Oath of Vigilance: A Dungeons & Dragons Novel (Dungeons & Dragons: Abyssal Plague Trilogy)

by James Wyatt

  “Back up,” Captain Damar said. “Who else was present that day, the first time we tried to arrest you?”

  Albanon furrowed his brow. “Who else? Well, the Lord Warden was the one who ordered me to surrender myself. The High Septarch and his apprentice, Tobolar. You and a half dozen soldiers. Me, Roghar, and Splendid, Moorin’s pseudodragon.”

  The captain nodded. “They are who they say they are, sergeant. You may lower the wards.”

  Albanon gaped at her, stunned into silence.

  “If you were an enemy posing as Albanon—well, first, you’d be a damned fool to choose that disguise. But more important, I don’t think you’d know all the details of that day. And I see no sign of contagion.”

  “So you believe I’m innocent?”

  The captain scoffed. “At the time, you were the only suspect that made sense, and your explanation of a ‘foul creature from someplace else’ seemed far-fetched.” She frowned. “Now it’s all too real.”

  As she spoke, her sergeant manipulated some kind of pattern on a nearby table, shifting gleaming stones around on an engraved circle. The shimmer of magic in the air around Albanon and Kri vanished suddenly.

  “So what are these invaders?” Albanon asked, stepping out of the circle. He suspected he knew the answer, but he didn’t want to believe it until he heard the captain say it.

  “They’re not like anything I’ve seen before,” the captain said, and Albanon’s heart sank. “Creatures of blood and fire, some of them, and others are made of shadow and nightmare.”

  Albanon cocked his head. These didn’t sound like Vestapalk’s demons. “Fire and blood, you say? What does that mean?”

  “They’re formed of living flame, like elementals. But they have faces in the midst of the flame, faces formed of blood streaked with silver.”

  “The Voidharrow,” Kri said.

  “So they are Vestapalk’s demons,” Albanon said. “But a new kind, one we haven’t seen before. And they’re all over Lowtown?”

  “Oh, yes,” the captain said. “And the west bank of the river. We have soldiers and conscripts all along the walls, the river, and the bluffs to keep them from spreading, but I fear it’s futile.”

  “Why?”

  “A couple of people struck by the plague ended up … changed. Most of them, we had to kill. A couple got away to join the enemy.”

  “They turned into demons,” Albanon said.

  “Demons seems like as good a word as any. So tell me, how do you defend a town against something like that?”

  Albanon stared at the floor, trying to comprehend what had happened to the town he’d called home for seven years.

  Kri stepped forward. “I’ll tell you how we defend it,” he said. “We find the source of the plague and wipe it from the face of the earth.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Once they left the Witchlight Fens, Quarhaun’s recovery slowed dramatically, as if distance from the swamp prevented Kssansk’s water spirits from working their healing magic on him any longer. By the time they made camp, just a few hours outside the borders of the swamp, the drow had a high fever. He babbled nonsense as Shara wrapped him in his bedroll and forced him to lie still beside their campfire.

  In the morning, his fever was worse, and she could barely rouse him into wakefulness. He’d open his eyes, say something unintelligible in Elven or Draconic or some other tongue—often with a dopey smile on his face—then close them again, falling limp in her arms.

  “This is bad,” she said to Uldane, looking down at the drow with her hands on her hips.

  “We’re only a few hours from Fallcrest,” the halfling said. “Do you think you can carry him that far?”

  “If I do, it’ll take more than a few hours, but it’s possible.”

  “We could build a raft and pole it up the river to town. That’s the halfling way, after all.”

  “I wish we’d thought of that while we were still in the swamp. With the lizardfolk’s help, we could have built a raft in no time.”

  “Maybe we should just let him sleep another day,” Uldane said, staring at Quarhaun thoughtfully. “Maybe by tomorrow morning, he’ll feel better and be ready to walk himself into town.”

  “Or maybe he’ll be dead,” Shara said. “I’d like to get him to a healer as soon as we can. If Albanon and Kri have returned, Kri could help him. And it’d be good to check in with them.”

