The Glass Prison

by Monte Cook

  But no, that had been no dream, for Vheod’s dreams had been filled with images of death and destruction. Haunting crimson images of battle and horrible monstrosities gathered in his mind, and he felt it better to just forget about the entire night. This new day held enough on which to focus itself. Today they would reach the prison of Chare’en.

  At least, Vheod thought, there they would all find answers to the questions they’d asked for the last few days, or even for their entire lives. A cure for Melann and Whitlock’s family curse, the truth behind Vheod’s real reason for coming here, perhaps even the real purpose of the Taint—the day was fraught with possibilities. Most of them were quite terrifying.

  They ate some of the previous night’s leftover food, washing it down with cold water from the stream at the bottom of the hill on which they had camped. Vheod took some time after the meal to make minor preparations to cast some magical spells that day. Some wizards needed to study in books or scrolls to prepare spells, but the Abyssal magic Vheod had learned required only that he ready some of the particular mental concepts in his mind—focusing on the central idea of each spell and placing it within his mind’s eye.

  When Vheod was finished, he helped Melann and Whitlock get ready to break camp. The three of them spoke little as they packed their two backpacks, Vheod and Whitlock hefting them when they were ready to move. The fire had long since died, but Melann made sure to scoop dirt onto the warm ashes to make sure that there was no chance of the surrounding vegetation catching fire.

  The terrain presented a number of difficulties, as the rough, forested hills of the past few days became rocky cliffs and pathless treks up steep slopes. Vheod wondered if they would even have been able to bring the horses through this area, had they lived. By mid-morning, they had rounded a steep mountain and walked through a nearly level pass between it and another towering peak. The wind still tousled their hair and clothes, and the gray clouds concealed the sun. They knew from the landmarks around them that the end of the journey lay at the end of this very pass.

  Vheod led the way through the tall pine trees. As he always did when he got nervous, Vheod looked for the Taint. He couldn’t find it again, so he assumed it hid under his breastplate or clothes. A noise behind him made him stop. He turned.

  Whitlock motioned for him to come back. Vheod stepped quietly and slowly toward the warrior, watching him for some clue as to what was wrong. Melann stood next to Whitlock but seemed as confused as Vheod felt. Whitlock pointed down.

  “Gnolls,” Whitlock whispered. “Lots of them.”

  Vheod looked down and saw numerous prints of large feet. His gaze followed them along and noticed that branches of trees had been broken and other growth disturbed by their passing. Whitlock was right. As Vheod looked around, he now saw that dozens on dozens of the creatures had probably passed through this very area, though he admitted to himself that if he didn’t already know there were gnolls in the area, he couldn’t have identified the exact type of creature that had made this disturbance. He wondered if Whitlock also made that assumption, or if he could see something Vheod couldn’t.

  It didn’t matter. What did matter was that the three of them would need to be particularly cautious. Vheod knew that through a minor spell he could render himself invisible from sight, but that wouldn’t help his companions. They would all have to just take their chances together.

  This area seemed drier than most of the mountainous region through which they’d traveled. The needles of the coniferous trees showed brown patches and snapped off at the merest touch. Brittle, fallen branches crunched under their feet as they resumed their march, each step kicking up a small amount of dust that lay under the carpet of rust-colored needles. The thinner trees didn’t provide as much cover as Vheod wished, but he did his best to use the concealment that remained in case there was someone or something watching for them.

  Finally, after about another hour’s careful walk through the thick trees, the three of them rounded a ridge and found themselves staring at a cliff face partially obscured by boulders and loose stones. While some of the rocks hadn’t moved in lifetimes, it was apparent that others had recently been moved aside, which judging by their size was no small feat. These recently displaced boulders surrounded a dark, rectangular opening that led into the cliff. An open area at least two hundred yards across stretched in front of the opening.

  Vheod had no doubt in his mind that Chare’en lay within the cliff, through that doorway, but who had cleared away the boulders? The trees surrounding the area had been chopped down too, probably to facilitate the work uncovering the doorway.

  Taking a deep breath, he started for the opening, but Whitlock’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. Vheod turned and saw that the man wanted to talk. He followed Whitlock and Melann back a few paces but toward the cliff’s face. The three of them crouched amid the trees, behind a far-tossed boulder.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” Melann asked, staring at the opening rather than the two men.

  Whitlock didn’t respond, instead telling Vheod, “We’ve got to look around the outside here and make sure that if we go in, nothing comes in after us. We don’t want to get trapped in there.”

  “I suppose that’s prudent,” Vheod stared with dark, passionate eyes, “but don’t you think that the sooner we can get inside and look around, the sooner well be able to leave? I mean, if the staff you seek lies within, the sooner we find it the better.”

  Melann’s expression indicated that she agreed, but Whitlock was adamant. “We’ve got to be smart about this. Now’s not the time to be headstrong.”

  “If we hadn’t plunged ‘headstrong’ into the Ravenwitch’s tree, you wouldn’t be here,” Vheod said immediately.

  Whitlock dropped his gaze to the ground. His shoulders slumped slightly.

  “No,” Vheod said, shaking his head, “forget I said that.”

