by James Wyatt
The Voidharrow had fused with the shard and expanded around it. Albanon closed his eyes and extended his other senses, and he felt and understood the crystalline structure forming around the shard, matching its internal structure, channeling magical energy in a precise pattern. He also noted that the liquid was replicating itself, like a living creature, forming more of its substance from nothing.
Kri thrust the shard toward him again, holding it in both hands as it slowly expanded. “Place your hands on the Vast Gate with me and help it grow, shape it with me.”
The liquid slithered over the surface of the crystal, expanding it and fusing with it so Albanon couldn’t tell where the original shard ended and the new substance began. He was hesitant to touch it, for fear the liquid would try to fuse with him again, but he didn’t want to-no, he couldn’t disobey the Doomdreamer. He placed both hands on the crystal and felt the magic surging through it.
Kri stared at him and spoke in a tone of firm command. “We are shaping the Vast Gate, forming an archway, creating a pathway between worlds. Keep those thoughts in mind and no others.”
As they guided its growth, the crystal expanded into a slender column that they soon had to rest on the floor. They shaped it up and over into a curving arch, then-with agonizing slowness as the amount of liquid flowing over the surface diminished almost to nothing-back down to touch the floor again.
Albanon heard the soft pop of air as an unknown landscape, a dark and forbidding castle on a high promontory, appeared in the archway. The scene then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a foam-washed seashore.
The Vast Gate was open.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Roghar led his new ragtag army-the handful of soldiers who had helped him and Tempest defeat the fire demons-on a triumphant march through the shattered doors of the Silver Unicorn. Smoke still wafted around near the ceiling-more smoke than usual, anyway. Besides the front doors, a few other windows and doors were crashed in, curtains and bedsheets scorched or incinerated, and timbers here and there were blackened with fire, but the inn had escaped a far worse fate thanks to their efforts. To her credit, Wisara Osterman acknowledged that fact, promising that the “heroes of Fallcrest” could drink at the Silver Unicorn for the rest of their lives, on the house.
“She obviously doesn’t know you very well,” Tempest whispered to Roghar.
“I’m not sure I want to do my drinking here, anyway,” Roghar said. “It’s sort of a dump.”
Uldane stalked in a few minutes after they got settled and silently took a seat at the table.
“No luck?” Roghar asked.
Uldane shook his head with a glance at Tempest.
“Where are Shara and the drow?”
Uldane shrugged.
“What’s the matter with you, Uldane?” Roghar said, clapping the halfling on the shoulder. “We won, didn’t we?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” The halfling crossed his arms and seemed to fold in on himself, turning away from Roghar.
Shara burst in then, scanning the room, and the drow loomed at her shoulder. “Where in the three worlds is Albanon?” Shara said.
“Albanon?” Roghar said. “I haven’t seen him since …”
“He was there,” Shara said, storming to the table. “I saw him, and Kri as well, talking to him.”
“Kri was talking to Albanon? Who’s Kri?” Roghar asked.
“They were both talking to Nu Alin!” Shara said. “They let him get away!”
“You found Nu Alin?” Tempest asked, leaning forward.
“He got away,” Uldane said. “I’m sorry, Tempest, I tried to catch him.”
“He would have killed you,” Roghar said. “None of us is strong enough to handle him alone.”
Quarhaun rubbed his throat, where several lighter spots in his dark skin marked recent wounds only partially healed by magic. “True enough,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“But he got away,” Uldane said.
“I can’t believe Albanon would let him go like that,” Tempest said. “He hates the demon almost as much as I do.”
Roghar scratched his chin. “Is it possible he didn’t recognize Nu Alin?”
“Maybe at first,” Shara said. “But he watched the demon hit me and he didn’t lift a finger. Then he just walked away.”
“I’m sorry to say it,” Roghar said, “but I think we need to treat the elf as an enemy until we know what’s going on.”
“Eladrin,” Tempest said automatically.
“Whatever. But perhaps Nu Alin has powers of mind control we’re not aware of.”
“Or else Kri does,” Shara said.
