by James Wyatt
Roghar led their procession across the bridge, while Shara brought up the rear, keeping an eye and an ear out behind them. Tempest and Uldane walked on either side of Quarhaun, as if protecting the helpless hermit from danger. Shara smiled to herself-it was a convincing illusion, at least to her mind.
“Ho there, travelers!” one of the soldiers on the bridge called. “Let me see your empty hands as you approach, please.”
Shara slid her sword into its sheath on her back and held her hands out to the sides of her body. Her companions did the same-except Quarhaun, who still gripped his staff with both hands, leaning heavily on the branch as he walked.
“You in the middle, let me see your hands,” the soldier called again.
Quarhaun stopped and stretched out his arms for a moment, then gripped the staff again as he hobbled forward. He was reaching the end of his strength, Shara realized, and needed to rest soon.
“Well, well,” the guard said as they drew closer. “Bold adventurers come to deliver our town from the monsters and plague?”
“I am Roghar,” the dragonborn announced, bowing slightly. “If my sword and Bahamut’s strength can be of help to Fallcrest, I offer them gladly.”
Shara counted eleven soldiers on the bridge-ten clutching longspears, arrayed behind the commander who was speaking to Roghar. That was more soldiers than she’d ever seen in one place in Fallcrest-perhaps anywhere in the Nentir Vale. She suspected that most of them were farmers or laborers drafted into the militia when the town came under attack. Fallcrest had precious few professional soldiers in its guard, and they would probably be spread around the perimeter of the walls, the bluffs, and the waterfront, commanding groups of militia recruits.
The commander returned Roghar’s bow. “I apologize if I sounded flippant, paladin,” he said. His apology seemed sincere, but Shara thought his voice retained a bit of its edge. “Too many would-be heroes have found their way here in our trouble and lived like leeches off the generosity of our citizens.”
Was that an explanation or a warning? Shara wondered.
“When did this happen?” Roghar asked.
“We’ve been under attack for two weeks. The monsters swept through Aerin’s Crossing and Lowtown like wildfire, driving the survivors into the relative safety of Hightown. We’re crowded and getting desperate, so the last thing we need are parasites.” Shara thought she saw the man’s eyes rest on Tempest, then Quarhaun, during his last sentence.
“My companions and I have already slain many of the demons that infest the Nentir Vale,” Roghar said. “Why, just moments ago, we rescued this poor man from a demon attack.” He gestured to Quarhaun.
Shara gritted her teeth. You didn’t have to draw attention to him, Roghar, she thought.
The guard stepped around Roghar to look at Quarhaun more closely. “So you’re not one of these bold adventurers?” he said. “A hermit, are you?”
“That’s right,” Quarhaun said.
The guard frowned at Quarhaun’s unfamiliar accent. “Of what order?”
“What?”
“Are you a member of a religious order? Or just one of those fanatics who think they’re too good for the temples?”
“The latter, I’m afraid,” Quarhaun said, drawing himself up.
Shara stretched her fingers and shifted her weight, unsure how this confrontation was going to play out.
“But now you come slinking back to the shelter of town. What’s the matter, did things get too dangerous in your woodland retreat? After repudiating our ways, you come back to our walls and soldiers when things get dangerous.”
“On the contrary,” Quarhaun said, “I encountered no difficulties with these demons until I arrived in your fair town.”
“I don’t think I like your tone,” the guard said.
“Commander,” Roghar said, trying to interpose himself between the guard and Quarhaun. “I promised to escort this man to the safety of Fallcrest. I would not violate my sacred oath …”
“Don’t make promises that are beyond your ability to keep,” the soldier said. “What was it, then? The plague? What’s hidden under those wrappings?” He peered into the shadows of the drow’s hood. “Show your face.”
Quarhaun stammered. “Th … the ways of my order-”
“You just told me you weren’t part of an order. Show your face.” The soldier drew his sword, though he kept the point lowered. The other soldiers shifted nervously behind their officer, making their spear points ripple threateningly.
