The Eye of the Chained God (40 page)

“Then you betray your god!”

“I don’t think Bahamut would want you to have that stone either,” Roghar said calmly.

Kri screamed with inarticulate rage. He thrust out one hand, then clenched it tight. Once again, the holy light of the gods exploded around Albanon, but this time it seemed to explode within him as well. Its radiance burned him from the inside out. The shriek that filled his ears was his own.

“Bring me the stone,” he heard Kri howl, “or Albanon dies!”

He didn’t hear Roghar’s response, but he knew what it must have been, because the burning stopped and he fell into cool dimness. He felt Roghar’s thick fingers pry at his and he tried to pull away. “No,” he said weakly. He forced his eyes open and discovered he was on the ground. Roghar’s face was just above his. “Don’t.”

The dragonborn pulled the stone from his grasp and stood. Albanon pushed himself upright, still too dazed to attempt a spell. Tempest, Quarhaun, and Shara were still caught by Kri’s caul. Roghar advanced on Kri with the stone held out in front of him like a bit of rotten meat. Kri’s eyes lit up. “Chained God!” he whispered in fanatic tones. “Patient One!” He reached to take the stone.

And Roghar swung away from him. “Uldane!” he shouted, and he tossed the black stone to the halfling, then turned back to Kri, his hands curled into fists.

Kri’s gaze went from bright to burning in an instant. He shrieked a prayer and a wave of bright light and deafening thunder hammered into Roghar, throwing
him across the cavern and into a wall. Big chunks of rocks came clanging down onto his armor. He struggled weakly but didn’t get up.

“Kri!” shouted Uldane, bringing the priest around again. The halfling stood at the very edge of the cavern, right at the edge of the shaft that had been the Plaguedeep, with one arm extended out over the abyss. His face was as serious as Albanon had ever seen it. “Let us go.”

Kri froze, his eyes flicking from the stone to Uldane’s face, and Albanon guessed he was trying to come up with a plan. The wizard took the chance to climb quietly to his feet. But he wasn’t quite quiet enough—Kri twisted around and pinned him with a sharp glance. Albanon met that gaze, or at least tried to. The madness that burned in Kri’s eyes was uncomfortable to see. He looked away. Kri’s mouth curved into an arrogant smile and he turned back to Uldane.

“Uldane,” he said, sliding closer to the halfling, “I don’t want to hurt any of you. I only want the stone. Let’s show we have faith in each other. Give me the stone now and I swear I’ll let you all go.”

“Release Shara and the others.”

Kri gestured without even looking. The remaining cauls fell away. Tempest touched Albanon’s arm, then went to help Roghar. Kri stretched his hand toward Uldane. “Done. Now give me the stone.”

Uldane shook his head. “I never said I’d do that.” He flicked his wrist and the stone sailed out over the abyss. Kri screeched like one of the plague demons and rushed
to the edge to stare after it. Uldane threw himself away. “Somebody finish him!”

Albanon already had a spell on his lips. Focusing his will, he spoke the words and thrust out his hand. The air shimmered.

Kri turned just as the blast of force hit him. His eyes were wide and wild, and his lips were drawn back from his teeth. He flew back into the wide shaft with his robes fluttering around him. The last glimpse Albanon had of Kri Redshal—once a priest of Ioun, once the last member of the Order of Vigilance, once his mentor—was of him foaming at the mouth, screaming for Tharizdun.

Maybe the Chained God heard him because at that moment, a titanic slab of rock split from the wall right above them and plummeted after Kri into the abyss. It crashed against the floor of their little cavern as it fell, sending vibrations through the stone. More rock rained down from the ceiling above. Quarhaun looked up and flinched.

“This time we go!” he shouted. “Everybody up the ropes and no stopping until we’re outside.”

No one objected.

Cariss and Belen waited for them above with fresh sunrods to light the way. The tunnel held as they made their way through it, though they could hear stone collapsing regularly behind them and dust drifted down on them in with the constant threat of a cave-in. As first
it seemed as if the tunnel might have become a dead-end—the narrow crawlspace they had first entered had collapsed entirely—but Quarhaun’s sharp eyes spotted hints of light in the cracks of another wall. They attacked the rotten stone with hands and shoulders. It crumbled easily under their assault and before long they’d opened a new entrance, one tall enough to walk out of easily.

They emerged under the light of the setting sun to find the slopes of the volcano radically changed. New crevices had opened and old crevices had split wide. Solid slopes had turned into rockslides. The scrubby, slumping trees that the Voidharrow had tainted slumped even more, the wood so full of holes it looked as if the trees had been attacked by hungry insects. Sinkholes had opened up for leagues around, gaping maws leading to rubble-choked pits. The ridge that marked the spot where they had cached their supplies the night before lay across the nightmare landscape. By unspoken consent, they stopped on what looked like a stable patch of slope. With Vestapalk gone, there was no hurry. Their cache and their bedrolls could wait until the moon rose.

“How far did the Voidharrow reach?” Uldane asked while they sat. “Did we get it all?”

