The Eye of the Chained God

by Bassingthwaite, Don

  The first thing she said to him was “Sit up. It’s rude to talk behind people’s backs.” Then, once they were both leaning in front of the shifter woman, she added, “Eat what you want. We’re guests.” She nodded to Cariss. “They don’t know.”

  Cariss grinned at Albanon, her teeth no less sharp than Tempest’s but somehow more disturbingly predatory. “Eat what you will and leave the rest. Nothing will go to waste.” She picked up a morsel of meat with her fingers and popped it into her mouth.

  They ate and drank mostly in silence. Belen was the only one who talked much, discussing the weather and travel conditions with Turbull and Cariss. Albanon and the others limited their interactions to nods, shared glances, and a few nervous words with the other Tigerclaws. After a little while, it occurred to Albanon that the barbarians were just as uncertain around them. That put him a bit more at ease but he remained wary.

  When most of the food and drink had been consumed, Belen bent a little closer to Turbull. “The Cairngorm Peaks are an unusual place to find Tigerclaws. Is Scargash expanding the territory claimed by the tribe?”

  Turbull sighed before answering. “Scargash does not expand the Tigerclaw territory,” he said. “The Abyssal Plague ravages the Winterbole Forest just as I hear it ravages the southern Nentir Vale. Scargash’s answer is to call the clans together for defense. I believe another tactic is necessary.”

  He gestured around them. “The plague demons haunt Winterbole, spreading their disease and their numbers. Here there are no demons. If we remain vigilant, the Thornpads will be safe.”

  “We run and hide like rabbits,” Hurn grumbled into his stew.

  “Even hunting cats know when to run from a fight they can’t win,” Cariss said sharply.

  “Peace,” said Turbull. He looked back to Belen. “Not everyone agrees with my decision.”

  “It wouldn’t be popular. But the hunting seems good at least.”

  “It is enough,” Turbull said with a shrug.

  “Have you considered moving farther into the mountains?” Roghar asked abruptly. “This place is good, but a mountain valley with limited access would be more defensible.”

  Hurn paused in the act of reaching for another bowl of stew. The other Tigerclaws froze as well, though Turbull at least recovered quickly enough that it could have passed as a moment’s hesitation. “We have been considering that. There is a place we are scouting that is almost ideal.”

  “Almost?” said Roghar.

  Turbull waved the question away. “It is Tigerclaw business. Don’t trouble yourself with it.” He looked around the gathered circle. “But now tell me of your travels. Where you’ve been. Where you’re going.”

  The change of conversation was so abrupt it left Albanon with a bad taste in his mouth. As Belen, once more taking the lead, launched into an abbreviated version of their adventures, he looked around at the Tigerclaws. All of them seemed to be listening to the story, but except for Turbull, none were actually looking at Belen. Or him, Roghar, Tempest, or Uldane. They’d all suddenly found great interest in their food. Albanon was willing to guess that Tigerclaw tradition frowned on lying to guests, but had no qualms about omitting information. The clan was hiding something.

  But then so was Belen. Although her tale was rambling and artless, she hid most of their experiences with Vestapalk and certainly their involvement in the origins of the Abyssal Plague, describing the dragon only as their enemy. Suitably for a warrior, the bulk of her story focused on the details of their battles and that seemed more than enough for her barbarian audience. Her description of the events at Winterhaven brought the attention of the Tigerclaws back to her. They grunted appreciatively—even Hurn—at Roghar’s decapitating Vestagix with the edge of his shield, drawing a nod and the first smile Albanon had seen in days from the dragonborn.

  Belen minimized the role he had played in the end of the battle, describing the madness of his lightning storm merely as a powerful spell and hinting that the devastation of Winterhaven had been the fault of the plague demons. When she had finished, Turbull sat back and nodded to the other Tigerclaws. “Learn from this,” he said. “Our enemies won’t always come at us in packs.” Then he sat forward again, his eyes on Albanon. “But what of this urge that draws you north? What have you learned from it?”

