The Eye of the Chained God

by Bassingthwaite, Don

  If there was still any need to make the climb. The dragonborn cupped his hands around his muzzle and bellowed “Albanon!”

  The echoes that rolled back at him were the only response. “We’ve tried that,” Turbull growled. “No answer. Not even a pebble dropped over the edge as a sign.”

  “So we could be trying to rescue a corpse?”

  Another glance from Tempest. This time it irritated Roghar more than it shamed him. He glared back at his old friend. “It’s a possibility.”

  “He could be lying wounded. He might not be able to answer. We’re going after him.”

  Roghar wanted to apologize, to tell her that he’d never meant to question whether they’d go after Albanon. Something dark and angry rose inside him, though. Who was Tempest to question him? He tried to fight the feeling down, but it still came out as a derisive snort. Tempest’s eyebrows drew together beneath her horns and she frowned.

  Anything else she might have said was interrupted, however, by a shout from along the cliff face. There was a snarl to it, but also an uneasy whine, like a frightened animal—it must have been one of the Tigerclaws.

  Long experience adventuring together took over. Roghar and Tempest exchanged a knowing glance and followed the sound. The paladin led with his shield up and a hand on his sword, while the warlock followed a couple of paces behind, her rod at the ready. But they weren’t the only ones to investigate. Belen fell in beside Roghar while Turbull raced ahead. Other Tigerclaws seemed to melt out of the forest and rush past them. Uldane caught up to them. “What was that?”

  Roghar shook his head and shoved the halfling back with Tempest. Ahead, the Tigerclaws, together with Shara and Quarhaun, were gathered around something on the cliff face. The shifters were growling and unsettled, for the most part keeping their distance. Shara saw Roghar and the others and waved them forward. Roghar pushed through—and growled as well.

  There, vines grew higher than normal on the cliff, but some had been pulled down. What lay beneath was not rough rock, however. The stone surface had been worked smooth and flat—and carved with a jagged spiral.

  “The sign of the Elder Eye,” said Cariss. She made a gesture Roghar guessed was meant to ward off evil. “In Winterbole Forest, a few monstrous creatures with an affinity to ice and cold make offerings to it.”

  “Packs of Riven, too,” Hurn bared his teeth and spat. “Filthy, feral traitors to the tribe.”

  Roghar saw Belen flinch at the mention of the Riven—Hurn’s anger had struck too close to her secret. He tried to change the subject. “It’s the symbol of Tharizdun,” he said. “The Chained God tries to lure worshipers in the guise of the Elder Elemental Eye.”

  “And not all exiles from the tribe turn to the Elder Eye, Hurn,” said Turbull. “They turn their backs on the Spirit of Hota, but they don’t become beasts.” His face tightened as he studied the jagged spiral, though. “Elder Eye or Chained God, I don’t like the sign’s presence in this valley. What is it doing here? Who carved it?”

  Quarhaun stepped closer to the rock face and his pale eyes narrowed. “The symbol isn’t the only thing here.” He drew his sword, stretched up and placed its tip in the center of the spiral, then pulled the sword carefully down the stone.

  Dirt and fine debris peeled away after it, revealing a dark, straight line in the rock. “It’s a seam,” he said. “This looks like the work of dwarves.” He grabbed a handful of vines and pulled them away to expose more of the smooth surface. Shara went to help him. Then Tempest. And Uldane. And Turbull, and Belen, and others. In a short time, all of the vines along that stretch of the cliff face were down.

  A pair of arched doors, as tall and wide as fortress gates, stood revealed. No handles or hinges were visible and there was no decoration except Tharizdun’s jagged spiral. More of the Tigerclaws made Hurn’s warding gesture.

  “Do you think this is where Albanon’s urge was leading us?” asked Tempest.

  “I’m sure of it.” Quarhaun ran his hands over the smooth stone, pushed against the doors without result, then stepped back and looked at the rest of them. “I’ve never known anyone who makes one door into a place that doesn’t make a second one.” He nodded to the cliff overhead.

  “You’re going in?” asked Hurn.

  “We’re going in,” said Turbull grimly. “Albanon aided us. We aid Albanon. And if we intend to settle in this valley, we need to know all of its dangers.”

