by James Wyatt
As the demon’s form dissolved, he bent beside Tempest and lifted her to her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She shook her head and didn’t meet his eyes.
“They use our fear as a weapon,” he said.
Tempest looked at him, fear still haunting her eyes. “Roghar, what if the drow is right?”
“About what?”
“About me and my power,” she said. “It’s true that I’m dealing with forces I don’t really understand.”
“But you’re using your power for good.”
“Are you sure?” Tempest looked away before he could answer. “It doesn’t always feel that way.”
“Destroying demons? Of course that’s a good purpose.”
“Ultimately, yes. But in the moment, it just felt like destruction. Self-preservation, perhaps, but there’s nothing noble about that.”
“Tempest, you can’t—”
“Roghar!” Uldane shouted. “The inn is burning!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Albanon rowed the boat back toward the quays as Kri manned the rudder, keeping his eyes fixed on a plume of smoke rising up from a building just beyond the north end of the quays. Glancing over his shoulder as they drew nearer, Albanon guessed it was the Silver Unicorn Inn in flames.
“We’ll find Nu Alin where the demons are attacking,” Kri said.
Ninety-seven full strokes of the oars brought the little boat to the quays. Albanon frowned at the prime number. He started toying with multiples of it, poked at its square and cube, and found his mind filling with formulas again.
“Albanon!” Kri barked. “Pay attention!”
Fire shot out from Albanon’s fingers and caught in the rope he’d been using to tie up the boat. He swatted out the flames and counted thirteen hemp fibers reduced to glowing embers. Another prime.
He finished tying up the boat and clambered onto the dock after Kri. Together they hurried toward the column of smoke. Thirty-eight steps—twice nineteen—brought him into the thick of the terror around the Silver Unicorn. Demons like the ones they had fought at the Tower of Waiting haunted the streets outside the inn, catching lone bystanders and feasting on their fear. Animate forms of living fire stalked around the burning inn as well, setting fires in buildings and townsfolk alike.
Thirteen, thirty-eight, ninety-seven … calculations danced through Albanon’s mind. Settling on the formula he wanted, he reached a hand toward one of the burning demons and snuffed out its fire. He saw a suggestion of a shape remaining when the fire was gone, then something like a red crystal skull fell to the floor. Eight seconds after he extinguished the flame, the demon was gone without a trace.
“Impressive,” Kri said. “But we are looking for Nu Alin.”
Eight words, Albanon thought. Eight seconds for the demon to die. An unlikely coincidence.
“There he is!” Kri said, pointing to a broad, strong-looking man who walked without fear among the demons.
“Don’t kill him! Not yet.”
Eight words again, Albanon thought.
Kri hurried toward the man, whose face was hidden beneath the hood of his cloak. “Albric!” he called.
Nu Alin stopped and lowered his hood.
Albanon stared. The body was completely different, but the eyes were the same—the eyes of the halfling creature that had clung to Tempest’s back, digging its fingers into her throat while demanding that Albanon activate the teleportation circle in Kalton Manor. The same creature that had killed Moorin.
“Albric has been dead for a long time,” Nu Alin said slowly.
Eight words.
“Not completely,” Kri said. “His will yet survives in you.”
“He is gone and long forgotten, old fool.”
“The Chained God commands you! Finish your task!”
“I have come with a different purpose now.”
Eight eights, Albanon thought.
As Kri was about to speak again, someone barreled out of the inn, a red-haired woman with a greatsword. Her name bubbled slowly to the surface of Albanon’s thoughts, and he mouthed it to himself. Shara.
She launched herself at the nearest demon, one of the shadowy nightmare creatures, and hacked into it with her massive sword. The drow who had come with them from the Temple of Yellow Skulls came out of the inn after her, his eldritch blade burning in his hand. He leaped at the same demon, and together they made quick work of it, apparently undaunted by the nightmares it induced.
“Albanon?” Shara cried.
“Albanon,” Nu Alin said, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. “I remember you. You sent me and your tiefling friend into the Labyrinth after I killed the old wizard.”
