The Eye of the Chained God (4 page)

Roghar looked down at him sharply. “You mean right now or never?”

“Right now. He’s over that way,” Uldane gestured vaguely into the upper town, “helping Tempest distribute more useful stuff than wine to people who need it … I don’t know about never. Never is a long time.”

“Uldane,” Roghar growled.

“Not in the last couple of days, at least. I know he asked us to stay out of the study at the top of the tower,
but I peeked in a couple of times. He wasn’t there but I don’t think anything has been touched since the evening before yesterday.” He looked up at the dragonborn. “Whatever he’s doing, he’s not looking for answers in those books and scrolls.”

Roghar clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together. “We need to talk to him.”

“Do you think …” Uldane hesitated for a moment before pushing the words out. “Do you think it’s because of Shara?”

The paladin considered his answer before he spoke. Although she had stood shoulder to shoulder with him and the others in the past, the warrior Shara had not taken part in the final fight against Nu Alin. Instead, she had slipped away, turning from the defense of Fallcrest in pursuit of her own vengeance against Vestapalk. The murder of her friends and family—among them her father, Borojon, and her love, Jarren—by the dragon haunted her. She’d left at the side of her new lover, Quarhaun—a drow, as hard and cruel as the hatred Shara held for Vestapalk.

Roghar couldn’t find it in himself to support her decision. Nor did he think Albanon was particularly wracked by grief, certainly not to the point of delaying their departure from Fallcrest. The guilt that crept into Uldane’s eyes whenever Shara’s name was mentioned, however, was painful. He was one of her oldest friends and he’d been with her when Vestapalk had slaughtered their companions. He’d also been the last to speak with her. To argue with her, in fact. His harsh words, accusations
that Shara dishonored the memory of Jarren by loving Quarhaun, had been the wedge that split their friendship.

“I think,” Roghar said carefully, “that none of us should let the choices Shara made hold us back. We have a greater duty now. Shara went looking for Vestapalk, too. If we’re looking for him, maybe we’ll find her along the way.”

“Just her?”

Uldane didn’t mention Quarhaun by name, but Roghar knew exactly what the halfling meant. Roghar had no love for the drow, either. He wrinkled his muzzle and looked back out over Fallcrest’s lower town. “There is no peach without a—”

Figures moved among the ruins, running hard along a rubble-strewn road. Roghar squinted, trying to make them out. “Uldane,” he said, “look there. Just where the Blue Moon Alehouse used to be.”

Uldane eyes were sharper than his. “I see them. And I see what’s chasing them!” He flung up an arm and Roghar looked where he pointed.

Some distance behind the running figures, more shapes came bounding over the rubble of what had been a gate in the wall of the lower town. Where the figures in the street ran on two legs, their pursuers ran sometimes on two, sometimes on four. The afternoon sunlight flashed on red crystal as the creatures ran and a shift in the wind brought a faint, inhuman shriek to Roghar’s ears.

“Plague demons!” he spat. “Uldane, you said Albanon and Tempest were close? Get them!” He whirled and leaped off the wall, drawing cries of surprise from startled workers.

“You’re going down there?” Uldane called after him. “Armed with what?”

“Bahamut’s warriors may set aside their weapons, but they never leave them.” Roghar reached into a niche and pulled out a canvas-shrouded bundle. The wrapping fell away as he lifted the bundle, revealing his sword and a shield emblazoned with the dragonhead crest of his god. He looked back up at Uldane. “Hurry and I’ll let you come with us!”

“Like you could leave me behind.” The halfling sprinted off along the wall.

Around Roghar, townsfolk were reacting as others caught sight of the pursuit below. Some screamed in fear that the refugees might lead the demons straight into their haven. Hardier souls shouted for members of the guard to go to the refugees’ aid, but the few guards close to the scene only looked at each other in confusion. They would never organize themselves to reach the lower town in time. Roghar slid his arm into the familiar straps of his shield and touched the fingers of his other hand to the holy symbol on the shield’s face.