“Tell me again who this Kri is?” Roghar said. “A priest of Ioun, you said?”
“Yes. Kri helped us deal with another demon, another servant of Vestapalk. He knows more about the threat we face than anyone, and he said he was the last member of an order that Albanon’s mentor also belonged to. After we destroyed that other demon, he took Albanon into the Feywild, looking for a weapon we could use against Vestapalk.”
Roghar rumbled as he absorbed this information. “You think he was lying?”
“I don’t know,” Shara said. “I trusted him-I think we all did. But he seemed to be doing most of the talking with Nu Alin just now.”
“Imagine,” Quarhaun said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “A trusted servant of the gods turns out to be not so trustworthy after all.”
“What in the Nine Hells is that supposed to mean?” Roghar said.
“You think only priests of the Spider Queen are capable of treachery? I am not so naive.”
“If you expect treachery from every quarter, you’re certain to find it.”
“And if you don’t expect it,” Quarhaun said with a wry smile, “it will find you.”
“So you won’t be surprised to hear that I don’t trust you outside the reach of my sword arm,” Roghar growled.
“But a dagger in the ribs comes from inside that reach.” The drow was still smiling, but there was a look in his eyes that Roghar found even more threatening than his words.
“You’re right,” Roghar said, rising to his feet. “I don’t trust you at all, and I wouldn’t miss you if I never saw you again.”
“Roghar, sit down,” Shara whispered, glancing around at the soldiers and citizens who had paused from their celebrations to listen to him. “Quarhaun’s just toying with you.”
“Like a cat toys with a mouse before it pounces,” Roghar said as he lowered himself back down to his chair. “But I warn you, drow, I’m no mouse.”
Quarhaun shrugged. “And I’m no cat.”
“Stop it,” Shara said to the drow, squeezing his hand. “And you, too,” she added with a sharp glance at Roghar. “This whole thing started with Albanon and Kri. They’re the ones who let Nu Alin escape, not Quarhaun.”
“Well.” Roghar took a deep breath, biting back another angry retort for Shara’s sake. “The important thing is that we’ve scored a first victory. We killed a lot of those demons, and showed the citizens of Fallcrest a ray of hope. Now we take the fight to them and retake Lowtown!”
The nearby soldiers cheered, and the inn patrons who’d been dragged from their beds in the middle of the night joined in, and Roghar felt, however briefly, like a proper hero. But a glance at Shara, Tempest, and Uldane showed him that he’d failed to inspire them in the slightest.
“Fine,” Shara said. “You can be the hero of Fallcrest. But I have a dragon to kill. I’m tired of facing his exarchs and letting him mock me through them. I need to find him and take him out, once and for all.”
“What, and leave Fallcrest defenseless?” Roghar said.
“Cut off the head and the body dies, too,” Shara said, with a glance at Quarhaun. “Nu Alin isn’t the head. It’s Vestapalk. He’s out there, somewhere to the west, and I mean to find him.”
“Is Vestapalk the head of Kri and Albanon as well?” Tempest asked.
“I assume
so,” Shara said. “Why?”
“What if he’s not? What if there’s another head behind them both? When does it stop?”
“Sooner or later, we’ll find whoever’s in charge of all of this. I think it’s Vestapalk. Do you have a better idea?”
“I’m just trying to say that it’s not necessarily a good idea to ignore these evils just because they’re not ‘the head,’ you see? If we discovered tomorrow that Vestapalk and Nu Alin and Kri were all servants of Tiamat, for example, would you abandon your quest for vengeance against Vestapalk and go hunt down the dragon queen?”
Shara frowned. “No,” she admitted. “But this is different. Vestapalk-not Tiamat, not any other evil mastermind, Vestapalk has taunted me through the mouths of two of his demon pawns. I’m through fighting pawns.”
Roghar glanced around the room. Soldiers and citizens alike were talking quietly among themselves, their initial fervor after his pronouncement fading quickly. “Listen,” he said. “A moment ago, half the people in this room were ready to charge out the door with me and drive the demons out of this town. With every second we spend bickering, that number drops. If we want to use their excitement, we have to act now.”