Anger welled in Albanon’s chest, but he tried to keep his face a mask. As long as Kri believed that his mind and will were shattered, he would not have to fight the priest. He wasn’t ready.
“His mind has been broken by the Chained God’s touch,” Kri said. “He will not remember.”
But I do remember, he thought. I remember everything, Kri.
“Too bad,” Nu Alin said. “Do you suppose he remembers finding the wizard in his tower? It was a work of art, what I did to him. A masterpiece.”
He’s trying to provoke me, Albanon thought.
“Albanon, what are you doing?” Shara called. “We could use your help here! Roghar, Tempest, and Uldane are still inside!”
Tempest is here?
“He remembers more than you think,” Nu Alin said.
Kri looked at him sharply, but Albanon made his face blank again. As Kri peered into his vacant eyes, Shara leaped over the corpse of another demon and ran toward them. As she drew close, Nu Alin spun around and slammed his fist into her gut, hurling her back the way she’d come. She crashed to the ground and lay still.
“Servant of the Chained God,” Nu Alin said to Kri, “I serve another master now.”
“Betrayer!” Kri spat. “You fought the Voidharrow’s will even as it transformed you. It is not too late. You can still help me free the Chained God.”
“Impossible.”
“No. I have the shard of the Living Gate. I have a fragment of the Voidharrow. We can finish what you began. I need only your knowledge.”
“Then look upon my masterpiece,” Nu Alin said, grinning at Albanon.
Quarhaun was helping Shara to her feet, and they both gaped at Nu Alin with fear and confusion on their faces. One of the flaming demons swept toward them from behind. Albanon extended his hand and snuffed its flame as he had done to the other one a moment before.
Nu Alin turned and started walking toward the quay. Shara shouted, and Quarhaun leveled his sword, sending a bolt of frost hurtling after the demon. The bolt crashed into Nu Alin’s back and stopped him in his tracks as Shara ran after him.
“Come, Albanon,” Kri said. “We have all we need.”
Without a word or a backward glance, Albanon turned away from Shara and Nu Alin and followed Kri into a shadow-cloaked alley.
Frozen flesh cracked and splintered as Nu Alin turned to face Shara and meet her charge. Where his body tore, red fluid appeared in the gaps—not blood, but the all too familiar liquid crystal of the Voidharrow. Shara drew back her sword, but Nu Alin lunged at her with blinding speed, ducking under her sword and slamming his fist into her again. She managed to twist away from the full force of the blow so that he only sent her sprawling on the ground rather than hurling her through the air again. His strength was unbelievable. If he keeps hitting me like that, she thought, I’m going to stop getting back up.
“So I take it you’re Nu Alin,” Quarhaun said, standing beside Shara as she got to her feet again.
“Indeed.”
“And are you familiar with the third invocation of Hadar?”
“I am not.” Nu Alin curled his clawlike fingers into fists and stepped toward Quarhaun.
“Observe!” Quarhaun shouted. He held out his hand alongside his eldrich blade, contorting his fingers into a
bizarre shape, and light erupted in front of him.
It was as different from the clear, pure radiance of Roghar’s divine magic as that holy light was from the illumination of a lantern—a difference not of brightness or color but of quality, somehow. There was a wrongness, an alienness to it, as if it came from some distant star, pale and faint in the midnight sky.
The light’s effect on Nu Alin, however, was every bit as dramatic as what Roghar’s light had done. The demon sprang backward, throwing his arms up to shield his face from the unearthly glow. Where the red liquid showed in his joints, it smoldered and shrank back. The light congealed into an orb the size of Quarhaun’s fist that sprang at the demon and took up an orbit around him, sending little jolts like lightning to stab at him.
Shara got to her feet and cautiously circled around the demon. He snarled and coiled as if to spring at her, but the orb flared brighter and its light held him in place. He swatted at the orb of light instead, and it shattered into a million tiny fragments of light, dispersing into the darkness.