“I answer your call, O Bahamut,” he growled. “Put speed in my feet and strength in my arm.” He snatched up his sword, flicked away the scabbard, and charged through the half-finished gate. “
For Fallcrest!
”

“Bless you, eladrin.” The old woman’s gnarled fingers fastened on Albanon’s hand before he could draw away
and she looked up at him with weary, but grateful eyes. “May all the gods smile on you.”

Albanon stiffened, but forced himself to answer kindly. “May the gods of light smile on us all,” he answered and slid his hand away, leaving a fat wedge of cheese from the basket he carried in the woman’s grasp. She turned, breaking the cheese in two to share with an even older man.

“You get blessings,” murmured a voice in his pointed ear, “I’m lucky if I get a surly look, although there was one charming child that spit at me by way of saying thank you.”

He answered without thinking. “Maybe some kind of mask or a hood. Or a bag over your head.”

The air seemed to warm around him and he caught a distinct whiff of smoke and sulfur. “You’ve been around Uldane too long.”

Albanon blinked, shook his head, and turned to Tempest. The tiefling stood behind him with her eyebrows arched so high they almost merged with the curled horns on her head. Her thick, fleshy tail lashed the air and her dark red eyes glared at him. A hint of the infernal power she wielded both by heritage and by bargain rose from her.

“Sorry,” he said hastily. “I didn’t mean that. I think it’s Uldane and Splendid both.”

“
Pfft
.” The little pseudodragon that curled around his shoulders raised her head. “I would never say such a thing.”

“Thank you, Splendid,” said Tempest, her voice as icy as her gaze was fiery.

“A bag wouldn’t cover your tail.” Splendid stretched grandly and rearranged herself.

Tempest’s eyebrows rose even higher. Her lips tightened until they were almost white. Albanon felt himself shrivel under her gaze—until she laughed abruptly, genuine amusement putting a smile on her face.

“You should see yourself,” she said. “Albanon, I’m a tiefling. If I worried about people judging me by my appearance, or what they think of me, I’d never go out my door.”

A flush warmed Albanon’s cheeks. “But friends aren’t supposed to say things like that.”

“I know you didn’t mean it.” Tempest regarded Splendid. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.”

The pseudodragon let out a derisive snort but didn’t stir from the comfort of her new position. Albanon allowed himself a tentative smile as well. “Still—”

“Still, nothing,” said Tempest, moving on along the street. “Let it go. I’m just glad you agreed to come out of that study. You look like you’ve hardly slept lately. We may need all the help we can get when we face Vestapalk, but too much study has its dangers.” She looked back at him. “I think we can learn that lesson from Kri.”

Albanon’s belly tightened. “That’s not a lesson I’m going to forget,” he said immediately, and perhaps a little too harshly. Tempest glanced at him.

“I’m almost sorry I never met the old priest,” she said. “To come here and win your trust, then to turn on you
and
his god … you might say it wasn’t his fault, that something he found drove him mad and made him renounce Ioun, but I’ll tell you this.” She paused
and faced him, dropping her voice. “In my experience, anyone who has ever been seduced by power gave it the first toehold willingly.”

“I understand what you mean,” Albanon told her.

“Do you? Kri turned to Tharizdun, Albanon. The god of madness and annihilation. The Chained God, imprisoned by the other gods for creating the Abyss. Kri may have started looking for a way to defeat Vestapalk and the Voidharrow, but he ended up trying to set Tharizdun free.”

“I stopped him.”

“But you still spend your time poring over the same books, looking for the same answers.” Tempest searched his eyes. “Let me help you,” she said. “I may not have studied under a wizard, but I’m not illiterate or stupid. Two of us working together can search twice as fast—and we can keep watch on each other.”

“Can you read Elven?” Albanon asked. When Tempest blinked, he shook his head. “I’m careful, Tempest, and I’m searching as quickly as I can. I want to be on the road after Vestapalk as much as any of us. Don’t worry, I’m not Kri.” He smiled, then nodded along the street to a human woman in the light armor of the Fallcrest Guard distributing blankets to refugees. “There’s Belen.”

