by Monte Cook
* * * * *
Later on that same day, Vheod took to exploring again. This time he walked in the opposite direction from the settlement he’d visited the night before. Somehow, after his actions that morning, he felt unfit to be around those he was sure were far nobler and more merciful than he.
Gray clouds seeped across and eventually covered the sun after midday, and a few hours before twilight distant flashes of lightning crossed the horizon. Vheod noticed that the deeper he traveled into the woods, the fewer animals he saw or heard. Here and there, spider webs—some of enormous size—clung to the trees, but no other signs of more spiders or spidery humanoids revealed themselves. Perhaps they didn’t care for the rain.
When the downpour that Vheod expected finally came, he all but ignored it. Lightning crackled across the sky overhead, and cool winds carried the formerly warm, still air through the trees. The canopy of leaves above him provided shelter from much of the rain, but the water still ran down the branches and gathered in muddy pools at his feet.
Through the haze of the rain, large, dark shapes loomed ahead of him. As he drew closer, Vheod could make out stone structures. Closer still, and he could see that there were two structures, one much larger than the other. Both were ancient and overgrown with climbing plants. The once-cleared area now teemed with brush and tall grass. Rain ran down the moss-covered, crumbling stone walls. It probably, Vheod thought, rained right into the structures themselves, for the wooden slats that once served as roofs for both buildings had collapsed years or even decades ago, leaving only a hint of their passing around the top edges of the walls. Even if he sought shelter—which he didn’t—he would find none here. Walking into this seemingly abandoned place Vheod recalled the tower of Destiny’s Last Hope. Reflexively he looked at the Taint, wondering if it had led him here as well. The vaguely round shape it presented had no discernible meaning. It lay dead on his arm, looking much like a normal birthmark.
Vheod made note that no wall had ever encircled this place, and that even in their heyday, the buildings offered no defensible positions. What this observation revealed he wasn’t sure, other than that in the place he’d grown up, no structure was ever built without defense in mind. Buildings of any sort never lasted long in the Abyss with the horrid conditions, but builders always assumed their work would be attacked. Battle was a way of life there—perhaps not so here.
Closer still to the main building, the rain spattered into a round pool, about fifteen feet across. Its perimeter was girded by mossy stones and had obviously contained a shallow sampling of some brackish, cloudy water, but the storm was quickly replenishing it with clear, pure rain. The door of the larger, two-storied building opened out to the pool and hung partially open. Vheod was surprised the wooden door still hung on its tired, rusted hinges. Peering through the doorway, he’d enough light coming through the open roof to see that only rubble and debris remained within.
The smaller building, with only a single story, possessed a closed wooden door, and Vheod now realized, a more intact roof. As he looked at the structure, the door opened, catching the cambion completely by surprise. Two men stepped slowly out of the doorway, each wearing brown robes with gray stoles bearing no sign or mark.
The rain diminished to a lazy, irritating drizzle, but Vheod hardly noticed.
“Good day to you, traveler,” the plumper, shorter of the two said in a soft, kind voice.
“Good day to you,” the taller, more broad-shouldered of the pair chimed in with a smile.
Vheod said nothing. This was his first encounter with creatures of this world—not including the battle with those blood-seeking beasts earlier. How to handle it?
“You’ve come seeking something, my friend?” the round-faced, balding man asked.
“What do you seek?” the bearded, taller man added. Both of them stopped a few paces away from where Vheod stood. They halted at exactly the same time, exactly the same distance away from him.
Vheod still said nothing.
The rounded, fleshy one said, “My name is Gyrison.”
“And I am Arach,” the larger, dark-haired man added.
“My name is Vheod,” he told them after a long pause.
“Good,” Gyrison replied.
“Yes, good,” Arach said immediately after.
“We serve here as priests,” Gyrison stated with a short bow.
With a sweeping gesture Arach told him, “This is our temple.”
