The Eye of the Chained God

CHAPTER TWO

By the time they reached the half-constructed gatehouse, Roghar was already two turns down the snaking road that traversed the bluffs. “He left without us!” Uldane yelped. “He’s going to get to the fight before we catch him.”

Down in the lower town, the fleeing figures of travelers were halfway between the Moonwash Stream and the open expanse of the Market Green. Their bounding, sprinting pursuers had reached the water, and would catch their quarry on the green.

If Roghar was fast, he might reach the Market Green at the same time-but alone.

Albanon’s belly tensed. They could catch up to the dragonborn and face the demons at his side. It would mean risking his own demons, though. He took a breath and held up an arm before Uldane and Belen could rush after Roghar.

“Wait,” he said and stepped to the brow of the bluff. Roghar was almost directly below them, a good seventy-five paces straight down. Albanon focused his will. A spell rose in his mind and he seized it, concentrating on keeping it clear and sharp. At the back of his mind, something tugged at his attention, an urge to tinker with the magic. To alter it, just a little bit, and see what happened. He ignored the urge and used his fingers to sketch symbols in the air that only his wizard’s eyes could see.

It took only moments. The instant the last symbol was drawn, he felt arcane energy surge through him, completing the spell. A shimmering doorway, like sunlight flashing on water, flared to life-once again, invisible to everyone but him. Albanon glanced over his shoulder. “Stand exactly where I am and follow me.”

He turned back and stepped off the edge of the bluff into the shimmering air.

His foot came down, however, on the solid, dusty ground of the road only a few paces behind Roghar. Albanon stumbled for a moment but found his feet and started running after the paladin. A slight grunt signaled the arrival of someone else through the portal. It was followed by another grunt, then by Uldane’s laugh of delight at the magical transport. Roghar looked back without slowing down and grinned.

“I knew you’d make it. Those demons don’t stand a chance.” He raised his head and started to sing a deep, throaty battle hymn, the cadence of the song timed to his pounding charge.

“Does he always do that?” asked Belen as they raced after him.

“You get used to it,” said Tempest.

Beyond the green, the fleeing travelers had glimpsed their rescuers. Some pointed and gestured as if in encouragement to the others, some just kept their heads down. None of them stopped running, though near the back of the group, one tall figure in an emerald cloak shortened his stride to offer assistance to a pair of slender, more stooped travelers-someone more capable and heroic helping those who needed it most. Unfortunately, it meant that those three were closest to the pursuing demons.

And the demons were rapidly closing ground. Albanon tried to keep one eye on the creatures and the other on the ground beneath his feet. The road seemed even steeper that it usually did, his balance thrown by the speed of his descent. Except for Uldane, surefooted and agile as ever, all of them slipped and stumbled on bits of loose gravel as they ran, forcing them to slow more than they would have liked. By the time they reached flat ground, the fleeing travelers were sprinting onto the Market Green with the plague demons leaping and snarling almost at their heels.

The demons would reach the travelers before they did.

“Albanon!” Roghar shouted without pausing in his charge. “We need a spell to distract the demons.”

Albanon slowed as Belen and Uldane flew past him, gauging the distance to the far side of the green. In his gut, he knew he was the best choice for such a task: Tempest’s furious magic was destructive but lacked a wizard’s carefully studied range. His racing heart, however, felt like it skipped a beat. The far side of the green was farther than he could safely throw his magic without stretching the forms of the spell almost to breaking.

Is it really? the whisper in his head thought arrogantly. Or are you just holding back?

He bit his tongue and picked up speed again. “I need to be closer-”

“Do it!” Roghar pointed with this sword. “Look!”

Across the green, the tall traveler had given his slower companions a last push to speed them on their way, then turned to face their pursuers. His sword flashed from its sheath and he threw back his cloak-revealing the fine, sharp features of not just another eladrin, but one Albanon knew.

Immeral, the leader of the huntsmen Albanon had summoned from the Feywild to aid him against Kri, settled into a defensive stance, ready to meet the claws of the plague demons.

Albanon stopped so sharply that Tempest, following behind, cursed as she dodged around him. He put her out of his mind, drawing energy out of the air and shaping it into a tiny, brilliant red fleck above his palm. Under the best conditions, he might be able to hurl the spell halfway across the Market Green. Immeral was half again that far, with the nearest demons even farther. Albanon pushed his will out to the limit of the spell. Then, with breath hissing between his teeth, he forced it beyond.