  “Do you think it’s that serious?” Uldane said, his eyes suddenly wide. He took a few nervous steps toward where Quarhaun lay.

  “Yes.” Shara ran her fingers through her hair. “I have an idea. We’ll build a small raft, just big enough for him to lie on.”

  Uldane brightened, nearly jumping up from his seat. “Like the one that carried the Sleeping Prince!”

  “I don’t know that story, but tell me later. We’ll tie some rope to the raft, and we can pull him upstream. We walk on the riverbank or wade in the shallows, and he gets a smooth ride.”

  “You really like him, don’t you?” Uldane’s expression was serious again, a little crease between his eyebrows expressing a hint of disapproval.

  “Like him? Not really, no. He’s cowardly, insensitive, snide, and sometimes mean.”

  Uldane’s face broke into a wide grin. “Yeah, he can be a real bugbear.”

  “But he has been an enormous help to us,” Shara continued. “So as much as I’d like to just leave him here for the ankhegs …”

  “He sure likes you, though.”

  “Stop it.”

  “It’s a bit creepy, actually. The way he watches you, sometimes it’s like a dragon watching its prey.”

  “That doesn’t make it sound like he likes me. More like he wants to eat me.”

  “You know what I mean, Shara.”

  Shara felt her face grow red, and she turned away. “What can we use to make a little raft?”

  Uldane proved surprisingly skilled at weaving reeds around a basic frame of branches to make a simple raft. Shara knew that halflings were river-dwellers, but in all their years of adventuring together she’d never seen Uldane demonstrate the skills he must have been born into. Shara held her breath as she gently lowered a moaning Quarhaun into the raft, and she sighed with relief when it held him afloat.

  “Maybe this will keep him closer to the water spirits,” Uldane said as Shara worked her rope into a simple harness.

  “That would be good. Although I don’t know if the river has the same spirits as the swamp.”

  “Do you suppose they’re friends or enemies?”

  “Who?”

  “The water spirits. Do the ones in the river like the ones in the swamp? Or do they think they’re dirty, ugly, lazy spirits because they don’t flow bright and clear the way the river spirits do?”

  Shara blinked at Uldane, then turned to look at the river. She felt, in a way, like she’d never really seen the river before—the way the sunlight gleamed on the water as it rushed by, the dance of the plants that grew beneath the surface as the water swirled around them, the darting fish and skimming insects. And beneath or behind all that, in a way that words couldn’t describe, the spirits of the river, laughing as they tripped along through the banks.

  She stooped and dipped her hand in the water, feeling the water tug at her fingers, inviting her to join their tripping band. “Please,” she whispered, “help him.” She scooped a handful of water from the river and sprinkled it on Quarhaun, then shouldered her harness and started walking upriver, toward Fallcrest.

  As they walked, Uldane prattled on about the water spirits, marveling at the sensation of the water flowing over him as Kssansk healed his wounds, speculating at more length about the relationship between the river spirits and the swamp spirits, not to mention the spirits in Lake Nen and Lake Wintermist, at the heads of the river. Oh, and the ocean spirits, or bay spirits, or whatever lay far to the south where the river, under some other name, at last joined with the sea.

  Shara just let his words wash over h
er—like the water spirits, she decided, soothing away her cares.

  After an hour or so of uninterrupted talking, Uldane suddenly fell silent. Shara thought he might have been in midsentence, but she racked her brain to remember what he’d said, in case he asked a question and was awaiting a response. Something about … oysters?

  “I don’t remember that,” the halfling said at last.

  Shara looked down at him, then followed his gaze off to the east across the river, where a fire-blackened farmhouse stood beside the scorched remnants of its fields.

  “I do remember the house,” Shara said. “It’s the Wintermoot place, the farthest farm outside of Fallcrest. When you leave the town along the river, it’s the last farm you see before you’re in the wilds. When you’re coming back, it’s the first farm you see, so you know you’re almost there. I wonder what happened.”

