by James Wyatt
Frozen flesh cracked and splintered as Nu Alin turned to face Shara and meet her charge. Where his body tore, red fluid appeared in the gaps-not blood, but the all too familiar liquid crystal of the Voidharrow. Shara drew back her sword, but Nu Alin lunged at her with blinding speed, ducking under her sword and slamming his fist into her again. She managed to twist away from the full force of the blow so that he only sent her sprawling on the ground rather than hurling her through the air again. His strength was unbelievable. If he keeps hitting me like that, she thought, I’m going to stop getting back up.
“So I take it you’re Nu Alin,” Quarhaun said, standing beside Shara as she got to her feet again.
“Indeed.”
“And are you familiar with the third invocation of Hadar?”
“I am not.” Nu Alin curled his clawlike fingers into fists and stepped toward Quarhaun.
“Observe!” Quarhaun shouted. He held out his hand alongside his eldrich blade, contorting his fingers into a bizarre shape, and light erupted in front of him.
It was as different from the clear, pure radiance of Roghar’s divine magic as that holy light was from the illumination of a lantern-a difference not of brightness or color but of quality, somehow. There was a wrongness, an alienness to it, as if it came from some distant star, pale and faint in the midnight sky.
The light’s effect on Nu Alin, however, was every bit as dramatic as what Roghar’s light had done. The demon sprang backward, throwing his arms up to shield his face from the unearthly glow. Where the red liquid showed in his joints, it smoldered and shrank back. The light congealed into an orb the size of Quarhaun’s fist that sprang at the demon and took up an orbit around him, sending little jolts like lightning to stab at him.
Shara got to her feet and cautiously circled around the demon. He snarled and coiled as if to spring at her, but the orb flared brighter and its light held him in place. He swatted at the orb of light instead, and it shattered into a million tiny fragments of light, dispersing into the darkness.
“Parlor tricks,” Nu Alin said. “Even if you dress them up with fancy names, they remain but tricks.”
“Then let’s see what you think of the seventh-”
Before Quarhaun could finish his sentence or even begin his invocation, Nu Alin was on him, bony fingers clenched around his throat. Blood welled where the clawlike tips of his fingers dug into the drow’s skin, seeking the great arteries that carried blood to Quarhaun’s brain.
Shara sprang at him and swung her sword down with all her might, but with impossible speed and strength, Nu Alin twisted around and lifted Quarhaun into the path of her assault. In horror, she tried to stop her swing and pull the blade back, but it still bit deep into the drow’s arm, sending his eldritch blade clattering to the ground.
Nu Alin started to laugh, then his voice became the dragon’s voice. Vestapalk was laughing at her failure, even as his minion drove sharp claws into Quarhaun’s throat.
“You care for this man?” Vestapalk’s voice asked. “Once already this one has nearly killed him. The feel of claws sinking into his chest is vivid in the memory.”
“I will kill you, Vestapalk,” Shara said. She lunged again, and once more Nu Alin lifted Quarhaun to intercept her blow. The drow’s eyes were wide as he gasped for air.
“Listen, mortal fool,” the dragon’s voice said. “Your interference is not welcome. The Plaguedeep grows and the plague spreads, with or without your meddling.”
“I’ll stop you and your plague. I swear it.” Shara rushed at Nu Alin again, feinting a swing from her left shoulder until the moment Nu Alin brought Quarhaun into the path of her sword, then twisting the blade around so it came up under Nu Alin’s unprotected left arm, cutting deep enough to draw a gush of blood as well as a welling of the liquid crystal.
Nu Alin roared in pain, in his own voice once more, though Shara thought she heard the distant laughter of the dragon still echoing around her. He hoisted Quarhaun by the neck and hurled him at Shara, knocking them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Shara sat up and saw Nu Alin running away, into the darkness. “Get off me,” she shouted at Quarhaun, pushing him away and scrambling to her feet.
Too late. The demon was too fast. She saw Roghar emerge from the burning inn, leading Tempest and a train of townsfolk, but Nu Alin was gone, lost in the shadows in the direction of the quays.
