The Eye of the Chained God

by Bassingthwaite, Don

  The nightmare demon jerked and went limp. Its corpse was so light, it was almost weightless. Belen shoved it off her sword and stepped quickly over to the demon clutching Quarhaun. The creature seemed almost as lost in the drow’s fear as Quarhaun himself. It didn’t even look up as she drove her sword down between its shoulders. Quarhaun fell away from it with a gasp to lie panting on the ground. Belen whirled to Cariss.

  The death of the first two demons must have gotten through to the third somehow. Its crystal eyes blinked. It let go of Cariss’s head and grabbed her shoulders, trying to turn the shifter’s moaning body between it and Belen like a shield. But it was too slow. Belen twisted around and thrust her sword through its side. The nightmare demon gave a high, keening cry and pushed Cariss away to reach for Belen.

  She ducked the grasping hands and ripped her sword sideways out of the demon’s belly. Cut nearly in half, it let out one more cry, then toppled backward and over the broken edge of the passage. Belen let her sword fall and grabbed Cariss before the staggering shifter could plunge after it. Still half in a panic, Cariss tried to push her away, but Belen held on.

  “Easy,” she said. “It’s over. It’s over.”

  Cariss sucked in great gulps of air, breathing hard. “Thank you,” she gasped between breaths. “Thank you. I will tell Turbull that you are worthy!”

  Belen frowned. “What?”

  Cariss stiffened a little and pulled away. “I shouldn’t have—” she began, then she scowled. “You are Riven,” she said bluntly.

  Real fear raced through Belen and she opened her mouth to deny it, but Cariss shook her head. “Don’t shame me with lies. Turbull saw it. No outsider embraces Tigerclaw traditions the way you embrace them. Turbull believes you are a generation Riven from the tribe, maybe two.”

  “My mother,” Belen said tentatively. “She taught me.”

  “Turbull saw the way you fought alongside us in the valley. He told me to watch you on this journey and if you proved yourself worthy, he would invite you to join the Thornpad clan.”

  After the terror of the nightmare demon attacks, the suggestion was like being drenched with cold water. For a moment, Belen didn’t know what to say or how to react—all she knew was that there was a new warmth growing inside her, something that might even erase the scars Nu Alin had left. “Cariss, I never thought something like that would be possible.”

  “Turbull is not like any other clan leader,” said Cariss. “He believes you could bring new ideas to the Thornpads without sacrificing tradition. He sees ahead—sometimes even further ahead than Chief Scargash.” She grasped Belen’s forearm above the wrist. Belen recognized a Tigerclaw oath grip and returned it. That brought a smile from Cariss.

  “If I don’t escape this place,” the shifter said, “go to Turbull and tell him what I told you.”

  “If I don’t escape,” said Belen, “tell Turbull I would have accepted.”

  “I hope you realize there’s a good chance none of us will escape,” said Quarhaun harshly. The drow was back on his feet, his face a little drawn, but otherwise recovered. He had his sword in his hand and used the tip of it to flip Belen’s sword back to her.

  She caught the weapon but kept it out and ready to use as she looked around, assessed their situation, and found it most … unexpected.

  Their triumph over the nightmare demons seemed to have gone completely unnoticed, at least by Vestapalk. A few of the nearest plague demons watched them and shifted restlessly, but all of the dragon’s attention was on the battle still being waged on the lower portion of the broken passage. Magical energy of all kinds flashed as Albanon, Tempest, and Kri traded spells for flaming strikes by the fire demons. A few burned-out husks of demons lay on the ground, but they were the only casualties. Except for scorches on Tempest’s robes and a burned patch in Albanon’s long silver hair, their friends seemed to be holding their own.

  The battle on the middle portion seemed to have turned in their favor as well. In spite of his mad rush against the brute demons, Roghar still lived. He and Shara fought back to back, while Uldane danced around the perimeter of the fight, stabbing and crippling the big crystal-armored demons wherever he could. In fact, there were only three of the demons left standing, and even as Belen watched, another went down with its head cleft in two by Shara’s greatsword.

  “I don’t understand,” said Cariss with surprise in her voice. “We’re winning. Why isn’t Vestapalk doing more?”