  Melann forced a smile. “We’re all nervous,” she said, placing her hand on Whitlock’s shoulder. “Everyone wants this to end well—whatever that means.”

  “What do you think might be around here?” Vheod asked.

  “Look around!” Whitlock’s whisper was harsh. “This area looks just like the one we passed a few miles back, but it’s even more clearly been occupied by gnolls for some time.”

  “Then where are they now? Inside?” Vheod motioned toward the opening in the cliff.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Whitlock said, looking around. “Something tells me they left this area—but not long ago.” Whitlock kneeled down and examined the ground carefully, looked around him, then straightened up. “In fact, the tracks even suggest that they left in a hurry. See how there’s lots of scuffling and smeared prints? They’ll probably be back.”

  Whitlock’s skill as a tracker certainly impressed Vheod. Nevertheless, he felt an eagerness to get inside that doorway. Maybe it was just that he wanted to get the whole thing over with—maybe because a part of him was anxious to find out which portion of his nature was truly in command of his life. He would see if someone, perhaps even himself, schemed and manipulated him into coming here to free his ancestor. If he was truly meant to free Chare’en, and the balor waited inside, he would see if he could keep himself from committing such an atrocity. Somehow the answers would all be found beyond that doorway.

  Vheod handed Whitlock the crossbow. “Here, you scout around the perimeter of the open area and cover me with this.” He turned to Melann. “You stay here and watch this side of the entrance. I’m going to sneak in and take a brief look around on the inside. If it’s clear out here and within, you can follow me through the doorway.”

  Whitlock scowled. “Fine.”

  He accepted the crossbow and took the time to cock and load it. Vheod drew the knife he’d found in their packs earlier, then cast the brief spell that allowed him to fade from sight. Melann gasped softly, obviously unprepared for Vheod’s tactic. Her wide eyes searched in vain for him, but she said nothing. By the time he disappeared,
Whitlock was already creeping through the trees.

  Invisible, Vheod moved very close to Melann, so that his mouth was very near her ear. Her mouth opened slightly, and her eyes flashed, indicating that she could feel his presence near her.

  “I’ll let you know where I am,” he whispered.

  He wanted to touch her soft cheek with his own, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned and moved very quietly into the cleared area, toward the open doorway.

  Inside, Vheod’s tanar’ri vision allowed him to see a fair distance using just the daylight filtering in through the cloud of dust at the door. Ancient, stagnant air hung in the doorway and grew thicker as he entered. A passage, cut through the stone with regular angles and keen workmanship, extended into the cliff at least twenty-five feet, but then ended. Only after he crossed most of that distance did Vheod see that corridors probed deeper into the stone to the left and right of there. He approached this juncture and looked down both options.

  To the left, he saw a fair amount of rubble and loose dirt scattered about the floor. The passage extended deeper into the darkness than his supernatural vision could penetrate. At the edge of the darkness, however, amid the broken stone, Vheod thought he could see a dead body, perhaps that of a human or something human-sized.

  Looking to his right, Vheod saw only a strange cloud of sparkling greenish flecks hovering in the air, churning like dust. Vheod tentatively reached out to touch one of the shining motes. When he did the cloud stirred violently. He heard stone agonizingly slide against stone, and a terrible, heavy footfall, then another.

  Backing away, Vheod saw a large shape lumbering out from the cloud of swirling specks. Something lurched out of the darkness. He backed a few steps, eyes wide. His muscles tensed and his mind raced. What was this thing? What magic was this?

  It stood at least a foot taller than Vheod. The top of the creature’s head came within a foot of the ceiling. It was humanoid in shape, but the entire, gigantic figure was made of stone. In one fist it clenched a long, broad-headed spear, though Vheod didn’t think the stone of the spear was actually separate from the stone of the hand that appeared to grip it. The living statue had been carved with an intricate, ornate pattern on its body, granting it raiment and facial features. The hands of time had clawed away at the fine detail, so now the lumbering giant seemed mostly crude in construction, except for a few spots that retained the designs, betraying its former beauty.

  Vheod found nothing beautiful about this animate mass of stone, though, and backed away toward the entrance as fast as he could. He had no intention of attempting to fight this thing with just a knife—if he could fight it at all. What worried him most was that the construct advanced toward him even though he was invisible.

  Afraid to turn his back on the advancing monstrosity, Vheod continued to back quickly away. The animated statue stopped. Vheod stopped. Obviously, this thing was a guardian—perhaps it wouldn’t follow him out. Still, it halted in the juncture of the two passageways, and Vheod imagined that it would react with hostility if he attempted to get past or even approach it.

  Perhaps a spell could destroy it, Vheod mused, staring at it from just a few steps from the entrance. Obviously, it was a creature animated by magic, and perhaps that would be its undoing. Unfortunately, Vheod’s spells were minor. He doubted he could do anything that might affect a giant stone statue given life by sorcery. Then, he considered—

  His thoughts were suddenly torn away from him by the sound of Melann’s scream from outside. He whirled around and ran, still magically hidden from normal sight, into a danger even greater than that of the magical statue.

  The gnolls had returned.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A raven is not a creature that enjoys disappointment. Take something away from one, and it only gets angry. Denied completely, and the raven sulks.