He could feel the ebb and flow of the world’s magic; he could almost see it as half-glimpsed streams of light and shadow. Up close, it was crisp and more easily manipulated. Farther away, where the demons stood out like clumps of mold in old soup, it was hazier. If he concentrated, he could still manipulate it, though. The formula of the spell offered an easy, reliable path, but Albanon could see almost instantly in his mind’s eye how to improve upon it. He gathered more energy into the fleck above his hand. The heat of it sharpened into pain.

Time seemed to slow. He drew back his hand to hurl the spell. Throw it so. Enhance the fleck’s flight thus with additional magic. Hardly thinking, he calculated angles, trajectories, velocities, the volume of space that he could fill with fire if only he dared to draw on such an amount of energy.

The numbers and calculations closed around him like jaws, biting into his mind. Albanon screamed and flung the fleck of molten magic away even as he staggered and dropped to his knees.

The little fleck flew past Tempest, Belen, Uldane, and Roghar. It gathered speed, turning into a streak of flame as it passed the running travelers, then Immeral, to slam into what had once been the Lucky Gnome Taphouse on the edge of the Market Green.

The former tavern exploded in a vast ball of ruddy fire with a roar that made Albanon’s ears ring. The force of the explosion knocked the plague demons aside and filled the air with an angry swarm of charred wooden splinters and scorched chips of stone. The travelers screamed and stumbled. The demons screeched, their pack breaking apart. Immeral, braced for the demons’ charge, swayed with the blast and swung away to protect his face.

When Immeral turned back, Roghar-his scaled chest heaving and his neck frills flaring-stood with his sword and shield at his left side. Belen took up a position on his right, and Uldane crouched behind them, ready to take advantage of any opening.

Distraction accomplished.

“Albanon?” Tempest crouched down beside him, a look of concern on her face.

“I’m fine,” he said with a voice suddenly hoarse. “Go to the others. They need you.”

The explosion might have thrown the demons into confusion, but it hadn’t stopped them. One, a lithe thing with a wide, distorted head and four eyes of gleaming red crystal, paused in the glare of the burning building. Those crystalline eyes darted between the frightened refugees and their determined defenders, then settled on Roghar and the others. A sound like a knife dragged across slate rose from its throat. The other demons turned to follow its gaze. The lead demon began a slow slink toward its new prey.

Tempest didn’t hesitate. She turned and strode across the green, drawing from her belt the short, thick rod that was a warlock’s chief implement. Albanon wished he had his staff, but he’d left it in the tower that morning, not expecting to need it on a mission of handing out food to refugees.

You don’t need it, the arrogant part of him whispered triumphantly. Look what you just did.

Albanon forced the voice away and pushed himself to his feet. Hands grabbed his arms, helping him stand. The travelers, he realized-then he started as he realized that they were all eladrin, their faces drawn with exhaustion.

“Thank you,” one of them said simply in Elven.

Albanon nodded in return, then jerked his head back toward the upper town. “Up the bluff,” he said in the same language. “Through the gate. There will be people to help you.”

“Corellon and all the gods watch over you.”

If any of the travelers saw him flinch from the blessing or thought it odd that he did, they didn’t show it. Albanon drew a shaking breath and turned back to his friends.

The plague demons were upon them, breaking in an instant from slow stalking to howling charge.

There were ten-no, a dozen-of the things. Most were of the type that resembled strange, skeletally thin beasts, with wide flat heads, chitinous hides, and a spray of large red crystals above their hips. Some were small, no bigger than a hound, and others were the size of panthers. They closed on Immeral and the others with the confident ferocity of much larger creatures.

“In Bahamut’s name,” Roghar bellowed, “your hunt ends here!” He stepped forward to meet the charge of the first demon and it leaped at him. Roghar slammed it out of the air with his shield, the holy white light of the gods bursting from the symbol of Bahamut as he struck. The demon screeched as the light burned it and fell writhing to the ground. Roghar chopped its head from its body.