“I will not,” Quarhaun said.
“You will, or you will die where you stand.”
“Commander,” Roghar said.
“Stay out of this, paladin, or I might have to assume that you were complicit in this man’s deception.” His scowl deepened. “If it is even proper to call him a man.”
Quarhaun hesitated for a long, tense moment, then lowered his hood and pulled the wrappings away from his face. The whole force of soldiers took a step back with a gasp, eyes wide with fear and mistrust.
“So our hermit is a drow spy,” the commander said. “And yet, I don’t see surprise or horror on any of your faces,” he added, gazing around at the rest of the group. “So you all knew, and you lied to protect him.” He glared at Roghar. “I’ve heard a lot of lies and excuses in my career, but never so bold a lie from a paladin of Bahamut.”
Roghar hung his head and Quarhaun glared defiantly at the commander, so Shara stepped forward to try to alleviate the tension. “Commander,” she said, “this man is a hero of the Nentir Vale. He has slain demons beyond counting and saved my life more than once. Don’t judge him by his race.”
“I judge him by the lies of his tongue. He hasn’t acted like a hero-none of you have. Full of empty boasts and deception, the lot of you. You’re not welcome in Fallcrest, not in these times.”
“Officer, our deception was regrettable, but we felt it necessary. In times like these, it’s natural that you would feel especially protective, more likely than usual to question the business of a drow within Fallcrest’s walls. We sought only to avoid giving you alarm.”
“Regrettable, indeed,” the officer said, his eyes on Roghar again.
“I spoke no falsehood,” Roghar said. “My companion Tempest and I happened upon these three in the midst of a demon attack on the bluffs near the Nentir Inn. Just moments ago, we did in fact rescue this poor man from demons.”
“Your ability to deceive with truthful words is nothing to boast of.”
Roghar turned to Shara and threw up his hands. “I told you this was a bad idea,” he said.
“So we leave,” Quarhaun said. “Let Fallcrest burn, if these men won’t admit the champions who might save it.”
“Quiet,” Shara said to him. “You’re not helping.” She turned to the commander. “Please. Quarhaun is no spy. His reasons for coming to Fallcrest are the same as ours, and his dedication to destroying the demons that plague the town is the equal of anyone’s. His sword has slain many demons, and it’s prepared to slay more. If you turn him away, it will be to Fallcrest’s detriment. Consider the good of your town.”
“That’s what I said,” Quarhaun muttered under his breath, but Shara silenced him with a sharp glance.
The commander took a slow breath as his eyes ranged over the group of them, as if measuring what he could see of their character. His gaze lingered longest on Roghar and then Quarhaun. Finally he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You may enter, all of you.” His upright stance relaxed slightly, and Shara realized for the first time how much the demonic attack must be wearing on the town’s defenders.
“Thank you,” Roghar said, bowing again to the commander. Shara and the others echoed his thanks and mimicked his bow, and Roghar led the way past the other soldiers and across the bridge.
As Roghar passed the soldiers, one put a hand on his arm. “Paladin,” the man said. “Deliver us.”
“I will,” Roghar said. “We all will. I swear it.”
Roghar
scowled as he crossed the bridge, resolving never to allow this drow to force him into such an awkward position, ever again. I’m supposed to stand for justice and honor, he thought, not show the world an example of deception and trickery.
Well, he thought, Fallcrest will see Bahamut’s justice meted out at the point of my sword soon enough. And my little deception will be forgotten.
The bridge crossed over the fastest and loudest part of the river before the falls, depositing him just south of the Upper Quays. The street was choked with people, milling around or loitering under the eaves of buildings. He saw people settling their families into makeshift camps inside wagons or in the mouths of alleys. He saw people who looked more like respectable shopkeepers than the downtrodden and destitute, standing on street corners and begging for food. He saw desperation, fear, or despair in the eyes of nearly everyone he passed.
