by James Wyatt
“I’ll take care of the light,” the priest said. He rested a hand on the seal of Bahamut that adorned Roghar’s shield and closed his eyes for a moment, then a mote of light like a tiny sun sprang to life on the shield.
“Now my enemies can have no doubt where I am,” Roghar said, smiling.
“It’s no different than if you were carrying that sunrod,” Travic replied.
“I wasn’t complaining. Let them try to get past this shield and my armor. Better that than have them attacking the two of you.”
“Roghar,” Travic whispered, with a glance at Tempest. The tiefling was staring into the crater.
Roghar raised an eyebrow.
“She screamed before she fell,” Travic said. He stepped back and gestured toward the tunnel mouth. “Shall we?”
Roghar watched Tempest as she turned back toward them, her eyes still wide and her mouth set into a thin line. Had she experienced some kind of vision? Perhaps her nightmares had come to plague her by day as they did every night. Was she going mad?
Just a slip, he thought. But a slip of her foot? Or a slip of her self-control?
Tempest kept such tight rein on her thoughts and her emotions-it was part of what allowed her to keep control over the sinister power she wielded. If that control was slipping …
“What are we waiting for?” Tempest demanded. She met Roghar’s gaze with a mischievous smile, and he couldn’t help but smile back at her.
“Travic needed a moment to pluck up his courage,” Roghar said. “The older he gets, the longer it takes.”
Travic laughed. “That’s true of a lot of things, but not this. Let’s move.”
Roghar turned to the tunnel mouth. He’d have to duck his head to enter, and if anything attacked in the tunnel he’d be at a disadvantage, fighting in very close quarters. On the other hand, the curve to the left was slightly to his advantage, giving him better reach with his sword hand than an opponent coming up the other way. Assuming his hypothetical opponent used weapons.
“Who’s plucking up his courage now?” Travic said behind him.
Shooting a grin back to the priest, Roghar stooped and entered the tunnel. The bedeviling echoes ceased at once, and his footsteps seemed muted by comparison. The light Travic had put on his shield shone clear and bright, filling the tunnel until it curved out of sight. Alert for any sound around the curves, Roghar advanced as fast as the low ceiling would allow.
He saw nothing to indicate who might have excavated the tunnel or why. The shoring was crude but effective, employing scavenged materials that had evidently been well chosen for strength and size. The tunnel spiraled down until Roghar figured they were lower than the bottom of the crater and then, without warning, it opened up into a wider hallway with a gentler downward slope. The hall looked like it had been part of a manor house above ground before the cataclysm that dragged it into the earth. Smooth stone walls gave him ample room to move and swing his sword, and the ceiling accommodated even his nearly seven-foot height. The hall showed signs of its displacement, though-jagged cracks ran through the walls, crumbling masonry littered the floor, and the two doorways Roghar could see leading off to the sides were half collapsed. Roghar eyed the ceiling cautiously, wondering how many tons of rock were overhead now.
He paused as Tempest and then Travic emerged from the corkscrew tunnel and found their bearings in the new hallway. “I see light coming around that corner,” he said, pointing down the hall.
“Smells like incense,” Tempest added.
Roghar took a deep breath through his nostrils and noticed it as well-sandalwood or something similar.
“I’d wager we’re about to walk into a secret temple,” Travic said. “Tiamat?”
Roghar bristled. As a paladin of Bahamut, he had a special loathing for the cults of Tiamat, mirroring the enmity between the two dragon gods, the twin children of Io. But this didn’t feel like a cult of Tiamat to him. The whole arrangement suggested devils-the temple nestled in the ancient ruins, the menacing whispers in the crater, and the spiraling descent, like a passage through the Nine Hells. “Five gold says it’s Asmodeus,” he said.
Travic sniffed the air and smiled. “You’re on. There’s no hint of brimstone.”
Roghar scowled. “I stand by my bet. Come on.” He shifted his grip on his shield and started down the hall.