The beasts swarmed around his friends, slashing with claws that sparkled like crystal and trying to sink jagged teeth into their flesh. The defenders met them with steel that slashed, parried, and blocked. Immeral brought one down with a thrust of a fine longsword. Belen hacked grimly at any limb that came near her-but missed one claw that hooked into the leather of her armor. It jerked her off balance and she fell to one knee. The demon that had hooked her yowled and tried to drag her closer. Uldane ducked right under its arm and pinned the thing’s jaw to its skull with one dagger, then opened its throat with another. Belen scrambled free and just had time to nod to the halfling before the next demon bounded over its packmate’s corpse.

Closer to Albanon, Tempest stood with her legs braced as she hurled blasts of dark and greasy flame from her rod. Each burst of fire seemed certain to hit one of their friends in the heaving knot of battle, but none did. Tempest’s face and eyes all but shone with the intensity of her fury, but her aim was precise. Her blasts singed demons while the warriors held their attention. More than one of the corpses that lay on the ground was seared and smoking.

The demons didn’t break, though. If anything, their ferocity grew as their numbers dwindled. Albanon had fought them often enough to know they wouldn’t give up the attack. They had no fear, no sense of self-preservation. They would attack until they were dead.

Or until the demon that commanded the others was dead.

The pack didn’t consist solely of the beastlike demons. Around the outside of the battle stalked three more humanoid demons, walking on two legs and urging the other demons on with roars that might have been words. When an opening appeared, they struck with one or two of their four thick arms, then ducked back-curiously restrained behavior for plague demons.

“Tempest!” he shouted. “Target the four-armed ones.”

The tiefling’s eyes narrowed. Albanon saw her pause, wait until one of the four-armed demons was momentarily exposed, then make a sharp stabbing motion with her free hand. Her lips moved in a harsh whisper.

Flames burst out of the air above the demon, instantly coalescing into a long, red hot, and very solid metal spike. The burning spike slammed through the demon and into the ground beneath. Pinned in place, the demon howled and tried to pull free. Roghar seized the opportunity, throwing the beasts around him back with a sweep of his shield, then hacking at the pinned demon. His first blow sheared through an upflung arm. His second sank deep into a bony skull. The demon drooped, its dead body still held up by the spike.

Tempest had captured the attention of the other two four-armed demons. They turned on her, spitting and howling in fury. Tempest yelped and hurled another blast of smoky fire at the nearest as it came at her, but the thing charged through the flames without pause. Belen and Uldane, unable to break away from the demons they were fighting, screamed out her name. Big taloned hands rose, ready to slash down.

Break them, murmured the voice inside Albanon. You can do it. Wipe their tainted carcasses from the face of the world.

Albanon clenched his teeth. No. There was no need to force his power. The spells Moorin had taught him were enough. Keeping a tight hold on the magic, he raised his hands and spoke words that seemed to numb his lips. Twin bolts of brilliant blue-white light flashed from his palms, one washing over each demon. Where the light passed, frost grew, across dark hide and glittering red crystal alike.

The leading demon howled in frustration, and then the frost hardened into a sheath of ice. The slashing claws stopped two handspans from Tempest as she stepped back to safety.

The magical cold would only hold for a few moments. He called out another spell, this one rolling off his tongue like thunder. Lightning crackled around him. He forced it into his palm and held it there, feeling the prickling energy move and grow almost as if it were a living thing.

When he released it, the lightning twisted through the air between him and the demon like a blindingly brilliant serpent. Its touch threw the demon back several paces and left it sprawled on the ground, a scorched and smoking corpse.

For a heartbeat everything seemed to pause, then the demons that had been fighting so hard to destroy Roghar and the others were abruptly fighting to get away from them. The final four-armed demon, shaking off the chilling touch of Albanon’s frost, backed away. It snarled nearly as loudly as it had before, but its posture was hunched and defensive. Tempest moved to stand beside Albanon and it flinched back a step.

Roghar’s voice rose above the battlefield on the Market Green. “Don’t let them escape! We need to destroy them while we can!”

His command ended in the scream of another dying demon. From the corner of his eye, Albanon saw Belen, Uldane, and Immeral strike at foes that clawed each other in their frenzy to escape. The last four-armed demon reacted differently, however. With a final defiant bellow, it threw itself at him and Tempest, its arms outstretched.