  Belen frowned and looked at the passage behind them. One of their sunrods lay just inside its the mouth. Nothing stirred within the shadows as far down the passage as she could see. No more nightmare demons. No more demons of any kind. Yet with all the demons of the Plaguedeep under his control, Vestapalk could have destroyed their entire group easily. “What’s he waiting for?” she asked. “He could smother us and be done!”

  “He’s playing with us,” Cariss growled.

  Quarhaun muttered a quiet curse. “He’s wearing us down! You heard what he told Kri. He says he knows our secrets, and that we came to destroy the Voidharrow. Look at how he’s watching Albanon and Kri—if he knows how they destroyed Vestausan and Vestausir, he knows they’re the real threat.”

  “But why wear us down? Why pick at us with small bands of demons?”

  “Probably for the same reason Shara wants to kill him personally,” said the drow. “Pride. Vengeance. He wants to destroy us himself, but we’ve also defeated his creatures every time we’ve encountered them. He wants us tired, not fresh.”

  “There’s no honor in an uneven fight,” said Cariss.

  “Honor?” Quarhaun laughed. “No drow matriarch would try to destroy a rival House without making sure it was first weakened from within. I think Vestapalk wants to make sure this is a fight he can win. That’s why he split us up.”

  Belen stared down at the rest of her friends. “So when Albanon and Kri defeat the fire demons, Vestapalk will attack?”

  “I would if I were him.”

  Cariss bared her teeth. “Then what can we do?”

  Belen’s stomach tightened. “We still have rope, don’t we? Maybe Vestapalk wants us split up, but I don’t. First we get down and join Shara, Roghar, and Uldane, then we do what we planned to all along: we give Albanon and Kri time to work their magic.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The stink of burned hair filled Albanon’s nostrils. Given the many possible stenches of battle, it wasn’t the most awful smell, but it made him want to cough with every drawn breath and every shouted spell. Worse, it came over him in a fresh wave each time he turned his head—and with every fresh wave came the thought that he hadn’t had short hair since he was a child.

  It was a completely inappropriate thought for the middle of a life or death battle. Albanon might have suspected he was going mad if he didn’t already know what that felt like.

  He flicked his hand and hurled a silvery bolt of force at one of the remaining fire demons. The demon shifted slightly and the bolt tore through its shoulder. It barely left a trace on the flames, just a dark spot that lingered briefly and vanished entirely a moment later. Albanon cursed and brought his staff up to block a fiery arm as it slapped at him. The tendril tip wrapped around the staff, then dissipated, leaving another charred black ring among the many already scarring the stout wood. The demon raised its arm for yet another lashing blow.

  Tempest’s voice rose in a scream and a twisting ribbon of darkness rushed past Albanon to strike the demon under its upraised arm. Where it struck, flames withered and were extinguished. It seemed to Albanon almost as if they were sucked back along the stream of darkness. The demon stumbled and dropped to one knee, then its fire winked out altogether. All that remained was a crumbling husk of ash with a sooty crystal, now dark, at its heart. Albanon spared a glance over his shoulder at Tempest. She smiled at him.

  “Four down,” she said tightly. “Four to go.”

  Albanon grimaced and turned back to the fight. He sent another bolt of
force at the next enemy.

  At least the fire demons showed no more desire than them to close and turn their battle of spells and flames into a melee. The creatures didn’t die easily—and it didn’t help that fire-based spells had little effect on them, rendering much of Albanon’s arsenal of spells and almost all of Tempest’s completely useless. Albanon had quickly found himself hoarding his store of cold and lightning spells, waiting for the right time to use them. He felt like an apprentice again, hammering away at his opponents with simple magical missiles until they weakened.

  But he and Tempest weren’t the only ones hoarding their magic. “Kri! We could use some help.”

  “I’m doing my part.” Bright white light flared on the other side of Albanon as the priest hurled a lance of pure radiance at a fire demon. The demon’s flames flickered, but came back. Kri’s prayers could have devastating effects against the demons—Albanon had seen it before—but the old man seemed to be holding his most powerful prayers in reserve.

  Albanon bit back a curse. “Do more!”