Tempest turned away, reassured or at least distracted. Albanon let her get a pace or two ahead of him, then slumped and let out a shallow sigh of relief. A sigh that caught in his throat as Splendid murmured, “I’m astounded anyone believes your lies.”

He flinched. He could just see the pseudodragon looking up at him from his shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said calmly.

Her little eyes narrowed. “Twice a liar for denying it. You’re afraid. You’re afraid of Vestapalk. You’re afraid of what you’ll find in the Plaguedeep.”

“I’m not.”

“Three times a liar.” Splendid uncoiled herself from around his neck. “You can’t fool me, Albanon. I’ve known you since you came to the great Moorin as an apprentice. When you decide to tell the truth—to yourself if no one else—I’ll be waiting back at the Glowing Tower.”

Her claws dug into his shoulder for a moment as she leaped, then her fine, leathery wings spread wide and beat against the air. Splendid soared up, banking against the sky and heading back along the brow of the Fallcrest bluff.

The relief Albanon had felt for one brief moment turned into a knot in his chest. Six nights before, he and Kri had returned from a journey to the Feywild and the tower of Sherinna, one of the founders of the Order of Vigilance and Albanon’s own grandmother. Kri’s divinations in the Feywild, an attempt to locate the bodystealing demon Nu Alin, had led them back to Fallcrest and an old ruined tower reputed to be haunted. The ruins had indeed been haunted—not by ghosts, but by a cult of the Elder Elemental Eye, the common name by which Tharizdun beguiled his would-be followers. Something had happened in that dreadful place, though. They went
in looking for Nu Alin, who was a priest of Tharizdun before the Voidharrow turned him into a demon, and emerged with Kri raving mad and Albanon a near helpless thrall to his power.

Kri led him through the very heart of the demon attack to the tower that had belonged to Albanon’s murdered master, Moorin. There, where Moorin had been slaughtered, Kri attempted the same ritual Nu Alin once had, utilizing a fragment of ancient crystal to open a gate to the sealed plane where Tharizdun was imprisoned. Unlike Nu Alin, Kri succeeded. The eye of the Chained God peered through the gate and for the first time in hundreds of years, his power had touched the world. Albanon barely recovered himself in time to prevent more than Tharizdun’s gaze from passing through the portal. Using his magic, he changed the gate’s focus, slamming the door on Tharizdun’s prison and opening a new one to summon allies, huntsmen from the Feywild, to fight against Kri.

The embattled priest had escaped through the gate, changing its destination once more and shattering it behind him. He might have gone anywhere, but at least he wasn’t in Fallcrest. Tharizdun remained imprisoned and the world had only the Abyssal Plague to worry about once more.

At least, that was what he had told the others …

No, he told himself before his thoughts could turn in a more dangerous direction. Do not think it. Do not remember it.

Up ahead, both Shara and Belen had lifted their faces to watch Splendid’s flight, then turned to look at him. Albanon put a sheepish grin on his face and hurried to catch up to them. “Sorry, just a little argument. You know how she is.”

Tempest grunted, too familiar with Splendid’s moods not to accept the explanation. Belen gave an uncertain nod, not familiar enough to deny it. She was a hardened woman, a soldier by training, somewhat older in human years than either he or Tempest. She looked awkward with the blankets in her arms, as if she’d rather be keeping order among the crowds of refugees than distributing comfort to them. But then, Albanon didn’t think he’d seen her look anything but awkward over the past few days. He smiled at her warmly and asked, “How are you, Belen?”

“I’m still in Fallcrest when there’s a demon-dragon to kill and I still have dreams of the world dissolving into fire and red crystal ooze. Thank you for asking,” the lieutenant said, her voice like stone. “But when are we leaving?”

He should have been prepared for her bluntness. “Soon,” he told her. This lie came harder, a deliberate falsehood rather than an omission. “I just need to find something that will help us stop Vestapalk—”

“Searching isn’t doing. I
see
him, Albanon.” Belen ground the knuckles of her free hand against her forehead, her voice harsh.