Before Shara could get Roghar’s attention, two more of the nightmare demons swept toward her. At the same time, she saw five fiery demons closing in around Roghar and his little ragtag band. A handful of soldiers approached from the other side, clutching swords and spears as they drew near the demons.
“He’s getting away!” she shouted to no one in particular. “Don’t let him get away!”
Suddenly the dragon stood before her, roaring and spreading its jaws to bite or breathe its toxic gas. “Damn you,” she muttered, pushing back her fear and stepping forward to meet the dragon, slicing into its throat. It batted at her with a claw, but she sidestepped its clumsy attack and cut it again. Then it was once more just a shadowy demon with a trail of red liquid dripping from its deep wounds.
She saw Uldane slip out from the group around Roghar and look around the street. He looked at her and shrugged.
He’s trying to stop Nu Alin, bless him, Shara thought. She pointed her sword in the direction Nu Alin had gone, then brought the blade around to cut through the demon’s torso, destroying it.
Quarhaun stood facing the other demon, fear and anger warring on his face. With a roar, he swung his eldritch blade at the demon, but it knocked him aside before his blade could connect. Shara leaped into the opening it left and sliced into its head. It spasmed, raking sharp claws down her arm before it, too, dissolved into nothing.
The wound stung, but she ignored it and raced after Uldane. He probably won’t catch up to Nu Alin, she thought, but what if he does? He can’t take on the demon by himself.
She ran along the town’s outer wall toward the quays, past looming warehouses and smaller businesses catering to the river trade. As she reached the quays, she saw Uldane walking along the riverside. He had a dagger in each hand, and his posture was alert, searching for a sign of Nu Alin.
“Uldane!” she called.
He looked up, saw her, and turned away. A sudden fear gripped Shara. What if Nu Alin took him? Would I be able to tell?
She hurried to catch up with him, keeping her sword ready. As she went, she watched the way the halfling moved, trying to spot any telltale sign that the demon was in control of his body. He seemed a little stiff, but that could be explained by the tension of searching for the demon-or by his anger at her.
What does he have to be so angry about, anyway? she thought. It’s my life.
She replayed her conversation with Uldane in the inn. Is this what Jarren would want for me? It’s a ridiculous question, she decided. If he were alive, he’d want me to be with him, of course. But he’s not, so it no longer matters what he wants.
A voice just like Jarren’s whispered in her mind, and she imagined she could feel his breath in her ear. What do you want?
I want to be happy again, she told the memory of him. Like we were.
And are you? Jarren’s memory or Uldane or the mocking voice of Vestapalk asked her again.
She remembered falling into the river with Uldane, looking up at Jarren a moment before the dragon killed him. She saw the dragon falling into the chasm at her feet, the red crystal flowing into its wounds. She felt her shame and fury as the dragon spoke to her through the demons she’d fought, mocking her, taunting her with her failure.
“I don’t deserve to be happy,” she muttered aloud.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Albanon’s thoughts and feelings were a jumble as he followed Kri through the tumult caused by the demons’ attack on the Silver Unicorn. He found a rhythm in counting his footsteps, a stability in the steady beat of his boots against the cobblestones and packed dirt of the
streets and alleys. Slowly, as Kri led him through Hightown, Albanon found a focus, a burning point of fury and hatred at the center of his mind’s storm. Kri had done something to him, something that shattered his mind and sapped his will. All the rest-thoughts of Nu Alin, memories of Shara and Quarhaun, the sudden recollection of Tempest-was fragmentary and uncertain, but he found comfort and stability in staring at Kri’s back and calculating the various ways his spells could tear the old man into tiny pieces.
Their winding path meant nothing to him until suddenly a tall tower came into view, limned with eldritch light in the night. The Glowing Tower, he thought. Moorin’s tower.
Blood. Blood everywhere, sprayed on walls and floor and ceiling in patterns of intricate geometry-angles and curvature danced through his mind, undergirded with formulas he had not noticed before. “It was a work of art, what I did to him,” the demon had said. “A masterpiece.”