Albanon’s belly tensed. Seizing the magic once more, he hurled a bolt of pure silvery force straight into the monster’s face. At his side, Tempest loosed another blast of eldritch flame.

The thing crashed to the ground at their feet, its head a burned and blasted ruin. Albanon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and glanced at Tempest with a triumphant grin.

But she wasn’t smiling. Chest heaving and face flushed from the fight, she still managed to look at him with concern. “When you burned the tavern-I’ve never seen a spell knock you off your feet before. What happened to you?”

Fear he hadn’t felt during the battle crawled up his back. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “I overextended myself. That’s all. I’m fine.”

Her red eyes narrowed, but before she could say more, Roghar roared in victory. Albanon turned in time to see the dragonborn pulling his sword from the last of the demons. Belen stalked the Green, ensuring that every demon was well and truly dead. Uldane skipped up to them, his eyes bright and a lively smile stretched across his face. And Immeral…

Immeral was already before him, his emerald green cloak swirling as he kneeled. “Albanon. Well met, my young prince.”

Albanon felt rather than saw Tempest stiffen, but he had a good view of Uldane’s wide eyes getting even wider. “Prince?” the halfling said as if there weren’t dead demons laid out around them. “You’re a prince?”

Albanon flushed. Immeral raised his eyebrows. “They… didn’t know?” he asked.

“No,” said Albanon. He didn’t even try to look at Tempest.

“You’re a prince?” said Uldane again in wonder.

“After the traitor priest Kri Redshal destroyed the gate that brought my men and me here,” said Immeral, “we needed another way to return to the Feywild. We found horses and rode southwest for the ancient portal between the worlds at Moonstair-only to find that the situation there was direr than in Fallcrest.”

“It didn’t seem so bad when I passed through there a month ago,” Albanon said.

Roghar grunted. “A lot can change in a month. You passed through Moonstair with Kri, didn’t you?”

The tips of Albanon’s ears tingled with shame at the comment-although it seemed they hadn’t stopped tingling since the end of their battle on the Market Green and Immeral’s ill-timed revelation. When they’d returned to the safety of the upper town, the eladrin travelers they had rescued mobbed him and Immeral to the exclusion of the others. When they’d finally extracted themselves and retreated to the Glowing Tower to hear the huntsman’s story, Splendid had swooped down on Immeral as if he were her oldest friend and Albanon a stranger.

It didn’t help that Roghar, Belen, and especially Uldane kept sneaking sideways glances at him as though he would suddenly sprout a royal crown. It really didn’t help that Tempest refused to look at him at all.

If Immeral recognized the confusion his three words-“my young prince”-had brought, he didn’t show it. The other eladrin sipped the last of the wine from the tower’s cellar and nodded in response to Roghar. “A month ago, the Abyssal Plague hadn’t reached the town. We arrived to find Moonstair overrun with refugees, all of them seeking to escape through the portal to the Feywild. Moonstair is a small town on the edge of wilderness. Even a small number of refugees would have been more than it could handle. Add to that the chaos of the plague and raids from the monsters of the nearby forests and swamps and the situation was volatile. To make matters worse, when the portal did open, we discovered there was no escape. The portal was being guarded in the Feywild-the local prince was taking no chances that the Abyssal Plague might be carried into his lands.”

“Could Albanon have ordered the guards aside?” asked Uldane brightly.

“No,” said Albanon.

“You could have tried.”

“It wouldn’t have worked. I’m not that kind of prince.” He didn’t bother adding that the prince under whose charge the portal lay was more stubborn than a stone donkey and that his authority trumped Albanon’s in every way. The prince was, after all, his father.

Immeral revealed nothing of that relationship either. “My men and I were known to the guards. I was able to convince them to allow my men to pass back to the Feywild. I stayed behind. There were eladrin among the refugees. If they could not return home to the Feywild, I could at least see them to safety in Fallcrest. I don’t believe Moonstair will survive. The plague demons started following us two days ago, just beyond the Witchlight Fens. We’re lucky we didn’t encounter more of them.” He glanced at Albanon then shifted his gaze to Roghar. “We wouldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for you.”

The paladin’s chest puffed out with pride, but at least he had some measure of humility. “We worked together,” he said. “All of Fallcrest has pulled together. There haven’t been any plague demon incursions in the upper town in the last week and precious few in the lower town.”