“Parlor tricks,” Nu Alin said. “Even if you dress them up with fancy names, they remain but tricks.”
“Then let’s see what you think of the seventh—”
Before Quarhaun could finish his sentence or even begin his invocation, Nu Alin was on him, bony fingers clenched around his throat. Blood welled where the clawlike tips of his fingers dug into the drow’s skin, seeking the great arteries that carried blood to Quarhaun’s brain.
Shara sprang at him and swung her sword down with all her might, but with impossible speed and strength, Nu Alin twisted around and lifted Quarhaun into the path of her assault. In horror, she tried to stop her swing and pull the blade back, but it still bit deep into the drow’s arm, sending his eldritch blade clattering to the ground.
Nu Alin started to laugh, then his voice became the dragon’s voice. Vestapalk was laughing at her failure, even as his minion drove sharp claws into Quarhaun’s throat.
“You care for this man?” Vestapalk’s voice asked. “Once already this one has nearly killed him. The feel of claws sinking into his chest is vivid in the memory.”
“I will kill you, Vestapalk,” Shara said. She lunged again, and once more Nu Alin lifted Quarhaun to intercept her blow. The drow’s eyes were wide as he gasped for air.
“Listen, mortal fool,” the dragon’s voice said. “Your interference is not welcome. The Plaguedeep grows and the plague spreads, with or without your meddling.”
“I’ll stop you and your plague. I swear it.” Shara rushed at Nu Alin again, feinting a swing from her left shoulder until the moment Nu Alin brought Quarhaun into the path of her sword, then twisting the blade around so it came up under Nu Alin’s unprotected left arm, cutting deep enough to draw a gush of blood as well as a welling of the liquid crystal.
Nu Alin roared in pain, in his own voice once more, though Shara thought she heard the distant laughter of the dragon still echoing around her. He hoisted Quarhaun by the neck and hurled him at Shara, knocking them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Shara sat up and saw Nu Alin running away, into the darkness. “Get off me,” she shouted at Quarhaun, pushing him away and scrambling to her feet.
Too late. The demon was too fast. She saw Roghar emerge from the burning inn, leading Tempest and a train of townsfolk, but Nu Alin was gone, lost in the shadows in the direction of the quays.
Before Shara could get Roghar’s attention, two more of the nightmare demons swept toward her. At the same time, she saw five fiery demons closing in around Roghar and his little ragtag band. A handful of soldiers approached from the other side, clutching swords and spears as they drew near the demons.
“He’s getting away!” she shouted to no one in particular. “Don’t let him get away!”
Suddenly the dragon stood before her, roaring and spreading its jaws to bite or breathe its toxic gas. “Damn you,” she muttered, pushing back her fear and stepping forward to meet the dragon, slicing into its throat. It batted at her with a claw, but she sidestepped its clumsy attack and cut it again. Then it was once more just a shadowy demon with a trail of red liquid dripping from its deep wounds.
She saw Uldane slip out from the group around Roghar and look around the street. He looked at her and shrugged.
He’s trying to stop Nu Alin, bless him, Shara thought. She pointed her sword in the direction Nu Alin had gone, then brought the blade around to cut through the demon’s torso, destroying it.
Quarhaun stood facing the other demon, fear and anger warring on his face. With a roar, he swung his eldritch blade at the demon, but it knocked him aside before his blade could connect. Shara leaped into the opening it left and sliced into its head. It spasmed, raking sharp claws down her arm before it, too, dissolved into nothing.
The wound stung, but she ignored it and raced after Uldane. He probably won’t catch up to Nu Alin, she thought, but what if he does? He can’t take on the demon by himself.
She ran along the town’s outer wall toward the quays, past looming warehouses and smaller businesses catering to the river trade. As she reached the quays, she saw Uldane walking along the riverside. He had a dagger in each hand, and his posture was alert, searching for a sign of Nu Alin.
“Uldane!” she called.
He looked up, saw her, and turned away. A sudden fear gripped Shara. What if Nu Alin took him? Would I be able to tell?
