis and the warmth of divine presence around them all.
Erathis holds me, Roghar thought, and I hold you.
Finally, Tempest eased her hold on him and drew away, looking anywhere but into his eyes. Roghar felt strong and whole, and Tempest seemed stronger as well.
“What was it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Tempest said, still avoiding his gaze. “You know I hate being crowded like that, and Travic’s no good at holding a line.” Finally her eyes met his, and he saw a hint of the anguish she’d been feeling. “I felt trapped.”
“Just like when Nu Alin was controlling your body.”
Tempest looked away and pulled free of his hands. “Are we giving chase?” she asked.
“Are you up to it?” Travic said.
“Of course. Only, let’s make sure we don’t pass any enemies who can attack us from behind this time.”
“Good plan,” Roghar said. “But Travic?”
“Yes?”
“Are you up to this?” Roghar put a hand on Travic’s shoulder.
“What do you mean?”
“Marcan was among them, wasn’t he?”
Travic sighed, and some of the strength his prayers had lent him seemed to drain out of his body. “Yes, he was.”
“Do you think something was controlling his mind?”
Travic turned and paced a few steps down the hall, stopping beside the decapitated statue. “I think something changed his mind. Obviously not for the better. But I don’t think it’s a spell that can be broken.”
“Are you prepared to kill him?”
“If it comes to that, then …” Grief washed over Travic’s face. “If there’s no alternative, then yes.”
“All right. We’re dealing with humans, so if it’s possible, we try to knock them out and bring them to the watch. Agreed?” Roghar watched Tempest carefully as he awaited her response.
“Of course,” Travic said.
Tempest nodded, then frowned. “On what charge?”
“What?” Roghar said.
“We bring them to the watch on what charge? Do we know they’re guilty of anything?”
“They attacked us.”
“The gnoll and the statue did. What the humans were doing would be easy to paint as self-defense. We’re barging into their home. Of course they’re fighting back.”
“We’re barging into the temple where they’re worshiping Asmodeus,” Roghar said.
“Or Tiamat,” Travic added.
“Or some other evil god or demon lord.”
“We assume,” Tempest said.
“Right. But I think it’s highly unlikely we’re going to round that corner and find that these ragged humans and their gnoll friend set up an animated statue to protect their little secret temple of Bahamut. Not to mention the whispers.”
“Fine,” Tempest said. “Assuming we round the corner and find a temple to some sinister power, I’ll try not to kill them unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’m just trying to make sure we’re doing the right thing.”
Roghar sighed and scratched his jaw. “Look, Tempest,” he said. “I know it’s not always easy to know what’s right and what’s wrong. And I know we’re walking in a great gray area where the lines are even less clear than usual. But it means a lot to me that you’re even trying to sort it out.”
She smiled faintly. “So what’s the plan?”
“Well, I don’t expect they’ve gone far, unless they’ve fled out a back entrance. More likely, they’re putting up their defense in their shrine or temple, or whatever is around that corner.”
Tempest nodded. “So we charge around the corner—you first, naturally—and unleash everything we have. Trying not to kill them, of course.”
“A little more caution is probably warranted,” Travic said. “They’ve had several minutes to prepare their defenses. They might have activated traps. At the least, they’ve taken up the most advantageous positions they can find.”
“Right,” Roghar said. “But we don’t have a lot of tactical flexibility. There’s only three of us, and there’s only one way we can approach, as far as we know.”
He ran through other possibilities in his mind. Searching for another entrance could give their quarry a chance to escape, and it would mean navigating the whispering crater again. And he had no real reason to suspect that another entrance even existed, except that it would be tactically convenient.
Alas, he thought, reality rarely conforms to convenience.
“So I charge around the corner,” he said, “cautiously. You two watch out for traps, and you help me flush out any cultists that are hidden behind cover.”
“Is that what they are?” Tempest said. “Cultists?”
“That’s my working assumption at this point,” Roghar said, scowling at her.
“I suppose it helps to put a name on them. I mean, besides Marcan.”
“Please stop it,” Travic said. “This is hard enough for me already.”