“I noticed the gatehouse under construction,” said Immeral. “Impressive. Although I was surprised to find you all still here. I would have thought you’d have gone after Vestapalk. What happened?”

The room went suddenly quiet. From where she perched behind Immeral, Splendid raised her head. Albanon resisted the urge to shrink back in his chair. No one said anything and for a moment he even dared hope they’d keep their silence.

Then Belen’s fingers jabbed at him. “Albanon won’t let us leave.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the others but still no one said anything. Albanon caught eyes flicking to him, even Tempest’s. Belen’s face crinkled into a scowl and she glanced around the room. “We all know it. He’s the one holding us back.” She looked at Immeral. “He almost didn’t come with us to rescue you.”

The huntsman’s face remained impassive but Albanon caught the slight motion as his eyebrows pinched together. “My prince?”

“I didn’t know it was you, Immeral,” Albanon said, then winced at his words. “I mean, it didn’t matter who it was. There was never any question of not helping. I just wasn’t prepared.”

“You seem over-concerned with preparation lately.” Roghar’s voice was slow, as if he was trying to find something to say without insulting Albanon. “You ask for a day, then another day, then another while you search for some special way to defeat Vestapalk.”

“I haven’t found anything yet,” said Albanon. “I will find something, though. I know it. I’m still searching.”

Uldane sighed and shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

Albanon’s head snapped around to the halfling. “I am!”

“Lies,” said Splendid softly.

Fire burned in Albanon’s face, from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck. He looked to the one person who had not yet spoken, but Tempest’s face was hard.

“You didn’t want to try pushing the limits of the spell that distracted the demons,” she said. “And when you did, you screamed.”

“I said I overextended myself. It hurt.” He tapped his head. “Here.”

“That wasn’t a scream of pain. I know pain.” Tempest’s face tightened further. “That was a scream of resistance, like you were fighting something off. Over the last few days, I’ve seen you be more careful with your spells than I’ve ever seen any wizard, warlock, or sorcerer. You’re hiding something from us, Albanon.”

He felt his stomach churn. Fear surged through him, but it was fear mixed with a peculiar anger. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he snapped. “Don’t you accuse me after the things I’ve experienced.” He stood and turned his back on them all, storming out of the room and striding up the tower’s twisting central staircase.

Four turns up, he had to pause and brace himself against the wall as waves of nausea swept over him. By the three worlds, what had he just done? What were the others saying or doing now?

Did it matter?

Albanon fought back the nausea, wiped sweat from his face, and continued up the stairs.

The room at the very top of the Glowing Tower had been Moorin’s study. Shelves bearing the trophies of a long life lined the walls. Tables scarred by research stood around the room. It was also, however, where the demon Nu Alin, in pursuit of the Voidharrow, had slaughtered Albanon’s old master, dismembering the body and spattering the whole room in whorls of blood. And it was where Kri had nearly succeeded in freeing the dark god Tharizdun from his dimensional prison.

In his gut, Albanon knew that he should probably have stayed away from the study, but he couldn’t. The room-or something in it-drew him. He’d spread the books and scrolls that he had brought back from the tower of Sherinna-his grandmother and founder of the Order of Vigilance-out on the tables. He’d spent most of the last six days studying them. Or at least making a show of it. To his shame, Uldane and Splendid were right. How much time had he actually spent studying Sherinna’s papers? How much simply staring out the room’s windows at the devastation of Fallcrest or at the litter of sharp-edged reddish fragments that were the remnants of the gate Kri had created to free his mad god? To his wizard’s senses, some of the larger fragments still pulsed with dormant power, not malevolent but simply untapped.

More than once he’d found himself sifting through the fragments. The crystal they had been part of had caused so much trouble. First Nu Alin, then Kri had used it to try to free Tharizdun. In a way, everything had begun with that crystal. Sherinna had recorded the sight of the Voidharrow flowing into the world for the first time through the gate it had created. If Nu Alin had never found the crystal, there would be no Voidharrow. No Abyssal Plague. No Vestapalk-at least not as they knew him. No Plaguedeep. Albanon picked up one of the glittering fragments, a tapered oval no bigger than his thumb, and rubbed its rough surface. How could something so small be a part of so much chaos?