Not art, Albanon realized. Mathematics. Magic.
His head spun as he contemplated the mystery that Nu Alin had woven from Moorin’s blood. The fabric of space and time was rent apart and woven back together, differently, subtly, intricately. He stumbled, overcome by a wave of nausea.
“Albanon!” Kri snapped.
Albanon made sure his face was blank before he looked up at the old priest. Kri stopped and searched his eyes as Albanon stared straight ahead.
“Perhaps Albric was right,” Kri said at last. “Your mind was stronger than I gave you credit for. It seems that Moorin was not a total idiot after all.”
A spark of anger flared in some shattered corner of Albanon’s mind, enough to make him realize that Kri was trying to provoke him, testing him.
“Did you see Shara back there, Albanon?” Kri asked. “Did you hear her call out to you?”
Another test. Albanon kept his face a mask and didn’t answer, didn’t even allow his mind to pursue the questions that surfaced in his mind. Who is Shara to me? Should I care about her?
“Come along, Albanon,” the Doomdreamer said, apparently satisfied. “We have work to do.”
Two hundred thirteen, Albanon thought as he started walking again. He had stopped counting steps as he contemplated Nu Alin’s mathematics of blood, and counting again was the only way he could keep his mind away from the madness contained in those formulas.
Two hundred and fifty-six steps-sixteen sixteens, the square of a square of a square-brought him to the threshold of Moorin’s tower. Crossing the threshold brought another wave of memory, the trepidation he felt entering the tower the night of Moorin’s death, seeing that the tower’s wards had been disabled. He pushed the memories away and counted the seventy-seven remaining steps up to the top of the tower.
“Be gone!” Kri shouted when he reached the top of the stairs.
Albanon looked past him and saw a squad of soldiers, staring wide-eyed at Kri.
“The defense of this tower is no longer your concern,” Kri said.
“But Captain Damar-” one of the soldiers began. Albanon recognized only that he should know the name-no further memory would come to mind.
“Tell your captain that the guard is no longer welcome in the Glowing Tower. We will deal harshly with trespassers.”
“Our orders-”
“Sergeant, if you utter another word you will become trespassers.” Albanon felt power gathering around the Doomdreamer, dark and dangerous.
The sergeant must have felt it, too. He nodded to the other soldiers, who immediately filed to the stairs, casting nervous glances at Kri and Albanon as they passed. The sergeant was the last to leave, and he dared a parting word of defiance as he started down the seventy-seven steps. “You’ll hear from the Lord Warden about this.”
“Be gone!” Kri roared, and the force of his voice seemed to drive the sergeant forward, making him stumble on the stairs. Only the quick reaction of the men in front of him kept him from tumbling down to his death.
“Now to work,” Kri said. “First, disable the ward on the teleportation circle.”
Albanon followed an arcing path across the room where, months ago, Moorin’s blood had traced a line of very precise curvature. He closed his eyes as he walked, seeing in his mind the spray of blood and feeling the flow of power that still followed that line. He sidestepped the table he knew lay in his path, but kept his hand in the flow of magic. What did Nu Alin create here? he wondered. And does Kri know it’s here?
He reached the teleportation circle and suddenly remembered arriving there with Kri just hours before. How did I forget that? he thought. The shimmering dome of the ward that kept them in until …
Disabling the ward was trivially simple, barely an effort of calculation. A guard had let it down before, so whoever established it-the High Septarch, he realized-must have created a control even a fool could use from outside the circle.
“Excellent,” Kri said, appearing behind him. “Your power has grown, quite dramatically, now that you’re free of Moorin’s fetters.”
You have not yet seen how my power has grown, Albanon thought. But you will.
Kri reached into the folds of his robes and withdrew a chunk of reddish crystal followed by a glass vial holding a tiny sample of the Voidharrow. He strode into the center of the circle and closed his eyes, reaching out to sense the magical energy that flowed through the patterns and sigils. Albanon did the same, his mind flooding with formulas and arcane syllables as he did. He bit his tongue to stop himself from giving voice to the magic he felt, not even consciously aware of what the spells would have done if he’d unleashed them.