As one of them finished a movement or phrase, the other continued it or started another. The two men seemed to Vheod to be more like one.
“Priests of what power?” he asked them, still unsure whether to reach for the hilt of his sword.
“What is it that you seek?” Gyrison asked.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Arach finished.
“I … I am,” Vheod said slowly, “is that—how do you know that? Is it important? Are outsiders forbidden?”
Both men smiled at Vheod. He noted quickly that the building behind them appeared as empty as the larger.
“You’ve come to Toril looking for … someone?” Gyrison asked him.
Toril. The home of my mother.
Vheod answered quickly, if only to keep Arach from asking a different question of him as well. “I have family here. Somewhere.”
“Ah,” Arach replied. “We can help you find them, traveler.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what we do,” Gyrison replied. “Because you need us to.” He smiled again, in a way Vheod could not interpret.
“Because we can,” Arach added.
Vheod looked the two over again. The drizzling precipitation didn’t seem to bother them any more than it did him, but the moisture seeped into their brown robes. They seemed to act in perfect concert, but they never looked at each other—only at him. Every instinct within him told him not to trust these two strange men, but he realized that such was the Abyssal way. This was a different world, with different customs, different outlooks, and different approaches. They seemed genuinely generous and hardly a threat. Why not see what they knew?
Vheod pushed the long, wet strands of hair away from his face and asked them, “So what can you tell me?”
“First,” Gyrison said, “you must tell us what you seek, exactly.”
“Who are your relatives?” Arach asked on his turn.
“My great-grandmother’s name was Thean,” he said trying to stress the name with the same importance that he remembered it was told to him long ago. That single name was all he knew of his mortal heritage.
“Great-grandparent,” Gyrison said thoughtfully.
“Let us take a look,” Arach said, motioning toward the pool that Vheod stood beside.
As Vheod turned to look into the water, he realized that the rain had stopped. The pool showed remarkable clarity—no hint of the murkiness that it had just a short time ago. Vheod followed the lead of Gyrison and Arach. He wanted to see, if nothing else, what they would do next.
Still, Vheod paused to think, what joy it might be to find his people here in this world—perhaps they would even accept him as their own. He liked the idea of calling this world home.
Gyrison and Arach stood beside the pool and chanted softly. The strange-sounding words broke Vheod out of his thoughts. He couldn’t understand what they said, but it seemed likely they were invoking the magical power of whatever deity they represented. Following his instincts, he kept his gaze on the pool. He was rewarded with a surprising sight.
The water calmed to a smooth plane. In this reflective, shining surface, Vheod saw movement. Two humans—one male, one female—stood before a massive, open doorway leading into darkness. As they looked on, a gigantic shape loomed from the dark portal. The creature that passed through the doorway and into the light was a colossus of dark red flesh pulled taut over a broad, muscular frame. Flames dripped from its body like water. Contracted, draconian wings folded at its back, and muscular, taloned arms gripped a jagged
sword and a flaming whip with many tails.
A tanar’ri balor.
“Not great-grandmother,” Gyrison said.
The balors were the most powerful of the tanar’ri—they commanded vast legions of lesser fiends and wielded tremendous power. Drenched in flame, their might was rarely questioned.
Further, this balor seemed somehow familiar. It breathed a single word, so low in pitch that Vheod could scarcely comprehend it. “Freedom” was the word he thought it uttered.
“Great-grandfather,” Arach stated with a gesture toward the image.
Great-grandfather.
Chare’en.
Vheod had always heard that Chare’en, the grandfather of the tanar’ri fiend that had cursed his human mother with seed, was imprisoned somewhere, but on this world? Unbelievable—but somehow, it made sense. The tanar’ri side of his family must have had some connection with this world or Vheod’s father would never have come in contact with his mother.