  Belen hadn’t been able to leave out everything. She had, however, recast the urge planted in Albanon by Tharizdun and his lie about the valley as a vision granted to him by Ioun. Albanon took a breath and did his best to extemporize without actually lying any more than he already had. “Just that whatever we find at the end of the journey will aid us against Vestapalk and the Abyssal Plague. The vision itself is vague. I know there’s a mountain valley and a rock face.”

  Turbull looked at him expectantly and Albanon realized that he was waiting for more details. “A … a tall rock face.” As he spoke, the image became more real in his mind. A strange feeling spread through him, as if what he described really was what they were searching for. “Taller than a castle tower. A cliff of pale gray stone.”

  “How long is it since you first saw this vision?” asked Cariss.

  “A few weeks now. A month perhaps, but no more. I denied it for some time.”

  “Why? A call from the gods isn’t something to be ignored.”

  Albanon cursed silently. He’d said too much. Why would anyone deny a vision from Ioun? “After the plague demon attack on Fallcrest, I just wanted peace.”

  “Peace and denial are luxuries from another time,” said Turbull, “but sometimes they are still possible. You will have peace tonight—you will stay with the Thornpad and continue on your way tomorrow.”

  The pronouncement brought two reactions. The Tigerclaws, Hurn and Cariss especially, growled and complained to Turbull, while Albanon and the others glanced uneasily between themselves. Roghar actually rose to his feet. “We should move on,” he said bluntly.

  Turbull held up a hand to silence the members of his clan. “Hospitality has been offered. It cannot be called back.” He looked at Belen. “A tent will be prepared for you and later a feast.”

  The warrior woman’s confidence seemed shaken. The offer to stay must not have been something she expected. Her eyes went to Albanon.

  Tigerclaws take hospitality seriously, she’d said—and as much as Albanon mistrusted the situation, he liked staying on the barbarians’ good side better than offending them. He smiled at Turbull. “We would be honored to stay the night,” he said. “And perhaps you could share your knowledge of the land we’re entering.”

  Turbull returned the smile. “Of course.”

  They lingered over the food—now cold—for a little longer while a hide tent was erected for them. If the meal had begun with uncertain silence, it ended in uncomfortable quiet. With the exception of Belen and Turbull, conversing in broken fragments to satisfy the demands of etiquette, neither party was in the mood to talk. All Albanon wanted to do was go somewhere private so he could discuss their situation with the others.

  Finally one of the Tigerclaw children appeared to whisper a message to Turbull. The clan leader rose, bidding Albanon and the others an effusive farewell until evening, then directed Cariss to lead them away. She obeyed with a swiftness that felt less like obedience and more like a desire to have them away from her. Their passage back through the camp drew no less attention than before but was a good deal quicker.

  The tent that had been prepared for them was close to the edge of the camp and somewhat smaller than the others belonging to the Tigerclaw. The bent wood poles were new, but the hides covering them were old and stale with years of smoke; a hole at the peak let in fresh air and light. Cariss saw them through the flap of the door, then left.

  Tempest spoke before the door flap had even stopped swaying. “They know something. I don’t—”

  “Shh,” hissed Belen. She twitched back the door just a bit and looked outside. Albanon could see over her shoulder as she peered around. Cariss and her warri
ors might want nothing to do with them, but many ordinary Tigerclaws lingered with curiosity. Belen let the door flap drop back into place. “This is a tent, not a cottage,” she whispered harshly. “Sounds will go right through the walls.”

  “I thought the Tigerclaws valued hospitality,” said Uldane.

  “Value, yes. Are stupid about it, no. Keep your voices down.”

  “Just how do you know so much about the Tigerclaws, Belen?” asked Albanon. “I’ve lived in Fallcrest for seven years and I don’t remember Scargash sending emissaries.”

  “You weren’t there all the time, were you? Moorin sent you off on errands.”

  Albanon narrowed his eyes. “Even if the Tigerclaws did send emissaries, why would the Lord Warden have assigned one guard to escort them?”

  Belen’s face tightened and she blew out her breath slowly. “Fine,” she said at last. She stepped to the center of the tent, farthest from the thin hide walls. “My mother was a Tigerclaw.”