She hurried to catch up with him, keeping her sword ready. As she went, she watched the way the halfling moved, trying to spot any telltale sign that the demon was in control of his body. He seemed a little stiff, but that could be explained by the tension of searching for the demon—or by his anger at her.
What does he have to be so angry about, anyway? she thought. It’s my life.
She replayed her conversation with Uldane in the inn. Is this what Jarren would want for me? It’s a ridiculous question, she decided. If he were alive, he’d want me to be with him, of course. But he’s not, so it no longer matters what he wants.
A voice just like Jarren’s whispered in her mind, and she imagined she could feel his breath in her ear. What do you want?
I want to be happy again, she told the memory of him. Like we were.
And are you? Jarren’s memory or Uldane or the mocking voice of Vestapalk asked her again.
She remembered falling into the river with Uldane, looking up at Jarren a moment before the dragon killed him. She saw the dragon falling into the chasm at her feet, the red crystal flowing into its wounds. She felt her shame and fury as the dragon spoke to her through the demons she’d fought, mocking her, taunting her with her failure.
“I don’t deserve to be happy,” she muttered aloud.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Albanon’s thoughts and feelings were a jumble as he followed Kri through the tumult caused by the demons’ attack on the Silver Unicorn. He found a rhythm in counting his footsteps, a stability in the steady beat of his boots against the cobblestones and packed dirt of the streets and alleys. Slowly, as Kri led him through Hightown, Albanon found a focus, a burning point of fury and hatred at the center of his mind’s storm. Kri had done something to him, something that shattered his mind and sapped his will. All the rest—thoughts of Nu Alin, memories of Shara and Quarhaun, the sudden recollection of Tempest—was fragmentary and uncertain, but he found comfort and stability in staring at Kri’s back and calculating the various ways his spells could tear the old man into tiny pieces.
Their winding path meant nothing to him until suddenly a tall tower came into view, limned with eldritch light in the night. The Glowing Tower, he thought. Moorin’s tower.
Blood. Blood everywhere, sprayed on walls and floor and ceiling in patterns of intricate geometry—angles and curvature danced through his mind, undergirded with formulas he had not noticed before. “It was a work of art, what I did to him,” the demon had said. “A masterpiece.”
Not art, Albanon realized. Mathematics. Magic.
Hi
s head spun as he contemplated the mystery that Nu Alin had woven from Moorin’s blood. The fabric of space and time was rent apart and woven back together, differently, subtly, intricately. He stumbled, overcome by a wave of nausea.
“Albanon!” Kri snapped.
Albanon made sure his face was blank before he looked up at the old priest. Kri stopped and searched his eyes as Albanon stared straight ahead.
“Perhaps Albric was right,” Kri said at last. “Your mind was stronger than I gave you credit for. It seems that Moorin was not a total idiot after all.”
A spark of anger flared in some shattered corner of Albanon’s mind, enough to make him realize that Kri was trying to provoke him, testing him.
“Did you see Shara back there, Albanon?” Kri asked. “Did you hear her call out to you?”
Another test. Albanon kept his face a mask and didn’t answer, didn’t even allow his mind to pursue the questions that surfaced in his mind. Who is Shara to me? Should I care about her?
“Come along, Albanon,” the Doomdreamer said, apparently satisfied. “We have work to do.”
Two hundred thirteen, Albanon thought as he started walking again. He had stopped counting steps as he contemplated Nu Alin’s mathematics of blood, and counting again was the only way he could keep his mind away from the madness contained in those formulas.
Two hundred and fifty-six steps—sixteen sixteens, the square of a square of a square—brought him to the threshold of Moorin’s tower. Crossing the threshold brought another wave of memory, the trepidation he felt entering the tower the night of Moorin’s death, seeing that the tower’s wards had been disabled. He pushed the memories away and counted the seventy-seven remaining steps up to the top of the tower.
“Be gone!” Kri shouted when he reached the top of the stairs.