  “Accept the Chained God’s power. You’ll have all the help you need.”

  A blast of cold will save you, whispered the voice inside Albanon. The knowledge unfolded before him. There was a spell he knew that would create a cloud of freezing vapor. Enhanced and expanded in exactly the same way as fire magic, it could fill the cavern. Maybe even all of the Plaguedeep. In his mind, Albanon saw the fire demons snuffed out, their ashes as cold as last night’s campfire. He saw plague demons frozen to the walls of the Plaguedeep like grotesque carvings. He saw Vestapalk turned white with frost and the Voidharrow frozen like red ice.

  He saw Kri frozen, too—and Tempest. And Roghar, Uldane, Belen, Cariss, Quarhaun, Shara …

  “No!” He thrust both temptation and the whispering voice away. To deny them entirely, he thrust his staff at a pair of fire demons standing close together and spoke a word that left his lips cold. A glowing blue speck sped from his staff and streaked toward the demons. It burst as it approached, exploding into a bright mist. The fire demons hissed in voices like wind rushing over hot coals. One of them stumbled out of the mist. The other didn’t.

  “Three to go,” said Kri. “That was a waste.” He raised a hand and murmured a prayer. Holy light shimmered around his hand and flashed above the demon that had escaped Albanon’s spell. The creature hissed again, then crumbled into ashes. “Two,” said Kri.

  The remaining two fire demons drew back as if realizing they were outnumbered. However, with the middle section high above and the remains of the passage even higher, they were just as trapped as Albanon and the others.

  “We’ve got them!” Tempest said triumphantly.

  Suspicion nagged at Albanon. He turned away from the retreating fire demons to the Plaguedeep where Vestapalk and all of his plague demons had crouched motionless, watching the spell battle.

  They still hadn’t moved. Vestapalk’s gaze was focused on him and him alone.

  The tips of Albanon’s ears tingled. This one knows all your secrets, Vestapalk had said. You come to destroy the Voidharrow. This one will not give you that chance.

  “What is he waiting for?” the wizard murmured.

  “So the sleeper wakes,” said Kri. He turned to face Vestapalk as well. “What is he waiting for? Us. He waits for us. Where are your mighty spells now, Albanon? Thrown away. Are you ready to face him?”

  Albanon’s mouth went dry. Vestapalk had manipulated them with the fire demons’ attack. How had he not seen that before? And the others, isolated on the other sections of broken passage? Because they were on the lowest level, he couldn’t see up to where they were. He hadn’t given a thought to them since the fire demons’ appearance. He’d heard Roghar’s battle cry and a scream that might have been Cariss, but those were the only sounds that had registered.

  Instinct told him to look up, to see if they were still there, but Vestapalk’s gaze held him. The dragon’s mouth turned up in a predator’s smile. He lowered his head, bringing it closer to Albanon’s level.

  “Come, Albanon,” he called. “Come and serve this one as you were meant to.”

  The crystal-riddled stone on which the dragon perched twisted around, reorienting itself like a living thing. One end of it stretched down to the ruined passage so that Vestapalk crouched at the end of a long spire jutting into the Plaguedeep. His eyes never left Albanon’s. His double voice reached into Albanon’s mind and rang inside his skull. Come.

  Where was the other voice that had spoken to him so often before? Albanon reached out to it—and found silence. Of course. He’d rejected it. He felt his feet move without his will, taking the first long step toward the spire and Vestapalk. “Albanon, no!” shouted Tempest, but it was Kri who grabbed his arm and held him back. The priest’s voice rose.

  “He serves another master now—a master who will destroy you!”

  Vestapalk’s laughter filled the cavern and found echoes not just in reflected sound, but among the plague demons. The stillness of the Plaguedeep shattered as the laughter spread in shrieking, cackling waves. Vestapalk’s voice rose above it all. “Does he? This one served that master once. The Elder Eye that is Tharizdun guided Vestapalk to power, but Vestapalk found a power greater than the Eye!” The dragon paused and his eyes narrowed, but stayed locked on Albanon. “Who will you serve, eladrin? Follow the Elder Eye and you follow the prisoner of a dead world. Follow Vestapalk and you follow the new god of this world!”