  The Ravenwitch sat before her divinatory pool, watching black rose petals float about the surface. She leaned heavily on the water basin, sighing. One by one, she poked the petals down into the water. Some sank to the bottom; some bobbed back up.

  With a dramatic gesture she brushed at the surface of the water, sending a petal-laden wave splashing to the wooden floor. She stood as she did this, glaring down into the pool then up at the ceiling.

  “Damn them!” she screamed, clutching her hands into fists.

  She was without a manservant and without even so much as a good candidate. What was worse, she’d slain dozens of her own ravens to execute the process that would have granted that young man—Whitlock?—the power and abilities required of her servant. The ritual had been ruined, and the cursed one who ruined it was beyond reproach. She didn’t dare retaliate against the descendant of Chare’en, when the balor would rule over all the Thunder Peaks in so short a time.

  She slumped back into her chair. What good could come of revenge anyway? She’d lived long enough to know that in the end, it earned nothing. What was lost, was lost. She had more important things to worry about right now, like how to cope with the coming events. The Ravenwitch enjoyed things as they were. She was more than pleased with her tree, and the flock flourished nicely—even despite the losses it had suffered lately at the hands of … what was his name? Vheod? As well as those who’d died by her own hand.

  The Ravenwitch hadn’t liked that at all. She would never have had to attempt the blood ritual in the first place had the gnolls not slain Yrrin—the gnolls that sought to serve Chare’en. Everything seemed to point to the same conclusion. His release would bring only change and hardship for her.

  She sighed again.

  Her attempts at divining potential futures based on different approaches she might take—defiance, subservience, friendliness, outright attack—had all been horribly skewed. Something was upsetting the tides of time here. Some presence had thrown off all her divinations.

  Perhaps the young demon Vheod was to blame for that too.

  How could she know?

  No, the Ravenwitch thought, at this juncture the only way to predict the future with any great accuracy was to control it. She had to take some sort of action, not sit here gazing into mist-shrouded “ifs” and “what-might-have-beens.”

  Gathering her feathered cape behind her, the Ravenwitch stood and glided out of the room, down a passage through the heart of the grandfather tree, and into a chamber ill used of late. This oval-shaped room was filled with shelves sunk into the wood of the walls. Each shelf was lined with books. She owned thousands of tomes, some acquired long ago, some more recent, some bought, some stolen. A few she’d even written herself.

  With a fevered intensity, the Ravenwitch pulled books from shelves, placing them on a table located in the middle of the room. Her long, black-nailed fingers glided along familiar paths across the well-worn shelves, deftly finding each tome she required. She ignored the dust accumulated from neglect, carefully brushing away the spiders without harming their delicate webs.

  Utilizing magically conjured light, the Ravenwitch read through the night, pouring over histories and accounts of days long lost, as well as texts regarding the fiendish denizens of the Lower Planes. The stacks of books pulled down from the shelves towered above the table at which she sat. Much to her delight, her research proved fruitful, as she found more than one reference to the balor Chare’en. Apparently, he’d come to Toril in the last, fading days of Myth Drannor, in the Year of the Toppled Throne, as a part of the Army of Darkness that warred with the elves of Cormanthyr.

  Chare’en remained long after those battles, attempting to raise up an army of chaos and evil in the Thunder Peaks. Most of his servitors were—not surprisingly—gnolls. The gnolls worshiped Chare’en and erected a huge idol dedicated to the tanar’ri made of a strange, semitransparent magical stone not native to this world. The green, glassy idol stood as a testament to the balor’s dark power.

  Chare’en’s defeat came, hundreds of years ago, at the hands of a human wizard named Piotyr Braendysh who had crafted an amulet that rendered
him immune to the balor’s power. Using his own sorcery, Piotyr destroyed the green idol and imprisoned Chare’en in a cell made of some of the statue’s shattered remains. The rest of the stone was scattered throughout the mountains. Braendysh then sealed the prison with his magical, rune-covered staff and buried it deep underground.

  A raven burst into the room, coming to rest on the chair next to the Ravenwitch. It cawed softly.

  She turned to the bird and stared into its opaque black eyes. “Yes, my darling, I know morning has come. Go and find yourself something to eat in the woods with the others. I shall be fine here.”

  The raven squawked shrilly and flew from the library.

  An amulet that rendered him immune to the balor’s power. Interesting. With such an item, the Ravenwitch would have nothing to fear from the future. Chare’en would mean nothing to her. But where would such an amulet be now? It could be anywhere in all Faerûn. She sighed. There was no time to search for it. If it was lost—buried in some vault or fallen amid some ancient ruin—she would never find it soon enough for it to be of any help.

  No, the only way she could hope to find the amulet would be to presume that someone else found it first and had it with him now. Perhaps a person who knew about the coming of Chare’en and the power of the amulet—or at least something of its history—had already discovered it. More than likely, that person would be nearby, concerned somehow with the current events.

  This required some thought.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gnolls swarmed from every possible angle, as though they’d been scattered and were regrouping. Unfortunately, their chosen rallying point lay within the clearing right outside the entrance to the prison, at the edge of which stood Whitlock and Melann.