“You have to keep your pawns in play as well,” Shara said. “I see.”
“They’re not my pawns,” Roghar protested.
“Of course they are,” Quarhaun said. “At least the priests of Lolth have the honesty to admit it.”
“This is their town!” Roghar said. “I’m just encouraging them to retake it for themselves.”
“Fine,” Shara said. “Then let them retake it while we go hunt down Vestapalk.”
“They need leadership,” Roghar said.
Quarhaun arched an eyebrow. “The silken words of every tyrant.”
“Tyrant?” Roghar got to his feet again, drawing the eyes of every soldier in the room-and a few cheers. Emboldened by the cheers, he gave up on arguing with the drow and turned to address the room. “People of Fallcrest,” he said, “the time to liberate our town from the demons is now!” He drew his sword and held it over his head, inspiring more cheers.
“Now it’s our town,” he heard Quarhaun mutter behind him.
Roghar ignored him. “Soldiers, take up your arms! Gather your comrades! We gather in the square to free Lowtown and drive the demons back to the pits that spawned them! For Fallcrest, for Bahamut, and for glory!”
A roar of cheers nearly deafened him. The soldiers and many of the citizens were on their feet and crowding out the door to the square, ready to begin their counterassault. Roghar’s heart was pounding in his chest in anticipation of the coming battle.
“Well, I guess that settles it,” Shara said.
Roghar turned back to the table. Uldane and Tempest were on their feet as well, both looking ready to follow him out the door. Shara and Quarhaun still sat at the table, their arms folded and their faces dour.
“You’re not coming?” he said.
“What have I been saying all this time?” Shara said. “Have you even been listening?”
“But I thought-”
“You thought your stirring speech would change our minds, or that we’d be too embarrassed not to accompany you when the rest of the town was on your side. Or you just got caught up in the excitement and didn’t think at all. It doesn’t matter.”
“Shara, listen to reason.”
“Good luck with the demons, Roghar,” Shara said. She looked at Tempest. “I hope you find Nu Alin, and kill him for what he did to you.”
Roghar scowled. “Well,” he said, “I hope you get your revenge on Vestapalk as well.”
Shara extended a hand, and he shook it. He nodded to the drow, who returned the gesture, and turned to the door.
“Uldane?” Shara said.
“Good-bye, Shara,” the halfling said, his words clipped.
“I still don’t-”
“Maybe this never occurred to you, caught up in the mad whirlwind of your love for Jarren, but I loved him, too. He was my friend-maybe my best friend. And he wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”
As he went out the door, Roghar looked over his shoulder and saw Shara stiffen. She stared at Uldane for a long moment, then nodded. “Good-bye, Uldane.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Albanon’s head spun and his stomach sank as a kaleidoscope of worlds appeared and disappeared within the frame of the Vast Gate. He felt magic flaring in the channels created by Moorin’s blood, drawn to the opening of the gate, tugging at the forces within the gate as if to channel them in a particular direction. Kri finally seemed to become aware of the additional magic at work in the tower, casting nervous glances around at the rest of the room even as he tried to concentrate on focusing the gate on a single destination-the prison of the Chained God.
“Chained God!” Kri called. “Ender and Anathema, Eater of Worlds, Undoer: Come and wreak destruction!”
Albanon’s stomach churned and he remembered finding Moorin dead in his tower, the blood and gore everywhere, the reek of the wizard’s spilled guts and acrid blood. This is all wrong, some part of his mind declared. We’re supposed to prevent this, to work against the killer of Moorin, not according to his purpose.
The chaos in his mind sent the image in the Vast Gate spinning dizzily from world to world. Albanon lurched out of the magic circle and emptied his stomach onto the floor, falling to his hands and knees as his gut contracted again and again until nothing remained to heave up.
When he looked up, the archway of the Vast Gate was filled with utter darkness. Kri stood transfixed before it, gazing into the void, a look of bliss on his weathered face.
“Tharizdun,” he whispered.
“No,” Albanon gasped. “Kri, wait!”