“Stop!” Tempest said quietly, but with an urgency that stopped him dead. She moved up to stand beside him and pointed at the floor just in front of his feet.
Roghar crouched and squinted, and finally saw the slender tripwire stretched across the hall a few inches off the floor. “Thank you,” he breathed. He cast his eyes around the hallway but didn’t see any other sign of a trap-no block of stone rigged to fall from the ceiling, no slits in the walls where blades might spring out. It didn’t matter. Even if it was only rigged to ring a bell in the secret temple, alerting the cultists to their approach, he’d almost walked right into it. He stood and put a hand on Tempest’s shoulder. “Do you see anything else?”
“Not from here. But maybe I should go first.”
Roghar didn’t like the idea-it would make her more vulnerable in an attack, and possibly cost them precious time in a fight as she fell back behind him. On the other hand, she was probably more likely to notice signs of an ambush or hear approaching attackers than he was, as well as being more likely to spot traps and tripwires. He nodded and squeezed to the side of the hall so she could get past him.
Tempest stepped carefully over the tripwire and paused to make sure Roghar crossed it safely. Roghar mimicked her motions, provoking a snicker that Tempest quickly hid with a cough. He grinned at her, then pointed out the tripwire to Travic so the priest could step over it as well.
Roghar nodded to himself as he followed Tempest down the hall. This is how it’s supposed to work, he thought. Teamwork, each member of the team relying on the others’ strengths and covering each other’s weaknesses.
I’m starting to sound like a priest of Erathis, he thought with a laugh. The god of civilization promoted the ideals of people working together to build and invent and civilize, sometimes even to conquer. But those ideals were not far from Bahamut’s-the Platinum Dragon exhorted his followers to protect the weak and defend just order, order that might be established in Erathis’s name.
Tempest led them past several collapsing doorways, the rooms beyond mostly or completely caved in, showing no sign of having been touched or inhabited in the last century. An alcove on the left side of the hall held a decorative guardian, a stone sculpture in surprisingly good condition, depicting a proud human knight in plate armor. Roghar paused as the knight’s stone eyes caught his gaze-they were so lifelike, so expertly carved, that he found himself wondering for a moment if the statue might be a living man turned to stone by a medusa or basilisk. But the pose was that of a watchful sentinel, not a man turned to stone in midstride, and he dismissed the thought.
Travic lingered at the statue as well, admiring the sculptor’s art. Tempest held up a hand and hissed a warning, wrenching Roghar’s full attention back to the end of the hallway.
“I hear voices,” she mouthed, pointing to her ear.
Roghar tried to listen, but a sudden sound of rumbling stone from behind him drowned out all other sound. He whirled around in time to see the stone knight, emerged from its alcove, swing its sword down in a deadly arc toward Travic’s head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The way to Sherinna’s tower lay across the Plain of Thorns, the aptly named expanse of brown bush and sharp briers that stretched from the edge of the forest for miles to the south and east. Albanon led the way through thorny vines that did, he had to admit, seem to yield at his approach. He moderated his pace to make sure Kri could keep up-the thorns started closing in behind Albanon as soon as he passed, forcing Kri to pick his way more carefully through the brambles.
The sun settled on the horizon, bathing the dry plain in blood-red light. Albanon frowned at the sky, looke
d back to the forest where his father’s palace stood hidden among the trees, and searched the fields ahead for a sign of the tower.
“I don’t relish the thought of having to find the tower in the dark,” he said to Kri.
“It can’t be much farther,” Kri replied. “And the sky is clear-we’ll have moonlight to guide us.”
“Can you see the tower? Am I just blind?”
“If you are, it’s because you rely too much on your eyes instead of letting yourself feel the magic around you.”
Albanon sighed. “It’s overwhelming here. So much magic.”
“That’s what makes it so useful. If you can open yourself to it, it will show you more than your eyes ever could. Imagine you’re a fish that can feel everything the water in the ocean touches.”