He looked over his shoulder at Tempest, whose eyes were fixed on the cobblestones at her feet. She and Fallcrest are the same, he thought. Both besieged, invaded, and violated-and reeling from the shock of it. But how do I deliver her?
Lost in his thoughts, he led the way to the Silver Unicorn Inn-not typically his first choice of places to stay in Fallcrest, but with the Nentir Inn in flames, he had little choice. The service was better, anyway, but the group would pay handsomely for it. If there were rooms to be had at all-with Hightown so crowded with refugees from the rest of the town, it seemed unlikely.
His thoughts turned to the Blue Moon Alehouse, his favorite place in all Fallcrest to pass the time between adventures. Thanks to the labors of its brewmaster, Kemara Brownbottle, the Blue Moon offered the finest ales and beers in the whole Nentir Vale, rivaling anything he’d tasted even in Nera. He and Tempest had first met Albanon there, when the young apprentice wizard had come to hear the tales of their adventures. The Blue Moon was in Lowtown, though, which meant it was abandoned-or worse. How long will it take Kemara to recover? he wondered. Assuming we do drive the demons away.
The sound of breaking glass jolted him from his thoughts. He spun around and saw a shattered bottle on the cobblestones, and Shara glaring around at the crowds.
“Who threw that?” Shara demanded. “You want to fight him? Come out and fight!”
The drow. He’d been right after all-fear and suspicion were at terrible heights in Fallcrest, and he provided a convenient focus for those emotions. Though the crowd was silent in the face of Shara’s challenge, it had all the appearance of an angry mob, and Roghar suspected they’d been shouting jeers and catcalls while he was lost in his thoughts. Shara had her arm linked through Quarhaun’s and a defiant glare on her face, but Quarhaun himself looked far too weak and tired to face any challenger who emerged.
Roghar stepped to Quarhaun’s other side and lifted the drow’s arm over his own shoulder. “Shara,” he said. “Ignore them. We’ve got to get him off the street and into a bed.”
Shara looked at Quarhaun and blanched at the realization of how weak he was. She nodded to Roghar and hurried along toward the inn. The jeers resumed as they walked, but Roghar paid them no heed.
“They’re scared, Shara,” he said. “Getting angry at them isn’t going to soothe their fear. They’ll change their attitudes when they see what we do.”
Shara nodded and gritted her teeth, and they reached the Silver Unicorn without further incident. Uldane spoke to the halfling proprietor, Wisara Osterman, and returned with the happy news that rooms were available, albeit expensive. Apparently, Wisara had addressed the high demand for rooms in Hightown by raising her already high rates beyond the amount that most of the displaced folk would be willing or able to pay. Unfortunate for the refugees, Roghar thought, but lucky for us.
He helped Shara get Quarhaun upstairs, half dragging him, and laid him into one of the down-stuffed beds for which the Silver Unicorn was justly famous. The drow’s eyes opened wide in surprise at the comfort of the bed, then closed again as exhaustion claimed him.
“Platinum Dragon,” Roghar whispered, “let your power flow through me to soothe Quarhaun’s injuries and ease his weary body. Grant him patience to face the fears and mistrust of the good folk here. And grant him the faith to trust in your goodness and mercy.”
Roghar felt strength leave him and flow into the drow, soothing Quarhaun’s rest. “He’ll be all right,” he told Shara. “He should sleep easier now, and he’ll feel better in the morning.” He stood up to leave.
“Roghar,” Shara said, stopping him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, of course,” Roghar said. “But I hope he truly deserves the trust you’re placing in him.”
Shara smiled down at Quarhaun, a little wistfully, Roghar thought. “I hope so, too,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Shara sat by Quarhaun’s side for hours, watching him sleep. He seemed troubled-from time to time, he’d furrow his brow, murmur in a language she didn’t understand, or even thrash his head from side to side and cry out. In the worst times, she put her hand on his hot forehead and whispered his name until he settled down again. Once, in a long string of what she guessed were Elven words, she heard her name repeated several times in what might have been an impassioned plea or perhaps an angry tirade.