  “You have shifter blood?” Uldane said.

  “No,” Belen told him. “My mother was one of the human class that the Tigerclaws call the Tamed. She met my father, a hunter, near Nenlast and fell in love. Her clan wouldn’t accept him, so they ran away. She was the one who taught me the ways of the tribe.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?” asked the halfling. “Cariss and Hurn might have treated us better from the beginning!”

  “The Tigerclaws don’t look kindly on anyone who leaves the clan. They call them Riven and shun them—and that extends to their descendants.” Belen looked around at them. “Don’t tell anyone this. If the Tigerclaws find out, they might force us to leave.”

  “That doesn’t sound like such a bad thing,” Roghar said.

  “It would be. They wouldn’t be gentle about it.”

  “I think we have more to gain by cooperating,” said Tempest. “Like Albanon said to Turbull, maybe the Tigerclaws can tell us more about what lies ahead.” She nodded to Albanon. “Good thinking.”

  “I didn’t want it to seem like we were just giving in,” Albanon said.

  Belen nodded. “Turbull will respect you more because of it.”

  “It looked more like he was mocking me.”

  “You showed cunning. Tigerclaws appreciate those who know when not to fight but who will still try to turn a situation to their advantage.”

  “Belen,” said Roghar, “is it possible things have changed with the Tigerclaws since your mother’s day?”

  “Not likely. Cetainly not so fast. The Tigerclaws place great importance on maintaining their traditions.”

  She seemed almost proud, but Roghar’s suggestion dug into Albanon. “Turbull led his clan away from Scargash and the Winterbole Forest in the face of the Abyssal Plague. It sounds to me like he’s willing to break with tradition when he needs to.”

  For a moment, Belen’s expression took on a shifterish ferocity. “Some traditions are inviolable. Turbull will respect you, just as he’ll respect the traditions of hospitality. If he didn’t want us here, he would have sent us on our way.”

  “It’s why they want us here that worries me,” said Roghar.

  “Turbull will deal fair with us,” Belen insisted. She gestured toward furs and blankets that had been heaped on a low sleeping platform. “We should rest. The Thornpads may not have much but they’ll put out all they do have to honor us as their guests. It’s important we don’t antagonize them.”

  “Rest?” Uldane asked. “I wanted to look around. I’ve never had the chance to explore a Tigerclaw camp before.”

  “Rest,” said Belen firmly. “We don’t leave the tent until Turbull sends for us.”

  Uldane pouted. “He didn’t say anything about that.”

  “He didn’t have to. Guests have duties to the host, too.”

  Albanon glanced at Tempest and Roghar. One of the surest ways to be certain Uldane would try something was to tell him not to do it. Roghar wrinkled his snout. “I’ll sleep in front of the door.”

  Uldane’s pout grew deeper. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said. “But think about it. Isn’t it to our advantage to know everything we can about the camp in case we need to run? Nobody will see me. It’s practical.” He looked up with hope in his eyes as if expecting the argument to sway them.

  “We should move the whole sleeping platform in front of the door,” said Tempest.

  Albanon, Uldane reflected while he waited for the last watchful eyes to close, wasn’t the only one who knew how to turn a situation to his advantage without fighting. The way he saw it, if the Tigerclaws respected cunning, they’d love him.

  The others hadn’t moved the sleeping platform after all, but Roghar was still stretched out in front of the door. Albanon and Tempest shared the broad platform, while Belen sat with her back propped against it. From where he lay across the tent, rolled in blankets as if sulking, Uldane watched through barely open eyes while the Fallcrest guard’s head nodded down to her chest. She jerked upright once, then her head fell again. He waited a little longer to be certain she was truly asleep, then made his move. Roghar might have thought he was being clever by blocking the door, but the thing with tents was that doorways were basically just a formality. The ground where Uldane had chosen to curl up dipped down in a little pocket. The hides that covered the tent were loose above it.