The sound of light footsteps came up the stairs. Tempest or maybe Uldane. Albanon dropped the fragment and turned, ready for a confrontation. The figure that appeared in the doorway, however, was Immeral. The huntsman looked around the room without speaking. Albanon held his tongue. Immeral had been part of the battle against Kri. He’d seen the tentacled creature of darkness Kri had become under Tharizdun’s power. He’d experienced that power first hand.

To Albanon’s surprise, however, Immeral went to one of the tables and ran his hand over a book with the light, reverent touch he’d have expected from a scholar more than a hunter. “Sherinna’s books,” Immeral said.

“Yes,” said Albanon. “How did you know?”

“Her symbol is on the binding, of course.” Immeral’s finger traced an Elven glyph worked into the leather. He fell silent for a moment, then added. “I knew her.”

“You did?” Albanon had never known his grandmother. Until Kri and his father had revealed it, he’d certainly never known she had played a role in the fight against the Voidharrow. “What was she like?”

“Very old when I was very young. I think she enjoyed spending time with a simple hunter’s child. I didn’t know then what she had been. I only found out later how learned and great a wizard she was and how many of our people revered her.”

“I didn’t even know that much for a long time. My father never really talks about her.”

Immeral nodded. “I see little of your father in you, my prince. I see a great deal of Sherinna, though.” He looked up at Albanon. “No one will tell you this, but she succumbed to weakness in her final days. She drove others away from her and became secretive. I believe she was afraid of what they would think of her or maybe of how she’d be remembered.”

Albanon blinked, then ground his teeth together. “Are you saying that I’m-”

The huntsman spread his hands. “I’m saying,” he said in a voice that was as cool and sharp as the point of a dagger, “that I think you have the potential to be as great as Sherinna. I’ve fought at your side. Your spells saved me and my men. But I’m also saying that Sherinna, for all the good she did and all the magic she wielded, was only mortal. So are you. The difference is that Sherinna’s fear and pride took the best of her when she was very old, not when she was only just reaching her prime.”

Breath hissed between Albanon’s teeth. He might have spat a retort, but Immeral didn’t give him a chance. “When I was in Moonstair, I heard stories from other travelers about the effects of the Abyssal Plague elsewhere in the world. There are riots in Nera-they’re burning anyone suspected of carrying the plague. Dwarf communities are sealing their gates. Lizardfolk are going to ground in the heart of the fens and killing everything that moves. There are rumors in certain isolated places that anyone with red hair can spread the plague. Other places blame it on tieflings. And that’s only fear of the plague. They say that where the infection has taken hold, whole regions are empty except for the demons that used to be the people who lived there. If even half the stories are true, the devastation is terrible.”

For the first time, blotches of color appeared in Immeral’s cheeks and fury entered his tone. He leaned close to Albanon. “Your father has blocked the Moonstair portal, but you… You know the source of the plague. You have the chance to put an end to it. Why haven’t you?”

Albanon’s anger left him, replaced by shame. “Don’t ask me that,” he said quietly.

Immeral stepped back. “Then you need to ask yourself who you want to emulate: Sherinna at her best, giving her all to aid others, or Sherinna at her worst, alone because she feared revealing her weakness.” He turned away. “Your friends are waiting below. I’ll wait on the stairs. If you want me to tell them you won’t be coming down, I’ll carry the message.”

Albanon watched Immeral’s back as he strode to the door. The decision before him was the same one he’d wrestled with for six long days-except that Immeral had put it in terms he hadn’t seen before. The only images he’d seen of his grandmother portrayed her as wise and vigorous. He tried to picture her as old and frail, alone with her pride. Perhaps even a little… mad?

He looked around the study, with Sherinna’s books and Moorin’s trophies and the shattered remains of Kri’s foul gate. He tried to picture himself old, surrounded by those same sad relics.

Albanon, Tempest had said earlier, if I worried about people judging me by my appearance, or what they think of me, I’d never go out my door.

“Immeral,” he said. “Wait.” He swept the study with his gaze once more. He needed something, a talisman to remind him of the importance of what he was doing. Moorin’s and Sherinna’s possessions seemed dead suddenly. He bent, scooped up the oval fragment of the gate he had held before, and squeezed its sharp edges in his palm. “I’ll walk down with you.”