  A murmur ran through the Tigerclaws at that. Turbull turned and silenced them with a snarl.

  “I think a better question might be how do we get in?” Uldane said. “There’s no lock on the doors. I can’t open them.”

  Roghar studied the doors and his lips twitched into a smile. For the first time since Winterhaven, he felt like he had a purpose again.

  “I can,” he said.

  It took longer to find, fell, and strip the necessary trees than it took for Roghar to rig them together with rope into a sturdy frame and suspended battering ram in front of the great stone doors. Personal combat wasn’t the only form of battle that Bahamut’s paladins were trained for. Roghar had never needed to conduct siege warfare, but he thanked the Platinum Dragon he’d found siege engines interesting enough that they stuck in his memory. The work almost made him forget the burning infection in his hands and arms.

  Turbull looked at the rough timbers with some doubt. “I’ve heard of such things,” he said. “I’d thought that armies could just take a tree trunk and run it against fortress gates.”

  “We would have had to clear a lot of underbrush to make enough room for a charge at the doors,” said Roghar. “This is easier.” He took hold of the hanging ram and used his entire body weight to drag it back, then took a deep breath and drove it forward. The ram’s head slammed into the stone doors with a resounding boom.

  “Teams of ten,” he called out. “Five to a side. We work in shifts. This will likely take some time.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this now?” asked Belen. She pointed up, not to the ledges, but to the sky. The sun had sunk well into the west, casting most of the valley into shadow and painting the steep slopes of its far side with gold.

  “We have enough people who can see in the dark,” Roghar told her. She shook her head.

  “That’s not what I’m worried about. If this is some lost shrine or forgotten temple of Tharizdun, I’d rather face it during the day.”

  Roghar glanced around, then dropped his voice. “Tharizdun wanted us to follow Albanon here, didn’t he? What do you think we will have to face?” When she didn’t respond, he turned back to the ram, where the first team of ten—Shara and Quarhaun among them—had taken their places. “Ready!” he called. “Pull and … swing!”

  The ram slammed against the doors a second time. “Pull,” called Roghar again, “and … swing!”

  They quickly fell into a rhythm, the boom of the ram echoing across the valley on a regular basis. The siege engine creaked and groaned but hung together. There was no immediate change to the face of the doors, but that didn’t surprise or deter Roghar. The stone looked tough and if the doors were dwarf-made as Quarhaun suspected, they would likely be thick as well. At least there was no one trying to stop them from breaking in.

  Fine cracks spread out from where the ram struck. Chips of stone started to flake away. He changed the teams swinging the ram, but didn’t leave his own post at the back end of it. Quarhaun, sweat glistening on his black skin, came to stand beside him. “What if it’s sealed on the other side?” he asked quietly. “A wall or something.”

  “Who would do something like that?” Roghar grunted between heaves. “It’s mad.”

  “The symbol of Tharizdun is on the door.”

  “If there’s a wall, we break through it, too. Pull and …”

  “Roghar!” shouted Uldane.

  The dragonborn froze at the urgency in Uldane’s call, but the ram was already in motion. It dragged him off his feet and nearly knocked him down on the rebound
. Two or three shifters on either side also tumbled. Those still upright had the sense to drag the ram to a stop. Roghar rolled upright and glared at Uldane, but the halfling was scanning the sky. So were Belen and half a dozen of the resting Tigerclaws. “What?” he said, his anger fading fast, “What is it?”

  “Something just flew over. Up high.”

  Roghar looked up. A scattering of clouds had rolled in, breaking up the blue vault and scattering the red-gold light of the setting sun. “Another peryton?”

  Uldane shook his head. “Bigger. A lot bigger.” He traced a line against the sky, heading west beyond the towering cliff. “It went that way.”

  “I saw a long neck and a long tail,” said one of the Tigerclaw warriors.

  Quarhaun cursed. “Dragon?”

  Roghar didn’t hesitate. He went straight for his sword and shield. Hurn looked at him doubtfully. “Maybe it didn’t see us.”

  “It couldn’t have missed hearing us.”

  “Then maybe it doesn’t care.”