Now this vision showed Chare’en free. A balor free in this peaceful and beautiful world could bring only disaster, terror, and death. Further, it would bring Vheod one step closer to the Abyss from which he’d just escaped. A balor would bring more tanar’ri, and Nethess would be sure to learn that he was here. If Chare’en was freed, this place would no longer be safe for him. He had to stop this—but how?
“Tell me,” Vheod demanded, “does this sight represent the past, present, or future?”
“Future,” Gyrison answered.
“A possible future,” Arach added.
“How can I stop it?”
“Stop it?” Gyrison repeated with a look of surprise. Or was it mock surprise? Vheod no longer cared to play these games.
“Where are these two?” Vheod pointed to the humans in the pool’s image. They appeared similar in their faces and mannerisms. Perhaps the two were related.
The two priests, for the first time since Vheod had seen them, looked at each other. They said nothing, though it seemed that perhaps their eyes spoke silent words in a language only they shared.
“Where?” Vheod demanded. “You must tell me!”
Gyrison opened his mouth to speak, but Arach held up a hand that silenced the round priest. “There is one, not unlike you, in a place called Tilverton, who can tell you what you need to know.”
One like him? What did that mean? Vheod looked at Arach, then Gyrison, and back to Arach. Their plain faces stared at him expressionlessly with their silly, simpleton smiles.
“Very well,” Vheod said. Unaccustomed to most niceties, he turned without further word and strode out of the temple. If he was to stop Chare’en, he had to start now. A balor was nothing to underestimate, and he already doubted his own power and skill. The sky, empty of its rain, grew dim as the day drew to a close.
His driven pace took him away from the ruins without so much as a look back, which is why he never saw the enigmatic smiles on the faces of Gyrison and Arach turn more sinister. Nor did he notice that the Taint had formed a wide-mouthed face on the back on his hand, a face that bore the same wicked smile.
Chapter Three
Melann felt much better, having spent some time around those whose faith was so strong and whose devotion was so great. The Abbey of the Golden Sheaf was filled with wonderful growing things and those who truly cared for them. Its stone walls surrounded many plots of ground dedicated to various cultivated fields, gardens and orchards, all larger and more important than the abbey structure itself. She’d never seen such beautiful flowers or such vibrant gardens of vegetables, fruit, and all sorts of wondrous plants. The soil was black with richness and well tended. Even the smell of the abbey gladdened her heart and gave her peace. Despite the importance of the task at hand, she was loathe to leave the abbey and did so only at her brother’s repeated urgings.
Her problem, Melann decided while happily joining in the toil of weeding and watering an expansive and robust patch of strawberries, was that she’d been too focused on their quest. While finding the key to ending her family curse and saving her parents was obviously very important, her meager, mortal concerns were nothing compared to the divine nature and endless toil of Chauntea. Melann now believed she had to focus on the teachings and responsibilities of the Mother of All and the duties that fell on her as a servant and representative of that power in the world of men. From now on, she wouldn’t let a day go by without nurturing a growing plant. She needed to become her goddess’s tool in the world, to help bring forth fruit and abundant life.
Melann had to admit, however, that accomplishing that goal, being true to her beliefs, and being the sort of servant she felt Chauntea wanted her to be might be more of a challenge than she was prepared to face alone. In the abbey, surrounded by the other Watchful Brothers and Sisters of the Earth, staying faithful was simple—she was eager and happy to do nothing but think of Chauntea, and little of herself—but out here on the road, she found herself thinking more and more of her failing parents and the urgent need she felt to accomplish her personal goals.
She couldn’t speak of this problem to Whitlock. Melann loved her brother, but she knew he wouldn’t understand.
“It’s good to be back on the road,” he said.
“You didn’t care for the time we spent in the Abbey of the Golden Sheaf, did you?” Melann asked.
Whitlock didn’t answer. He hadn’t cared for the Elven Woods at all.