If only Albanon were here to translate. Or maybe that would be too embarrassing, she thought, as Quarhaun’s voice shifted to a deeper, softer tone.
She dozed in the chair beside him for a few minutes at a time, waking up each time with a painful knot in her neck or a plate of armor biting into her skin somewhere.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” she said to herself at last. With a glance to make sure Quarhaun’s eyes were still closed, she started working the buckles of her armor, grimacing at the caked blood and grime that glued leather and metal to her skin in places and the painful wounds that she pulled open again as she worked.
“Do you need any help?”
Shara gasped and replaced the breastplate she’d just started pulling free from her chest, then wheeled on Quarhaun. “You’re awake!” she said, holding her armor carefully in place.
“I am gifted with incredible timing,” Quarhaun said, smiling weakly. He blinked hard, making an effort to keep his eyes open.
“How do you feel?”
“Stiff and sore, but that’s better than I’ve felt in a while. How long have I been asleep?”
Shara started working the buckles that would keep her armor in place without help from her hands. “Only a few hours,” she said. “I don’t think Roghar and Uldane have even come up to bed yet. You can keep sleeping.”
Quarhaun shook his head. “I need to get out of this armor,” he said.
“Why don’t I step into the hall and give you some privacy?”
“I might need help. I’m still weak.”
“Well,” Shara said. “Certainly I can get your boots off.” She pulled her chair to the foot of the bed and sat on it. She tugged at one of his boots, but his whole body moved and he gave a yelp of pain. “Sorry!”
“Buckles,” Quarhaun said.
“Of course.” She loosened the buckles that held a boot tight around his calf and slipped it off easily.
“Shara?”
“Hm?” She turned her attention to the other boot, carefully avoiding his gaze.
“There are things I don’t know how to say in this language,” he said. “Things I’ve never said to anyone, expressing … feelings that are not really accepted among the drow. And not discussed.”
“Quarhaun, I don’t think-”
“Please let me finish.”
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She yanked his other boot off, harder than necessary, and he bit back another cry of pain.
“Why not?” he said.
“Gods, you’re impossible!” Her face was flushed again, which only fueled her frustration. “I … don’t want to disappoint you, Quarhaun.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” he said, the hint of a lascivious look in his eye.
“I don’t want to sleep. I want to know more about you.”
Shara settled back in her chair. “Very well,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
His eyes ranged over her body for a brief moment, then came to rest on her sword, leaned against the wall in the corner. “Tell me about Vestapalk,” he said at last.
She frowned. “Do you want to know about Vestapalk or about Jarren?”
“Who’s Jarren?”
“He was my lover,” she said. “We … well, I think we would have been married, though it was something we never really talked about, except maybe once. I put him off, told him we could think about it later, perhaps when we were too old or too rich to keep adventuring.”
“And the dragon killed him.”
“Yes. Uldane and I were part of an adventuring band, led by my father, actually. Borojon was his name. Me, Uldane, Borojon, Jarren, and Cliffside the dwarf. We had been tracking the dragon for a while, following the carnage he left in his wake. We finally found him, or he found us.”
The horror of the day came rushing back to her-the stench of the dragon’s acrid breath, the sound of rending meat as it tore Cliffside apart, Jarren’s horrified face looking down at her as she fell into the river.
“So you’re looking for revenge.”
“I suppose so.” Shara ran her fingers through her hair, hit a tangle, and thought briefly about how wonderful a bath would feel. “But I already got it, in a way. I killed the dragon, or at least left it next to dead. I think the thing that irks me most is the failure of it all. I fell into the godsdamned river instead of standing with my friends and killing the dragon the first time. Then when I met the dragon again, I didn’t even manage to kill it properly. Now it’s back and worse than ever, and honestly, I don’t know what I’ll do if I find it. I think it might be more than I can handle.”