“Patient One. He Who Waits. Chained God.” Kri’s voice grew slowly louder as he intoned the appellations of Tharizdun.
Albanon’s throat burned and his head was pounding, but he staggered to his feet. “Kri, remember your oath! The Oath of Vigilance!”
“Your waiting is over and your freedom is at hand!”
The darkness in the Vast Gate changed subtly. It remained an inky black that repelled all light, but red liquid flowed behind and beneath it, too, gleaming here and there like tiny, dim stars in an awful night sky. Albanon had the fleeting sense of something poised and waiting in the darkness, ready to spring.
And then it erupted through the gate and emerged into the world.
First was a wave of sheer power, like a blast from a furnace but without light or heat, just raw energy that washed past him, overwhelmed him, battered him to the floor, and left him for dead. He was nothing to it, utterly insignificant, like an ant beneath the foot of a titan. It filled the tower and extended farther, probing into the world beyond.
Albanon’s mind reeled from trying to take it in, unable to comprehend the vastness of what he perceived and what was perceiving him. Somehow whatever was left of his mind understood that it was the eye of Tharizdun-the mere attention of the Chained God, extended from his prison in the void into the world on the other side of the Vast Gate. None of the god’s power or substance had yet passed through, but the simple fact of his glance passing over Albanon had left him wrecked and teetering at the brink of madness.
Kri had already plunged over that brink, and he babbled and wailed long strings of nonsense syllables as Tharizdun’s gaze seemed to focus upon him. He stood with his arms spread open to the gate, eyes open but rolled back in his head, his body arched in ecstatic torment in the sight of his god.
Next through the gate came a slow seepage of liquid red crystal, more of the Voidharrow probing through the gate. Albanon gasped as the first snaky tendrils surged out toward him, but they passed him by, coursing out along the pathways that Nu Alin had laid with Moorin’s blood.
Once more Albanon perceived the pattern of the whorls and arcs of blood, the channels that directed both the flow of magic and the movement of the Voidharrow. Arcane formulas gave structure to his th
oughts again, and he understood what had escaped him until that moment, what Kri still had not grasped. The Voidharrow was forming a lattice, a net that would catch and bind whatever emerged through the Vast Gate.
Even the Chained God.
A moment before, Albanon would have found it impossible to conceive of anything worse than the Chained God emerging through the gate that he and Kri had opened. Then he tried to imagine a demon like Nu Alin, or like the monster at Sherinna’s tower, but infused with the power of the Eater of Worlds.
“No no no,” he murmured.
He staggered across the room to the place where Moorin’s body had lain, slumped on the floor against the far wall. Tears stung his eyes as he fell to the floor, just as he had done on the night of Moorin’s death. It had never before occurred to him to wonder who had cleaned the tower and what had become of the body, and he was stung with guilt as he realized that he should have ensured that Moorin was properly laid to rest. But he shook the feeling from his thoughts, putting himself in the position Moorin had occupied, the focus of all the lines and whorls of energy in the room.
He felt the Voidharrow coursing toward him along dozens of different pathways. Hundreds of wordless, whispering voices pressed against his mind, overwhelming him with a sense of eager hunger. Terror set his whole body quivering. The red liquid of the Voidharrow gleamed like blood on the walls, floor, and ceiling.
Is this what Moorin saw as he died? Albanon wondered.
He fought back his terror and focused on the magic. Numbers and formulas danced in his mind. He felt power welling up in his heart like a sun, then his body started to glow. He spread his arms wide and felt the magic course out from him, sending light flowing like pure water back along the channels that laced the room to meet the approaching Voidharrow. Where the flow of light met the red liquid it flared into white fire, and in a moment the room was lit with a hundred stars where his light burned the Voidharrow.
The Voidharrow’s fury was a palpable pulse in the air of the room, but it was an impotent rage. The light burning out from Albanon filled the channels, and the Voidharrow seemed unable to flow outside the lines that had been prepared for it. All it could do was inch slowly back the way it had come, back to the Vast Gate, until the room was filled with an intricate lacework of Albanon’s light.