by James Wyatt
“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 happened 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 th
rough 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.”
Aerin’s Crossing was the beginning of the town of Fallcrest, more or less. If nothing else, it was distinguished from the more southerly farms by the fact that it usually appeared on maps of the town. A half dozen smaller farms clustered around the crossing where River Road met the Old Ford Road, which ran through all of Lowtown on the other side of the river, then wound up the bluffs, passed the stables in Hightown, and left the Wizard’s Gate to the east.
If Aerin’s Crossing lies in ruins, Shara thought, then we know there’s trouble.
They walked through the woods with as much caution as if they’d been exploring a monster-filled dungeon. Shara kept listening for any sound of the normal animal life of the forest, but the silence held, broken only by their own footsteps and Quarhaun’s ragged breathing.
She smelled the smoke just a few paces before the forest fell away and gave her a clear view of the ravaged farms around Aerin’s Crossing. Scattered fires still smoked on the fields nearby and the orchards on the north side of the crossroad. The houses were marked by plumes of black smoke rising to darken the sky, while no wall of the structures remained intact.
“Oh, no,” she breathed.
“I can’t believe it,” Uldane said. “What could have done this?”
“What else? Vestapalk and the demons.”
“I don’t know,” Quarhaun said. “We haven’t seen the demons burning things before. It’s easy to blame catastrophe on the evil you know. But the longer you keep yourself in that delusion, the longer the unknown evil has to plot against you.”
“What is that, a drow proverb?” Shara asked.
Quarhaun shrugged. “Loosely translated.”
“Well, there are plenty of evils we know of. But it’s a fair point-there might be a new player on the scene, a red dragon or a fire giant.”
“Or a marauding army of orcs or gnolls,” Uldane added.
“A crazed cult of the Fire Lord,” Quarhaun suggested with a sidelong grin at the halfling.
“So we stay alert and ready for anything,” Shara said. “No delusions, no surprises.”
“There’s always surprises,” Uldane said brightly.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
With Captain Damar’s permission, Albanon led Kri out of Moorin’s Glowing Tower and into the streets of Fallcrest. Though the sky was only hinting at the approach of dawn, frightened and desperate looking people were everywhere. Families huddled together for warmth against the autumn chill, taking shelter under the eaves of the larger buildings as they snatched at sleep. A few people just stumbled around, wide-eyed with shock, oblivious to the cold and dark.
“The Tower of Waiting,” Kri said, for the fourth or fifth time. “It’s on an island, yes?”
“Correct. We’ll go to the Upper Quays and find a boat to take us over to the island.”
“How far to the quays?” Kri asked.
“Across town,” Albanon said. “A quarter of a mile, perhaps?”
“Quickly!”
Albanon quickened his pace, striding along the Bluff Ridge Road toward the river. Fear and anxiety welled in his chest and gripped his stomach. The town was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, the fear of its people hanging over the streets like smoke. Moorin had occasionally shared stories from his childhood, in the dark decades after the fall of Nerath and the Bloodspear War, that suggested such horrors as Fallcrest was now experiencing, but to Albanon they had been nothing more than stories, coated with the romance of memory of the distant past.
As he walked, his eyes met the despairing gaze of so many refugees-people, citizens of the town, who had lost family members, their homes, all their worldly possessions in this attack. Here and there he saw people laid low with illness, sleeping in alleys for lack of a safe sickbed. Some had great sores on their skin, and on one young man he saw a distinctive crust of red crystals growing around the sores.
For seven years, Fallcrest had been Albanon’s home as he studied with Moorin, and he felt their pain. It wasn’t the same town he had left behind in such a hurry, and it might never be the same even if the demons were driven off or destroyed.
“If the demons are all over Lowtown,” Albanon said, “what’s Nu Alin doing in the Tower of Waiting? Commanding Vestapalk’s troops?”
“You saw the demons at the Temple of Yellow Skulls,” Kri said. “Calling them troops implies some kind of order in the horde. Most of them are stupid brutes. I expect they have pack leaders, but I think Nu Alin has other purposes in the tower.”
“But won’t the tower be crawling with demons? What makes you think we can even get to it?”
“I suspect most of the demons are busy spreading chaos and destruction in Lowtown,” Kri said. “A stealthy approach should serve us well, and if that fails, well, they should not underestimate our power.”
“There’s only the two of us,” Albanon said. “And no one to keep the demons from getting too close.”
“The demons that frighten the Fallcrest guard pose no such great threat to the likes of us.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m right,” Kri said. “Now walk faster!”
Albanon quickened his steps again, though he was getting short of breath. “Why such a terrible hurry?
“My divination revealed that Nu Alin was in the Tower of Waiting, but that was nearly five hours ago. He could be anywhere now, but the quicker we get to the tower, the less likely it is he’ll have moved by then.”
“I see.” Talking was becoming too much of an effort, so Albanon concentrated on keeping up his pace and finding the quickest path to the Upper Quays.
He turned off the Bluff Ridge Road onto the Tombwood Road, which ran along the ancient forest that cloaked the southern slopes of Moonstone Hill, the site of the Lord Warden’s estate. Before long, the forest crowded close to the road on their right, and the temple of Erathis stood proud on the left. The temple was brightly lit, and Albanon suspected that many of the plague-struck had found beds and care in the massive stone structure, the town’s largest temple.
“There’s a shrine to Ioun in the temple,” he told Kri. “Do you feel the need to pause for prayer?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Kri growled.
Albanon’s face flushed and he hung his head, pushing himself to a still faster pace. Kri’s words stung. As harsh a master as Moorin co
uld be at times, he was never so outright insulting. I was just trying to be helpful, he protested in his mind.
The House of the Sun was the next major landmark along the road, an old temple of Pelor that lay abandoned for many years after the Bloodspear War. Moorin had always spoken with amusement-and a fair amount of appreciation-of the new priest who had reopened the temple, a firebrand dwarf named Grundelmar. Grundelmar’s zeal for searching out the evil that lurks in the dark places of the world had appealed to Moorin’s adventuresome past, and the few times that Albanon had heard the dwarf speak, he’d always come away longing for adventure.
I think maybe I’ve had enough adventure now, he thought. Let me spend a few years in Sherinna’s library when this is all over, and then maybe I’ll be ready for another adventure.
“We’re almost there,” he told Kri as they passed the House of the Sun. “See the warehouses ahead? The Upper Quays are just past them.”
Kri nodded. In the predawn stillness, Albanon could hear the river rushing and the roar of the falls farther downstream. Firelight filled the sky behind the warehouses, and as he rounded a warehouse, he saw the bonfires and bright torches lining the quays. Soldiers stood by every fire, peering into the darkness and clutching their spears.
“Forget the demons,” Albanon muttered. “Can we get past Fallcrest’s defenders?”
“They’ll let us through,” Kri said. “But we need a boat first.”
“Right. Follow me.” Albanon turned to the right and made for the quay near the town’s north wall. Fishers tended to gather there, where they could venture onto the river at a safe distance from the falls, and Albanon had heard adventurers in the Blue Moon Alehouse talk about hiring a fisher to ferry them out to explore the Tower of Waiting.
That seems like ages ago, he thought. I wonder what happened to them at the tower.
“No one is on the river,” Kri observed.
Albanon followed the old priest’s gaze out to the water. It was hard to see into the dark past the watchfires on the quay, and he couldn’t make out any sign of boats on the river. He shrugged. “It’s early yet.”