Kri was right, he realized-his power had grown. In the Feywild, he’d been struck by how easy it was to access the magic that flowed through everything there. Now, the same power-no, even more power-was at his fingertips in the world, practically leaping from his fingers and spilling from his tongue without his conscious effort.
But can I control it? he wondered.
He opened his eyes again and saw Kri’s brow furrowed in concentration. Now he sees Nu Alin’s magic, too, Albanon thought. Will he fathom its purpose?
Kri opened his eyes and looked down at the items in his hands. “Just as Albric did, so we now do. Together, the Voidharrow and the fragment of the Living Gate will open a portal like none ever seen before in this world.”
“The Vast Gate,” Albanon said. Words echoed dimly in his mind-a new Vast Gate, construction and opening. To guard against it, he remembered suddenly. The Oath of Vigilance.
Kri frowned. “You remember,” he said.
“I remember,” Albanon blurted. “Alak tashar-”
“That’s enough,” Kri said. “I can’t decide if your mind is too whole to be safe or too broken to be useful.” His eyes dropped to the fire still dancing across Albanon’s fingertips. “Or perhaps too broken to be safe.”
Kri had asked no question so Albanon gave him no answer, but he let the fire that had sprung up unbidden fade from his hands.
“But I need you,” Kri continued. “I can’t kill you, and I can’t risk shattering your mind completely. So as long as you remain … pliable, I suppose we will carry on as planned.”
With a last searching look at Albanon, Kri lowered himself to his knees in the center of the circle. He laid the chunk of crystal on the floor. “Chained God, guide me,” he breathed. He lifted the tiny vial and strained at the stopper with a visible effort. He thrust the vial at Albanon and growled, “Open this. Carefully!”
The stopper was stuck fast. Peering into the vial, Albanon noted that the glass had fused together somehow, as if the substance within had heated like a furnace and shaped a new orb around itself. Albanon formed his finger and thumb into a ring around the neck of the vial and concentrated for a moment, creating a thin plane of magical force within the ring that made a clean cut through the glass.
The substance within surged up the sides of the vial and out the mouth, defying gravity as if thrilled to be free, and splashed onto his hand. It was cool and slick, and it spread quickly
into a thin film covering his whole hand.
“No, you fool!” Kri shouted. “Get it onto the shard!”
Albanon stared, transfixed, at his red hand and wrist. A distant memory surfaced in his mind-a serpent of red crystal snaking out of Tempest’s dying body, surging onto Falon’s flesh, reaching for the young cleric’s face and forcing itself into his mouth. Like the demons he’d fought, the red liquid was a dark snarl in the fabric of magic, out of place even in the more tangled weave of magic in the world.
Kri was on his feet now, clutching the crystal and holding it up near Albanon’s hand as if its mere proximity would draw the substance away from Albanon’s flesh. Sure enough, a drop of the Voidharrow fell onto the shard. A flash of brilliant light cast stark shadows all around the chamber, and Albanon imagined that he saw the trails of Moorin’s blood in the darkness.
A more recent memory fought its way into his awareness. The thing that had been Vestapalk, the dragon that was now a demon, looming over him and drooling the Voidharrow onto his forehead, infusing him with the substance of its corruption. Then Kri tending to him before the red substance took him completely, purging his body clean with divine light.
A formula took shape in his mind and rolled off his tongue, and his hand began to glow. First red light shone in an orb around his hand, but then the liquid began to burn away and the pure white light shone through, growing steadily brighter.
Kri snatched the crystal away before the light could sear it, shouting, “No! You’re destroying it!”
Albanon allowed the light to die and examined his hands. None of the substance remained, either on his skin or in the vial.
Then Kri’s fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him backward and jumbling his thoughts. He felt like he’d been on the cusp of an important realization or insight, but it was gone, like a word that vanished from the tip of his tongue.
“I would kill you where you stand,” the Doomdreamer said, “but now is the moment I need you.”