An idea sprang fully formed into Vestapalk’s mind. He raked a claw across his belly and plucked away an old loose scale. Voidharrow flowed to replace it, but Vestapalk watched the scale as it twisted for a few moments like a fat, red leech. In the back of his mind, he could feel its struggles as if it were an extension of his body. Of his whole being. He laughed out loud. “Yes,” he said to himself. “An avatar for Vestapalk, to walk the land and strike his blows.” The pseudo-life of the scale was temporary, though. An avatar would require true life, a complete form. He scooped the golden skull out of the Voidharrow and stared into its empty, gleaming sockets. “This one has need of your power.”
The being imprisoned within the skull wailed in terror and despair as Vestapalk opened his mouth once more.
CHAPTER ONE
Six days after the attack, Fallcrest still smoldered. By day, thin quills of smoke streaked the sky. By night, red embers crept like worms through blackened beams, leaving more than one of the town’s defenders on edge with memories of the flaming demons that had ignited the devastation.
The destruction could have been worse. When orc hordes had spilled over the Nentir Vale decades before, Fallcrest had been sacked and pillaged, reduced from a thriving city to a frontier town. Its recovery had been slow. Many of its streets still had gaps and tumbled piles of rubble where structures had never been rebuilt-gaps that became natural fire breaks. In a more crowded town or village, entire blocks might have burned in the inferno. In Fallcrest, every third house-or more-had survived the demon-brought flames.
Which wasn’t to say they were all still occupied. Those townspeople whose homes were still inhabitable sought out the safety of numbers. And of the buildings that stood in Fallcrest’s lower town, most were as empty as the ruins around them.
Those in the upper town, where the great bluffs that split Fallcrest formed one side of a strong defensive perimeter, were packed. Crowds spilled out of them and into the streets, finding shelter under tents or in rough shacks built from rubble. The crowds weren’t solely the folk of Fallcrest either. A trickle of refugees from the surrounding areas of the Vale had been arriving since the plague had taken hold, turning into a flood as the demons born of the plague swept across the countryside.
Common wisdom said isolation was the best defense against a plague-but most plagues didn’t bring nightmare creatures searching out new victims to infect and transform, adding to their own numbers in an expanding wave.
“More stones here!” called Roghar. “And more mortar, too!”
Below the growing wall on which the dragonborn stood, townsfolk-turned-laborers leaped to follow the order. Although, Roghar considered on second thought, perhaps “leaped” wasn’t the right word. “Lurched” might be more appropriate, or maybe “struggled.” Six days of combing the ruins, cleaning the streets, and attempting to put a shattered town to rights had left the survivors exhausted. Every face was streaked with sweat and grime. Every step was a dragging shuffle. The euphoria of victory over the invading plague demons had given way to grim reality.
One facet of that reality was the need to shore up Fallcrest’s defenses. The wall around the upper town was in good repair but the attack had showed that the roads up the bluffs from the lower town were a weak point. For decades, Fallcrest had depended on the steep ascent to deter enemies, but the plague demons were like no mortal enemy. Fearless and tireless, the steep road meant nothing to them. Some had even clawed their way up the sheer cliff itself. Fallcrest needed a new wall-an internal wall at the brow of the escarpment-and a new gate to hold the top of the road.
With no special place in the town, no family or home of his own, Roghar had taken on Fallcrest’s need and started working. He’d set aside his sword and armor, commandeered a workforce, and in just a few days, had the rough beginnings of a stout gatehouse in place at the most commonly used road, the stubby wings of a low wall unfurling to either side of it. The other two roads were already sealed off. Fallcrest had provided the material in stout timbers and soot-blackened stones taken from ruined houses or from the old city walls toppled almost a century earlier. If the townsfolk were reluctant to scavenge their broken homes at first, they soon took pride in what rose out of their work and sweat.
They also found pride, Roghar suspected, in the willingness of a paladin of Bahamut-one of the heroes who had fought off the plague demons-to labor alongside them. When workers were tired, it seemed like there were always fresh ones ready to take their places. For his part, Roghar tried to make sure he was always the first at the walls in the morning and the last to leave when the torches guttered low. He was larger than the largest of the townsfolk, an inspiring figure in burnished bronze, the fine scales of his leathery hide shining as he worked.
Of course, it had only been six days. Whether he or the townsfolk could keep up the punishing pace was a question that pulled at the back of Roghar’s mind.
Still, it was better than doing nothing.
“Roghar!”