  With a twist and a little wiggle—and a peek to be certain no Tigerclaws were paying attention to his side of the tent—he was under the hides and outside, leaving the bundled blankets behind like the empty cocoon of a newly emerged butterfly.

  Uldane paused in the shadow of the tent. The camp was busy as the barbarians prepared for the feast Turbull had ordered. Anyone who had been idly watching the outsiders’ tent had been called away. From where he stood, the halfling could see some of the Tigerclaws dressing a variety of small game and setting the carcasses to grill over fires—the smell of sizzling meat was wonderful. He was tempted to try his luck at snatching a plump looking squirrel.

  No, he told himself firmly. He wasn’t going to do anything that stupid. He had wanted to look around the camp and that’s what he was going to do. Eating could wait until the feast. Or until he found something more portable than a whole squirrel, at least. He turned the other way and darted to the cover of the next nearest tent.

  Even in the crowded camp, evading notice was ridiculously easy. Boxes, baskets, and bales of goods provided shelter. Tall tufts of grass and weeds around the fringes of the big communal tents gave a slim halfling plenty of hiding places. There was so much activity that even if he did come across an alert Tigerclaw, Uldane had only to wait a few moments for a suitable distraction to present itself. He found the rhythm of the camp and grew bold. When he came across a row of fresh griddlecakes, he helped himself to one and savored its steaming sweetness as he slipped from cover to cover.

  In the course of his explorations, he came across a variety of goods of a more civilized make than the Tigerclaw would likely have crafted for themselves, yet of sufficient wear that they weren’t likely acquired through trade. Maybe these were the Tigerclaws that had scavenged the area around Winterhaven after all. They were probably building up resources in the face of the Abyssal Plague, if Turbull’s story of leading his Thornpad clan into hiding was true. He was disappointed to find only two of the massive saber-toothed cats that were the Tigerclaws’ almost legendary war-mounts, but then if the Thornpads had slipped away in secret, maybe they hadn’t been able to bring any more of the cats with them. Or maybe they hadn’t wanted to. It probably took a lot of hunting just to keep the beasts, penned up in a small but stout stockade behind the camp, fed and happy.

  Unlike their barbarian masters, the great cats raised their heads and looked straight at Uldane as he stood watching them. They didn’t roar or growl, though, and Uldane wondered if maybe they saw him as less of a threat and more of a bite-sized morsel.

  “If you show up at Turbull’s feast,” he told them, “I’m running, no matt
er what Belen says.”

  One of the cats put its head down on its immense paws. The other yawned hugely, exposing fangs longer than Uldane’s entire hand, then, without taking its green eyes off him, slowly licked its muzzle. A little shiver ran up Uldane’s back and he decided it was time to move on.

  All in all, the Tigerclaws and their camp were less exciting than he’d hoped they would be. It was really no more interesting than skulking around Fallcrest or Winterhaven and watching people go about their business. Less even because of Belen’s voice nagging in his head. Guests have duties to the host, too.

  “Goblin kisser,” Uldane muttered under his breath, kicking at the ground. He’d circled the camp several times and dusk was approaching. Time to head back to the others, he decided. At least he could report what he’d found out about the camp. Maybe he could even try to slip back into the tent and his bundled cloak without being noticed.

  Then he noticed something odd.

  Most of the tents in the camp were large communal structures, more like longhouses really. A few were smaller, like Turbull’s tent or the one that had been set up for Uldane and the others. The halfling stood at the far end of the camp, facing a very similar small tent—similar except for the hunter who dozed outside the door and for the lack of tall weeds around its walls. The well-trampled plants in the vicinity were only just springing back to life, as if the tent had been erected in just the last couple of days.

  Another new tent and one that was, unless Uldane was wrong, under guard. His curiosity was aroused.

  One quick look, he told himself. He made his way around to the back of the mysterious tent, looking for the same type of low spot he’d used to escape theirs. He didn’t find one, but the hides in one spot were loose enough that he could pull them up from the ground. He listened for any sound from inside the tent and, hearing nothing, twitched up the loose hides and wriggled his head and shoulders through. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside, but when they did—