by Monte Cook
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 I 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 too
l 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, staving 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.
" But no one's ever told us…" Melann replied. "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.
While Whitlock built a fire, Melann found a small patch of wild berries. She picked a few to accompany their dinner, but he saw she also took some time to pull weeds away from the roots of the plants and provided them with some of the water she carried in a waterskin. "Waste of time and water," he said softly to himself. "Nature takes care of its own, and what doesn't live wasn't supposed to."
When she was finished, Melann came toward the fire. He was already frying some bread and vegetables. A pale twilight glow came from the west. Melann stared at her brother for a moment. He was content out here. Safe.
There's always time and water," she said, briskly wiping the dirt from her fingers, "out among the bounties of Our Mother. You need to be more trusting of people."
"What?" Whitlock's brow curved down, and his forehead filled with furrows, but he didn't look up from his cooking.
"We're out here, and not at one of the roadhouses, because you don't trust people. You'd rather be out here alone than have to worry about who presents a threat and who doesn't, or if a thief is going to creep into your room at night. Your instincts are good, and I'll admit you've been keeping us well protected, but Whitlock, not everyone's an orc."
Whitlock looked up at his sister, who still stood at the edge of the firelight. He couldn't hide his irritation.
"Look," he said bitterly, "everything is going just fine the way it is. Let me worry about whether there's danger or not. Besides-"
"I can help take some of that responsibility, you know. This journey is just as important to me as it is to you."
"Besides," Whitlock said again, stressing the word and narrowing his gaze, "we will be in Tilverton by tomorrow night. You can sleep in a bed then."
Melann shook her head again. Did he think her so soft?
"This has nothing to do with sleeping in a bed or on the ground," she retorted. "This is about you believing that you have to take care of me and be the sole guardian over the both of us. I can take care of myself. Lifting the curse is my foremost goal too."
Melann rubbed her fingers, working away the soil. She turned, and as if to prove her point to Whitlock she prayed to Chauntea, calling on her power to place a ward around the campsite that would protect them while they slept. When she was finished, she lowered the holy symbol pendant she used to focus the warding and sat beside the fire. Whitlock stared at her in silence, and she stared back.
She dumped the berri
es out of her pouch and onto the ground.
Whitlock looked down into the meal he was preparing. The truth was, he actually did prefer camping outside to the often more dangerous roadside inns. Tales of diabolical innkeepers who overcame their patrons in the night and murdered them for their possessions or sold them into slavery were common in the more unsavory parts of the faraway Moonsea region. Melann just couldn't understand the dangers that reared around them at every turn.
He had not cared much for staying at the Abbey of the Golden Sheaf, either, but that had nothing to do with distrust. Holed up in that walled fortress, tending to their gardens, those people didn't have any idea of what the world was really like. They didn't understand the dangers and the truth behind the evils in the world. Zhentarim, brigands, monsters, undead-one needed to be both strong and aware to survive in a world with such threats. Soldiers, mercenaries, adventurers-they understood. They knew the horrors that lurked in dark caverns, evil temples, and dimly lit alley-ways, and they were prepared to face them. Like the priests in the Golden Sheaf, his sister was too concerned with lofty religious ideals and not the harsh realities of life.
Neither spoke again as the fire died. Whitlock ate, but Melann waved off any offer of food. Sounds of crickets and buzzing night insects filled the darkness.
The walls of Tilverton rose high above the flat plain on which the city stood. As Whitlock and Melann came just within sight of the city, traffic grew noticeably more congested as smaller paths joined with the road. People slowly traveled to and from the city in heavily laden carts and on fine, tall horses as well as on foot. Situated in the strategic mouth of Tilver's Gap, the city watched over the only easy way between the Thunder Peaks to the south and the Desertsmouth Mountains to the north. Outside of the city, Whitlock and Melann passed a number of homes, most of them herders' and horse ranchers'.
Tilverton had once been an independent frontier town. Now it was under the protection and rule of Cormyr, a powerful kingdom to the south and west.