“Is it?” Tempest asked. “Can killing people ever be hard enough?”
Travic drew himself up, anger boiling in his eyes. “I will not listen to lectures on morality from a warlock who bargains with infernal powers!”
Tempest’s eyes smoldered with fire as she glared at the priest. “Does the mouth that speaks it make the truth any less true?”
“I know the precarious path I walk,” Travic said. “I grapple with these questions every night, when sleep eludes me. And now, because they seem to have entered your mind for the first time, I have to face them again? What I need now is resolve and certainty. Leave the doubts until darkness.” What had started as an angry rant ended as a plea, and Roghar gaped at the priest, his heart aching for his friend.
“I see,” Tempest said at last. “From now on I will keep my questions to myself, and see whether I am able to sleep after we’ve done what must be done.”
Roghar reached a hand for Tempest’s shoulder, but she pulled away.
“Let’s do it, then,” Roghar said. He closed his eyes, reaching for the sense of fierce victory that had filled him just a few moments before, grasping for any reassurance from Bahamut that his cause was just and his way true. A faint tingle brushed at the base of his skull and faded.
That will have to be assurance enough, he thought.
Without another word, he walked to the corner of the hall. Holding his shield up, he peered around the corner into what was indeed a small shrine. A simple wooden table stood as an altar, draped with a deep purple cloth embroidered with a jagged spiral in gold thread. A human skull adorned the altar, surrounded by five small cups. One of the cups held a greasy flame that licked up over the rim. Three long banners, similar to the altar cloth, hung on the walls of the chamber, each one sporting a golden spiral that reminded Roghar of a baleful eye staring out into the room. Behind the altar, a column of light filled a small alcove in the wall.
The cultists—it was a fair appellation, he decided—huddled behind the altar. Roghar almost laughed out loud. The cultists hadn’t enjoyed many more tactical options than had he and his friends, trying to defend themselves in this small, bare chamber. They didn’t have defensible positions to take, cover to hide behind, or, apparently, traps to set. So they had spent the last several minutes clumped behind their priest at the altar, clutching their weapons in trembling hands, waiting for the deadly assault they knew was coming. He almost felt sorry for
them.
But not quite.
The priest was a middle-aged human woman with wild hair and wide eyes, draped in a formless black robe. A purple stole with the same golden spiral hung over her shoulders, and the symbol shaped from real gold hung on a slender chain around her neck. She held a gnarled quarterstaff carved and inlaid over and over with the same symbol, like a dizzying storm of eyes or whirlwinds.
“I admit,” he said, “you are not what I expected. I trust you have had time to prepare yourselves to meet justice. Do you wish to surrender?”
One or two of the cultists behind the priest looked like they might be ready to throw down their weapons, but the priest just laughed.
“There need not be any bloodshed,” Roghar said. “If you just put down your weapons …”
“There will be bloodshed,” the priest said. “The Chained God will drink deeply of your lifeblood, paladin.”
“The Chained God?” Roghar glanced over his shoulder at Travic. “I guess we both lose.”
“No, just you,” Travic said. “You bet it was Asmodeus, I said it wasn’t.” Travic rounded the corner, keeping Roghar between himself and the cultists in the shrine. “You owe me five … Gaele?”
Mouth hanging open, Travic stared at the priest of the Chained God.
“Hello, Travic,” the priest said. “Marcan warned you to leave.”
“What happened to you?”
Gaele scoffed. “You gave me comfort in my weakness. That’s all Erathis could offer—the promise of a rebuilt empire where the rich still stand on the aching backs of the poor. The Chained God gives me power, Travic. Power to destroy you and the feeble comfort of your god.”
Roghar shook his head. “Still up to this, Travic?”
Travic pulled himself together with a visible effort of will, then nodded.
“Good,” Roghar growled. “Let’s do this.” Hefting his sword, he started forward.
“Stop!” Tempest shouted, and Roghar froze. “The floor,” she said. “There’s a glyph—a magic trap. You don’t want to step on it.”
Gaele laughed again. “I must congratulate you, tiefling, on your powers of observation. But let’s see how they work through this.”