  “I’m not taking that chance. Everyone under the trees. We’ll wait to see if—”

  Across the valley, something flickered in the light that fell against the far hills. A shadow, made indistinct by distance—but at that angle, whatever was casting the shadow would have to be low, not high where everyone was watching.

  “Scatter!” Roghar commanded. “It’s coming back!”

  A few of the Tigerclaws reacted faster than the rest of them and sprinted for cover. They weren’t fast enough. Before they reached the trees, the dragon burst over the top of the cliff and swooped down on them.

  Roghar caught a brief flash of green and red, then he threw himself flat on the ground and pulled his shield up over his head. The shouts of the Tigerclaws were drowned out by a rush of wind as the beast skimmed close overhead. One of the shouts rose into a sharp scream, then ended abruptly. Wings thundered on the air. Roghar let his shield fall and rose onto his knees.

  The dragon was climbing again. Two of the Tigerclaws who had been running for the trees were bloody corpses, still tumbling across the ground from the force of the lethal attack. Turbull and Shara were both yelling, telling everyone to scatter so there would be no groups to present easy targets for the dragon’s breath. Roghar watched the dragon as it rose into the fading sunlight, then rolled in the air and came back for another pass.

  Like Vestagix in Winterhaven, the creature was thin to the point of emaciation, its green scales tinted with crystalline red. More crystals sprouted in spikes from its joints and along its spine and tail. Where Vestagix had taken the size and stance of a dragonborn, however, the monster in the air was similar in size and shape to a true dragon—or at least to a true dragon with two necks sprouting from its shoulders and two long, narrow heads above.

  It held the heads together in flight, but as it slowed and approached the ground, they separated. One looked ahead, guiding the flight. The other bent down. Red eyes scanned the chaos below. Roghar saw them fix on several Tigerclaws who, against all commands, were still running close together. The dragon’s chest expanded as it inhaled—

  “Beware its breath!” Roghar shouted, coming to his feet. Turbull, Shara, even Quarhaun called variants of the same warning. It did no good.

  Green vapor so dense it seemed like liquid blasted from the mouth of the second head. It boiled up into a thick cloud of green and washed over the fleeing Tigerclaws. Sounds of choking came from within the cloud, followed by the distinct thumps of bodies hitting the ground. The green vapor dissipated within moments, but it was already over. The Tigerclaws were down, their faces contorted with the agony of their deaths. Even the plants around them had shriveled from the poison.

  Wings that seemed almost too large for the dragon’s body spread wide—more than any other part of the monster’s body, they flashed with veins and fragments of the red crystal—and it wheeled to fly across the stone face. Crystalline talons clutched at the rocks. Some shattered with the force of its grip. Others held. The dragon ended up clinging heads down like some enormous insect to the cliff just above the great doors. Both heads surveyed those below, then curled back. “This one,” roared the head on the right, “is Vestausan!” The head on the left bellowed. “This one is Vestausir!”

  The voices, though they came from larger throats, were the same as Vestagix’s. And, Roghar realized, the same as Vestapalk’s. His belly tightened with resolve and he remembered what Vestagix had claimed. He drew his sword.

  “Let me guess,” he shouted back to the two-headed monster. “You are our doom.”

  The dragon’s double gaze settled on him—and for a moment, Roghar felt as if the creature saw right into him. A shiver of kinship rolled through him. Pain encircled his wrist. The burning in his arms grew hotter and seemed to spread a little higher. One of the heads gave a rattling laugh that might as well have been words. Not your doom, dragonborn. Resolve turned to fear in Roghar’s guts.

  It knew.

  The double gaze left him, but he still felt frozen. The monster knew he was infected with the Abyssal Plague. It knew that there was no point in attacking because soon he would belong to Vestapalk, too. He watched numbly as its red eyes moved on—one pair to Hurn, the other to Belen.

  “Come,” said Vestausan. “Draw closer.”

  “See this one in his glory,” hissed Vestausir. “You cannot resist.”

  Both Belen and Hurn blinked, their eyes opening wide as if in awe of the two-headed dragon. Like sleepwalkers, they moved toward the cliff face.