“I’d go mad.”
“No!” The vehemence of Kri’s reply surprised Albanon. “If you’re unwilling to use the power given to you, you’ll never learn anything.”
“Moorin always taught me to use my power with caution.”
“Moorin held you back.”
Albanon glanced up to where Splendid circled in the sky, glad the little drake wasn’t present to hear her late master insulted. He knew he should probably take offense as well, but he couldn’t quite manage it. He had loved Moorin-”like a father” didn’t seem to quite cover it, considering his relationship to his own father. But he’d also long felt exactly what Kri had just said, that Moorin was holding him back, unwilling or unable to see his true potential. Moorin had dismissed his grumbling as the discontent common to every young apprentice, but now Kri seemed to be validating it.
Splendid swooped down and landed on his shoulder, making him stumble a few steps forward under the sudden weight. With her return, Albanon felt a blush of shame for the thoughts he’d been harboring, the disrespect he’d allowed himself to feel for his departed master. The shame was followed by a surge of anger, though, at the mentor who was supposed to train him and heighten his skills and instead held back his growing power.
Why should I be ashamed of wanting to claim the power that is mine? he thought, casting a dark glance sidelong at the pseudodragon.
“I found your tower,” Splendid said.
“You did?” Albanon’s face brightened, but then he heard a sound that sent a thrill of fear down his spine. Hounds bayed in the distance behind them.
Kri cocked an eyebrow at him. “A hunt?”
No trace of fear showed on the old priest’s face, and Albanon could understand why. In the world, the sound of a hunt meant a party giving chase to a stag or a boar. It was nothing for the people of the world to be afraid of, and might send a flutter of excitement in a listener who had participated in such a hunt before. But the stag or boar who was the quarry of the hunt would flee in fear, and rightly so.
“The nobles of the Feywild do not hunt beasts for sport,” Albanon said. “If there is a hunt on our heels, it means we are the quarry.”
“But your father granted us passage,” Kri said. “Did he change his mind?”
“Perhaps he decided that the insult you gave him could not be allowed to stand. I’ve rarely seen him that angry.”
Kri drew himself up. “He needed a slap in the face.”
“Not where others could see, not from a stranger in his court, and certainly not from a human. Even if he had been willing to ignore your insult, he might have felt he had to punish you in order to save face with his courtiers.”
“So what now?”
“Now we run. Splendid, lead the way to the tower!”
“If what?” the drake said.
“If what? I don’t think I understand you.”
Splendid’s voice dripped with disdain. “If you please.”
“You must be joking.”
“Am I a pet? A servant? A slave? I think not.”
“Fine, Splendid. Please!”
The drake sniffed. “That will have to do.”
She pushed up from Albanon’s shoulder, sending him off balance again, and flapped into the air. She circled a moment as Albanon watched, then flew away in more or less the direction they’d been heading, but a little more to the south.
“And now we follow, as fast as these damned thorns will allow.”
Albanon hurried after Splendid, the thorns parting in front of him and closing in behind. He searched the rolling plain ahead for a sign of the tower, cursing himself for forgetting to ask Splendid how far away it was. Then he crested a rise and spotted it, nestled in a thicket at the top of another low hill. Too far away-they’d never make it, if the hunt was as close as it sounded.
“Albanon!”
He turned and saw Kri ten yards behind him. Grasping thorns pinned the priest in place, caught in his clothes and piercing his skin. Albanon growled in frustration. They’d never escape the hunt if Kri kept getting snagged in the brambles.
“Use your power, Albanon,” Kri said. “The thorns respond to your mere presence. If you command them, they’ll respond to that as well.”
Albanon’s eyes widened. Why didn’t I think of that? he thought. I am a wizard and the scion of an eladrin prince. Did Moorin utterly crush my sense of my own abilities?