  Uldane looked concerned for a long moment, then his irrepressible smile reasserted itself. “I remember people talking about how you couldn’t start a meeting until the Wintermoots arrived. Once they were there, well, it didn’t matter who else was missing, because you know they’d had plenty of time to get there. If the Wintermoots could get there, then why couldn’t you, right?”

  “Look, there’s still some smoke puffing out of the house. It must have been recent.”

  “We passed a ford not too long ago,” Uldane said, though he looked like he dreaded what Shara might say in answer.

  “No, I don’t think there’s anything left to be done. I think it happened recently, but not today. I’m sure we’ll hear what happened when we get to Fallcrest.”

  “And sleep in real beds!” Uldane said, starting to walk again. “If Albanon’s not at the tower, are we staying at the Nentir Inn?”

  “That’s what I figured. Is that all right with you?”

  “Well, part of me feels like we should give our business to the Silver Unicorn—you know, help out the clan.”

  “Are you related to Wisara Osterman?” The stern matriarch who owned Fallcrest’s more expensive inn seemed about as unlike Uldane as Shara could imagine.

  “Not in any way I could trace. But I’m sure there are ties.”

  “We can stay at the Silver Unicorn if you want to, Uldane.”

  “Well, the rest of me thinks Wisara is a crotchety old coot who doesn’t deserve our business.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Besides, I don’t think she’d be particularly welcoming to our new friend.” Uldane nodded toward the raft where Quarhaun was sleeping soundly.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Shara said. “I really hope Albanon is back and we can stay in the tower, because I’m not sure we’re going to do much better at the Nentir Inn. You don’t see a lot of drow in Fallcrest.”

  “That’s true. I heard a story once about some drow raiding Fallcrest, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, I guess they never got farther than the outlying farms, but—hey, there’s another one!”

  Shara followed Uldane’s pointing finger with her eyes, lifting her hand to shield them against the early afternoon sun. Clearly outlined on a hilltop almost due north of them was the wreckage of another farmhouse—the manor house, really, of the Dembran family, a clan of minor nobles who had held an estate south of Fallcrest since the Nentir Vale was first settled. Shara couldn’t see the fields, which were situated primarily on the north side of the hill, but the house was in much worse shape than the Wintermoot farmhouse had been. And not just burned. Walls were broken down as if a siege engine had been set against the place.

  Shara felt a sick feeling take root in the pit of her stomach. “This story about drow raids—that wasn’t a recent event, was it?”

  “No, hundreds of years ago. Why?”

  “These farms were attacked,” Shara said.

  “You think drow were involved?”

  “No way to tell from here, but I doubt it. More likely it was the dragon or his minions. Damn it! We chased him all over the Nentir Vale, and he attacked Fallcrest while we were away! Maybe even while we were talking to him in the fens!”

  “Well, as you said, there’s no way to tell from here. But we should go check it out.”

  “Something tells me we should get to town as quickly as we can,” Shara said. She looked up at the sky, measuring the position of the sun. “And before dark, if we can.”

  She waded into the water and bent over Quarhaun, feeling his forehead. “The fever has broken,” she said. “It appears the water spirits heard my plea.”

  Quarhaun opened his eyes and said something that sounded long and florid, probably Elven.

  “Go back to sleep,” Shara told him. “You’re still incoherent.”

  “I said, how could the water spirits not heed your words, when they come from such lovely lips?”

  Blushing, Shara turned to Uldane, who raised his eyebrow knowingly. She rolled her eyes at him and turned back to the drow.

  “So you’re feeling better?” she asked

  “I’m cold and wet,” Quarhaun said. “My mouth tastes like a fungus slug died in it, and I think my shoulder might be on fire. But better, yes. Am I …” He lifted his head, trying to look around. “On a raft?”

  “Yes. We built it to carry you to town.”

  “How industrious. And it explains the cold and wet.”

  “Well, the last time I checked you were burning with fever, so cool is an improvement. Can you walk?”

  “Help me out of this thing and we’ll find out. Where are we?”