  Kri’s voice buzzed in his ear. “It’s a trick. Vestapalk only wants revenge. If you follow him, he’ll just make you into one of his minions—one of his slaves. Tharizdun doesn’t demand service. He offers you power, but also freedom. Follow him and we’ll save the world from the Voidharrow together.” The priest glared up at Vestapalk. “Release him! Let him make his own choice.”

  The dragon chuckled again, but lifted his gaze. Albanon felt the dragon’s hold on him vanish as if a weight had been removed from his back. He staggered. Hands caught him.

  Tempest’s hands. Albanon looked up and met eyes filled with concern. Tempest didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. He straightened and looked at Kri. “I do not serve Tharizdun—”

  Fury passed like a storm across the priest’s face. Vestapalk’s double voice rose in another mocking laugh. Albanon spun to look up at him. “—but I will work with him to destroy you!”

  Vestapalk’s laughter vanished, sucked back down his throat. Strangled silence fell across the Plaguedeep.

  And was broken again by a call from above. “Vestapalk!” Roghar shouted. “Bahamut stands against you in defense of this world as well. Feel his wrath!”

  The paladin thrust his shield forward and blinding white light poured from the symbol of the Platinum Dragon. Vestapalk reeled back, bellowing in agony as the light washed over him. Demons shrieked as if the holy radiance had burned them as well. Against the brightness, Albanon saw ropes thrown over the edge of the level above, then Uldane, Cariss, and Belen were sliding down to join him, Kri, and Tempest. For an instant, he was struck by fear for Shara and Quarhaun, then he saw them just behind Roghar up above.

  Tempest touched a hand to his face. “Good choice,” she said, then she stepped away to join the others as they took up defensive positions around him. Albanon looked to Kri. Tharizdun’s priest seemed almost stunned by the turn of events. Albanon grabbed his arm and hauled him close. His other hand dipped into his pouch and produced the fragment of the Vast Gate.

  “Let’s make this count, Kri,” he said. He wrapped the old man’s hand over his, the stone fragment squeezed so tight between them that Albanon could feel its sharp edges. The pain seemed to break through to Kri as well. He drew a shuddering breath, glanced once at Albanon with hate-filled eyes, then raised his voice.

  “Tharizdun! Chained God! Patient One—”

  Vestapalk’s roar drowned him out. Great wings cracked like thunder as they spread wide and Vestapalk launched himself straight at them.

 
; Roghar’s divine light threw Quarhaun’s face into stark relief and all but washed out the shadows that writhed around the drow’s drawn sword. “You’re certain?” he shouted over Vestapalk’s bellow and the shrieks of the plague demons.

  “It’s what I swore to do, my love,” Shara called back. She glanced down to the lower level. Uldane and the others were on the ground, racing to Albanon and Kri. She looked back up to Quarhaun. “One,” she said. He raised the sword. “Two.” He braced himself. “Three!”

  She sprinted at him. Behind her, Roghar shouted something but it was too late to stop. Quarhaun’s lips formed an arcane word. His sword sliced the air.

  Shadows folded around Shara. For an instant, it seemed as if she’d been struck blind. Searing cold snatched her breath away as Quarhaun had warned her it would. The spell was never intended to be used on friends, only enemies—like the peryton he had used it on to save her.

  Then light and warmth burst around her again and her running feet were on scales instead of stone. Vestapalk’s scales. On Vestapalk’s back.

  Except that the dragon wasn’t sitting still anymore. The scaly hide slid under Shara’s boots. She grabbed at one of the sword-tall crystal spikes growing from Vestapalk’s spine and held on—just in time. Vestapalk’s roar of fury changed to one of confusion. The Plaguedeep spun around her as the dragon bucked and twisted like a wild horse, trying to dislodge the thing on his back. She caught a glimpse of her friends throwing themselves to the ground, then she and the dragon were past them and flying over the Plaguedeep.

  “I feel you!” Vestapalk screamed. “I feel you back there. You will die for this!” He beat his wings and started climbing straight up. For a moment, Shara stared up through red mists at a blue sky high above, then she twisted around and managed to get a leg over another of the spine spikes.