Traveling westward on a road known as the Moonsea Ride, they kept their backs to the sun throughout the morning. It would probably take them four days to reach Tilver’s Gap, and five more to Tilverton. The well-traveled road brought a few other wayfarers past them: merchants with wagons of goods and produce, messengers on swift horses, simple travelers alone or in pairs—even an adventuring company or two. Whitlock, of course, examined each of the people they encountered suspiciously. He warned her about bandits who posed as travelers to mislead the unwary—but Whitlock was never unwary. Melann, however, couldn’t help but think he eyed the approaching adventuring companies with a bit of envy. She knew Whitlock wanted to believe their exciting, adventurous life had been his destiny too.
The brothers and sisters at the abbey had been unable to provide any real information regarding their goal other than further news of gathering monstrous humanoids in the direction they rode. Whitlock didn’t hide his displeasure over heading directly into such obvious danger.
Melann’s mind drifted back to a point ten days earlier, as she and her brother knelt at the bedside of their parents. Cruel fate had struck their mother and father down almost simultaneously, doubling the pain for she and Whitlock. It also doubled the burden, for caring for both parents brought both hardship and radical change to their lives. Whitlock gave up his position among the Ridesmen, the local soldiery, and Melann turned from her duties at the temple known as the Bounty of the Goddess, both to devote their time to tending to their parents. It had been particularly hard on Whitlock to see their father, once a proud warrior, wasting away.
The stench of sickness and strong herbal poultices hung in the still air of the room like a fog. They lay in their single, large bed together, heavily covered in blankets despite the thick layer of fever-sweat that shone on both their faces.
Whitlock entered the room quietly, his movements awkward and overcareful. “I think—we think we’ve found a means to end the curse, Father.”
Too weak to even turn to look on his son, Father whispered, “It takes magic to overcome magic, boy.” Neither of them had ever beheld their father in such an impuissant condition. It was sobering, particularly when it seemed that his mind was still strong.
“You can’t lift the curse,” Mother said with a weary rasp, “until you discover the nature of the one who cursed us.”
Her eyes were sunken and her face was gaunt, with thin, jaundiced flesh pulled tight over softening bones. She was literally wasting away before her daughter’s eyes. Melann had no idea how much longer her mother might be able to stave off death.
“My mother told me it was a demon,” Mother stated, her voice thick with disease. Melann felt hard-pressed to believe that to be anything more than hyperbole or perhaps the delirium of the disease.
“Father,” Whitlock said, “We’re going to ride north first to see if we can gather more information. Aunt Marta is going to stay here and look after the two of you. If all goes well, we’ll be back in a tenday or two.”
A silence filled the air thicker than the sickness. Melann felt as if there should be more to say, but no words came to her.
“Goodbye, children,” Mother whispered, pulling Melann down, so her cheek was close to her own. Her breath was strained.
“Ride safely,” Father added, his teary eyes closed. “Watch for those who would trick you. It’s a cruel world.”
Riding off that next day was the most difficult thing Melann had ever done. Neither she nor Whitlock had any idea if they would actually see their parents alive again. Chauntea, she prayed, would watch over them—their care was out of her hands, but their salvation was not.
* * * * *
The Moonsea Ride led the pair along miles and miles of fertile farmland and gentle hills covered with sheep and goats minded carefully by watchful herdsmen. The sky offered few clouds to block the sun. Whitlock’s golden brown stallion didn’t slow in the heat, but Melann’s older mount began to lag as the last few hours of each day did likewise.
At the end of each day, the pair would make their campsite not far from the road in spots that Whitlock deemed defensible. They had brought simple food with them, including bread, cheese, vegetables and some dried meat. Melann supplemented this with wild fruits, leaves, berries, and roots, while Whitlock’s skill with a bow occasionally provided some small game.
The night prior to when Whitlock estimated they would arrive in Tilverton, they made their camp in the area known as Tilver’s Gap. Stark, knobby peaks rose on either side of them, though in the fading light of day they seemed little more than looming shadows. The pass was a dry, grassy region, notably different than the farmlands they passed through the three previous days.