  “The outskirts of Fallcrest,” Shara said as she took his hand and helped him sit up. The raft bobbed dangerously low in the water as he shifted, and Quarhaun scowled.

  “Now some parts of me are wetter than others,” he said.

  Shara got him standing in the shallow water at the river’s edge, then draped one of his arms around her shoulder to help him walk to shore. He slipped once, throwing his other arm around her and clutching her in a way that was rather more familiar than it needed to be. She shot him her best withering glare and he withdrew his hand, making excuses.

  “That’s better,” Quarhaun said once his feet were on dry land again. “How far is it to Fallcrest?”

  “Two, maybe three hours at a normal pace. It probably would have taken us five or six if we had to keep pulling you along the river, and I guess I would’ve been carrying you to the Nentir Inn. So even if you can’t sustain a normal pace, we ought to make it before nightfall.”

  “Do you think an inn is wise?”

  “Uldane and I were just discussing that,” Shara said, nodding. “Our first choice is to sleep in Moorin’s tower—well, it’s Albanon’s tower now. But if he and Kri haven’t returned, I think we’ll be all right at the Nentir Inn. It might present some troubles, but they know me there, and they’ll accept you if I vouch for you. And you really need bed rest, and maybe the attention of a healer. Do you think you can make it?”

  “I’m not dead. I’ll make it.”

  “You very nearly were dead. Remember that before you try anything stupid.”

  Quarhaun nodded seriously to her, but shot Uldane an obvious wink. “I’ll try,” he said.

  Uldane helped Shara out of the rope harness, untied the rope, and let the little raft drift back down the river. Shara watched with amusement as Uldane performed what seemed like a familiar rite, a prolonged farewell to a craft that had served its purpose well. He watched it drift downstream until Quarhaun cleared his throat impatiently, and even as they walked Uldane kept looking back until he couldn’t see it any more.

  As they continued, Shara and Uldane explained to Quarhaun what they’d seen of the Wintermoot farm and the Dembran estate, sharing their concerns that Fallcrest itself might be under attack.

  “I once returned from a hunting expedition and found the cavern where my city had been completely caved in,” the drow said. “It took us three weeks to find where the survivors had established a new city.”

  “What h
appened to the city?”

  “The matron mothers of the ruling house had angered Lolth, and she punished them with the cave-in.”

  “How did anyone survive?”

  “Lolth warned the priests of the other houses. They had to figure out a way to evacuate as many people as possible—key people, anyway—without letting the ruling house know what was happening.” He shook his head. “I have no head for politics.”

  “If that’s what you call politics, I’m not surprised,” Shara said.

  Soon the road left the riverbank and ran through a little wood that divided the Dembran fields from the more tightly packed farms that lay across the river from Fallcrest’s Lowtown. Shara started to ask Quarhaun more about his home city, but Uldane interrupted her.

  “Listen,” the halfling said, coming to a stop on the side of the road.

  Shara and Quarhaun stopped as well. Shara slid her sword from its sheath as she looked around for any sign of danger.

  “No,” Uldane said. “Listen.”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly. Where are the birds? Where are the squirrels fleeing through the branches at all the noise we’re making? It’s too quiet.”

  “Maybe we’re not hearing them because we’ve already scared them away.”

  Uldane looked dissatisfied with that answer, but evidently couldn’t refute it. He scowled as he looked around at the trees, ears alert for any sound.

  Quarhaun shifted uncomfortably a few times before breaking the silence. “It’s quiet, certainly. And that’s unusual?”

  “Of course,” Uldane said. “There should at least be birds singing down by the river.”

  “I see. In the Underdark, silence is normal. If you hear something moving, it’s probably coming to kill you.”

  “Good grief,” Shara said. “What a terrible place!”

  “On the other hand,” Quarhaun added, a thoughtful look on his face, “if you don’t hear something moving, there’s probably still something coming to kill you.”

  “That might be what we’re looking at here,” Shara said. “Weapons out, eyes and ears open. Aerin’s Crossing is just a little farther. Maybe we’ll get a better idea what’s going on.”