  “No!” Shara leaped at Belen, trying to tackle her. Belen sidestepped, though, and kept walking. Shara twisted around and grabbed for her leg. “You won’t take them!”

  There was a fierce, almost desperate protectiveness in her voice. Stories Shara had told of her first encounter with Vestapalk came back to Roghar—stories of how the dragon had systematically slaughtered her friends, her lover, and her father. Would Vestausan and Vestausir do the same? Would he let them? The fear that held Roghar frozen shattered. Resolve returned, along with rage. If he was doomed anyway, he could at least make his death count.

  “Monster!” he called. “Demonspawn! You want someone to fight? Fight me!” He raised sword and shield. “The honor of Bahamut compels you!”

  For the first time in days, the power of the Platinum Dragon came swiftly. The symbol on his shield flashed with holy light. One head whipped back to him. The other wavered uncertainly as if the creature was more used to luring creatures into battle than being forced to it. Belen and Hurn stumbled and came back to their senses. The dragon roared in fury. “You dare!”

  “More than dare,” Roghar said. “Come to me!”

  The monster roared again and leaped from the cliff. It didn’t try to slow its descent, but just dropped straight down like a massive cat, landing on the battering ram and smashing the frame flat. Roghar felt the ground tremble with the dragon’s landing. In the brief moment it took for the thing to recover its balance, Roghar charged. “In Bahamut’s name, your end is here!”

  Vestausir struck at him. Roghar threw himself aside—and looked up to discover Vestausan’s jaws waiting for him. He dropped back and teeth that flashed with red crystal clashed just above him. The jaws opened wide again. Roghar brought up his shield but before the dragon could snap at him a second time, a blast of smoky fire broke across its narrow snout.

  “Roghar’s not the only one you have to worry about!” came Tempest’s voice. Another bolt of her fire sizzled just past the head, while a streak of Quarhaun’s crackling darkness came at it from the other side. Battle cries rose around him: Shara’s, Belen’s, Turbull’s.

  The dragon backed away from him, its heads weaving at the new threats. Roghar scrambled back and rose to his feet. His friends and the Tigerclaws were closing on the monster from both sides. Vestausan and Vestausir darted and ducked, hissing and threatening but never actually striking. So many targets seemed to confuse the creature. Some of the Tigerclaws paused to shake their w
eapons and taunt it.

  “Don’t!” said Roghar. “Just attack. Don’t give it a chance to—”

  The warning came too late. The heads struck fast, one to either side. Each rose with a screaming shifter between its jaws. Vestausir flung its prey away and grabbed for another. Vestausan simply crunched down so that blood and severed limbs spattered onto those below. “You would attack this one? Your doom will be slow!”

  It lunged—or tried to. The enormous body heaved, then tumbled as its rear legs failed to keep up with its forelegs. Its wings flailed in an attempt to recover and the two heads wove back and forth in consternation.

  The wreckage of the battering ram had tangled between the dragon’s hind legs when the thing crushed it, Roghar realized. Then he saw that it was no accident as Uldane, unnoticed in the chaos of battle, came darting out from under the thrashing bulk. The ropes had been skillfully looped around the dragon’s feet and legs like bootlaces tied together.

  “All yours!” the halfling said, sprinting for someplace safe.

  Roghar almost felt his old habit of singing in battle coming back to him. Almost. His wrist and his arm still burned. His blood throbbed in his head. He squeezed the hilt of his sword and the grip of his shield. Watch over me, Bahamut, he prayed silently, then he shouted aloud, “Now! Attack now!”

  He charged, bowling aside Tigerclaws as they fell back. Vestausir’s neck was close. Roghar whirled his sword over his head and chopped down.

  The dragon shifted at the last moment. The blade sliced through scales and bit into flesh beneath but the wound was shallow. Vestausir bellowed and lurched sideways, knocking him back. Then the dragon reared up. The massive, flashing wings swept air down on him and the others like a storm gust. With the remains of the ram still dangling from its hind feet, the monster rose up beyond the reach of their weapons. Tempest and Quarhaun continued to blast it with smoky fire and crackling darkness, but they seemed to have no more effect than his own glancing blow.