“We got it,” Albanon answered him wearily. “All of it. Every drop. Every last crystal.”

“How do you know?”

“I felt it,” Albanon said. It was the truth. When the last blast of Tharizdun’s shadowy will had risen up from the depths and entered the fragment of the Vast Gate,
there’d been a sensation like a door or a gate closing. The Chained God had his vengeance, he supposed. The molten light of the gate fragment hadn’t gone out because he and Kri had ceased their chanting—it had gone out because there was no more Voidharrow.

“What about the plague demons?” said Shara. “That couldn’t have been all of them in the Plaguedeep, could it?”

“It might have been all of the demons in the area. Maybe all those in the Nentir Vale. If Vestapalk guessed we were coming, he might have drawn them in to keep them from frightening us off. Or to lure us closer.”

“Will any that are left still be able to spread the Abyssal Plague?”

Albanon shrugged and sat back. “I don’t know. When Kri first explained to me exactly what the Voidharrow was, I asked the same question. He said he thought they might be able to because the plague demons were beings of both worlds now, but that without the Voidharrow the plague will be less virulent and won’t spread as easily.” He pressed his lips together. “Of course, it turned out he wasn’t entirely right about a lot of things. We might still need to watch out for the Abyssal Plague for a long time to come.”

“What do you think?” asked Tempest.

“I think that no matter what, any surviving plague demons will be a lot less dangerous without Vestapalk to lead them.”

A quiet cough interrupted their conversation. Roghar stood a little below them, with his head bowed and his
shield at his feet. “I owe you an explanation,” he said. “And an apology. What Kri said about me swearing to obey him was true.”

None of them said anything. Roghar stretched out his right arm and Albanon saw the shiny flesh of a scar in the scales around his wrist. “Vestagix wounded me in Winterhaven,” said the dragonborn. “I prayed to Bahamut but the scar wouldn’t heal. I knew I was carrying the Abyssal Plague. That’s why I was in a dark mood after Winterhaven. That’s how Vestausan and Vestausir found us—through me. When we found Kri, I knew he could burn the plague out of me, but he made me swear to obey him—once—in return. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”

Tempest was the first one on her feet and embracing him. “You idiot. If you hadn’t done it, you’d be a plague demon now and we might never have defeated Vestapalk.”

Quarhaun shrugged. “I thought you were hiding something that night in the valley.”

“You’re a drow—you’re suspicious of everything,” said Shara. She embraced Quarhaun as well. “Is this why you went charging into that pack of demons in the Plaguedeep?”

Roghar’s face tightened. “I knew whatever Kri commanded me to do would force me to chose between betraying you or breaking a vow made in Bahamut’s name. It seemed like dying in battle would let me escape the choice.”

Quarhaun stared at him in disbelief. “You’d never last in the Underdark, Roghar.”

The paladin smiled. “Thank you.” He nodded to the eastern horizon. “The moon’s up. Let’s go collect our gear and see if we can catch our horses. If we can’t, it will be a long walk back to Fallcrest.”

Belen glanced at Cariss, then cleared her throat. “I’m not going back to Fallcrest. Cariss says Turbull has invited me to join the Tigerclaws.”

There was greater surprise at her announcement than there had been at Roghar’s revelation, but more happy congratulations as well. Albanon looked around at the others. “Is everyone else coming back to Fallcrest? The town will need help and protection while it’s rebuilding. There’s plenty of room in the Shining Tower. You can stay there.”

He let his eyes linger on Tempest as he made the invitation and the smile she gave him in return made his heart skip. A little later, as they made their way across the fields of sink holes, she slipped her hand into his.

“You’ve changed from the apprentice wizard Roghar and I met in the Blue Moon Alehouse,” she said.

“I don’t feel like I’ve changed.”

“People look to you to make decisions. You take action when you need to. You’ve gone through more than I have.” She chuckled. “You’ve saved the world from Vestapalk and the Voidharrow.”

“We didn’t have a choice. We were there from the beginning.”

“There’s always a choice. I think you’ve made a lot of good ones.” She squeezed his hand and he felt a flush climb into his face.

“Hey, Albanon,” said Uldane. The halfling pushed his way in between him and Tempest, then turned around and walked backward so he could face them. “I’ve got something for you. I’m tired of carrying it around. It’s creepy.”

He flipped something at him. Albanon stretched out his hand without thinking.

What dropped into his palm was small but unexpectedly heavy. He froze in midstride and stared at the smooth black stone in his hand. “Uldane, this is—”

“Of course it is,” said Uldane with a snort. “Do you think I’d just drop something like that into a hole in the ground? There’s no telling who might find it.”

Don Bassingthwaite is the author of numerous fantasy and dark fantasy novels, including the Eberron trilogies The Dragon Below (
The Binding Stone, The Grieving Tree
, and
The Killing Song
) and Legacy of Dhakaan (
The Doom of Kings, Word of Traitors
, and
The Tyranny of Ghosts
). Don lives with his partner in Toronto, surrounded by gadgets, spice jars, and too many books. Follow him on Twitter
@dbassingthwaite
.