He stretched one hand toward Kri and the other, gripping his staff, in the direction of the tower. Drawing a deep breath, he focused his will and his magic, then with a grunt he extended both out through his hands. Kri staggered free of the thorns, and a path appeared through the brush and vines, a hundred yards long.
“That’s more like it,” Kri said. His broad smile filled Albanon with pride, and together the two men raced for the tower.
When they reached the end of the first path, Albanon thrust both hands in front of him and made a longer one. Over the sounds of the baying hounds in the distance and Kri’s wheezing breath, he heard the high, clear notes of a horn urging the hunt onward. Too close. At least Kri was moving faster, but it still felt too slow.
When they reached the end of the second path, Albanon had an idea. First he summoned his will to clear a new path in front of them, the longest one so far. He could feel each individual thorn and vine when he stretched out his senses, feel the magic in them and shape his own magic to control them. It was so easy, now that he understood it.
Why did I never learn this before? he wondered.
With fierce joy surging in his heart, he turned around and lifted his arms over his head. He watched as the vines surged back over the path he’d left in his wake, then thickened still more, growing taller and tougher. In a moment they were a wall behind him, studded with terrible thorns.
“That should slow our pursuers,” Kri said.
“Yes. Even if they carry my father’s authority, it’ll take them some time to clear a path through that, or to go around it.”
Each time they reached the end of a path, Albanon set up a new barrier behind them. Soon the tower loomed close, and Albanon finally allowed himself to believe they might reach the tower before the hunt caught up to them.
Splendid swooped down and landed on a thick bush, nimbly twisting herself around the large thorns. “I have to admit, apprentice,” she said, “your control of the thorns is admirable. The great wizard Moorin would approve.”
Albanon turned away before Splendid could see him scowl, then found himself blinking back tears. What would Moorin have thought? he wondered. He still missed the old wizard, despite the resentment that seemed to be growing in his heart. And despite the excitement he felt at the thought of learning from Kri.
Splendid jumped onto his shoulder and they hurried along Albanon’s path. The horns blared with a new urgency, as if the hunters had realized that their quarry was escaping them. But the thorny barriers didn’t seem to be slowing them as much as Albanon had hoped, which only confirmed his fear that the huntmaster carried the full authority of the Prince of Thorns, allowing the hunt to clear a path as easily as Albanon did.
Albanon cleared one more path, and the thorns fell away from the base of Sherinna’s t
ower. It was a slender spire of white marble draped in ivy, five or six stories high. It had weathered the centuries well-but most structures built in the Feywild by eladrin hands did. The tower’s entrance was a door of stout oak reinforced with mithral bands, and Albanon felt a sudden worry that they’d reach the tower only to find themselves unable to open the door to escape their pursuers.
He turned to raise a thorny barrier behind them, and caught his first glimpse of the hunt. The hounds at the lead had glowing green eyes, and with each yowl and bark they belched a puff of emerald fire. Behind them, a half dozen eladrin nobles rode white and gray horses, the pennants of the Prince of Thorns trailing from their upraised lances.
So there was no denying it-the Prince of Thorns had sent them out to kill his own son.
Albanon raised the barrier just in front of the lead hounds and heard them crash into it with yelps of surprise and pain. Smiling with bitter satisfaction, he nodded to Kri. “Almost there,” he said.
Only then did he see the toll their flight had taken on the old priest. Kri was bent over, hands on his knees as he tried desperately to catch his breath. His ashen face was twisted with pain and streaked with sweat.
“Oh, no,” Albanon breathed, stepping to the old priest’s side. “Come on, Kri.” He put an arm around Kri’s shoulder and tried to help the priest walk to the tower. “We’re so close.”
Kri accepted his help and they hobbled together along the path, the yelps and barks behind them growing more intense as the hounds forced their way through Albanon’s thorny barrier. The hunt was so close that Albanon could hear the eladrin spewing colorful curses as their horses balked at the rising brambles. The tower seemed impossibly far away.