He turned at the call and saw Uldane skipping across the uneven top of the wall. The halfling moved with sure-footed agility, bounding lightly from stone to stone in spite of the waterskins that hung off him like swollen fruit. Without pausing, he shrugged off one of the skins and tossed it to Roghar. It hit the dragonborn’s palm with a wet smack and shimmied under his thick fingers. Roghar could feel the delicious cool and was, for a moment, sorely tempted to guzzle it down. He contented himself with pulling the stopper and taking a quick gulp before passing it on to the nearest worker. Uldane passed him a second, then a third, then a fourth skin. Roghar redistributed them all. Uldane shook his head.
“You’re just a paragon of virtue, aren’t you?” He held up the last waterskin. “This is mine. You can’t give it away. I’m only sharing it with you.”
Roghar smiled at that. “Bahamut doesn’t require his faithful to deny themselves.”
“Well, you look like you’re trying to.” Uldane passed the skin to him.
“I reward those who have earned it.” He aimed a stream from the neck of the skin into his waiting mouth-and nearly choked in surprise on wine instead of water. He spluttered and licked his blunt snout.
Uldane gave him a wide grin. “So do I. Don’t you dare give that skin back until you’ve drunk your fill, Roghar.”
The paladin took another drink, then paused. “Where did this come from?”
Uldane actually looked offended. “Do you really think I’d take something from someone in Fallcrest right now? That would be like stealing from a beggar’s bowl!”
“Where?”
“Buried in the stores of the Glowing Tower, so it practically belongs to us. Or to Albanon anyway.” He slouched back, his arms crossed. “And he’s not going to notice any more than he’s noticing anything right now.”
Roghar regarded Uldane thoughtfully as he directed another jet of wine down his throat. Then he wiped his snout and handed the skin to Uldane. “You’ve noticed it too?”
“It’s hard to miss, isn’t it? We were going to go after Vestapalk. We were going to cut the head off the snake and end the plague. Instead…” Uldane shrugged. “We’re building walls. I mean, not that it isn’t a fine wall, but why are we trapping ourselves behind it?”
A proverb of Bahamut’s priesthood rose to Roghar’s tongue: The shield is enough for many. Not everyone was capable of carrying the fight to the enemy. Building the wall was as useful as striking beyond it.
The proverb didn’t escape his mouth. Instead he said, “I know what you mean.” He took back the wineskin before Uldane had a chance to drink, swallowed, and looked down over the empty, smoking streets of the lower town spread out below. Down there on the Market Green, he, Uldane, the warlock Tempest, and the wizard Albanon had destroyed the ancient bodystealer Nu Alin, the very first of the plague demons created by the foul substance known as the Voidharrow.
The creature’s death had been the end of the attack-the end of the battle for Fallcrest as the remaining d
emons scattered without his command to drive them on. The four of them had returned to the upper town in triumph, filled with plans to strike out after Vestapalk. They even had a clue where to find Vestapalk, thanks to lingering collective memories held by Belen, a human defender of Fallcrest who had been possessed by Nu Alin before his destruction. Vestapalk, their ultimate enemy, had taken a lair in a volcano west of Fallcrest, beyond the Ogrefist Hills that formed one edge of the Nentir Vale, using his command of the Voidharrow to transform it into something he called the Plaguedeep. Belen had experienced the knowledge through her communion with Nu Alin and the rest of the plague demons while possessed. They could go after him and end the threat once and for all.
Except that only hours after their celebration, Albanon had pleaded for more time to study their enemy. Before the attack, he and his treacherous mentor, the old priest Kri, had only just returned to Fallcrest after venturing into the Feywild to a tower that had belonged to the founder of an order dedicated to countering the Voidharrow. Albanon had brought back books and scrolls. If he could take a day to study them, he said, maybe they could find some advantage over Vestapalk and his demonic forces.
One day had turned into two and then six. Enough time for Roghar to muster workers and build a gatehouse while they waited on the eladrin wizard. Enough time that they could have reached Vestapalk’s doorstep by already.
The longer they waited, the more obvious it became that Albanon didn’t want to go.
“When do you think he’ll be ready?” Roghar asked Uldane.
The halfling joined him at the edge of the wall. “He’s not studying.”
Roghar looked down at him sharply. “You mean right now or never?”
“Right now. He’s over that way,” Uldane gestured vaguely into the upper town, “helping Tempest distribute more useful stuff than wine to people who need it… I don’t know about never. Never is a long time.”
“Uldane,” Roghar growled.
“Not in the last couple of days, at least. I know he asked us to stay out of the study at the top of the tower, but I peeked in a couple of times. He wasn’t there but I don’t think anything has been touched since the evening before yesterday.” He looked up at the dragonborn. “Whatever he’s doing, he’s not looking for answers in those books and scrolls.”
Roghar clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together. “We need to talk to him.”
“Do you think…” Uldane hesitated for a moment before pushing the words out. “Do you think it’s because of Shara?”
The paladin considered his answer before he spoke. Although she had stood shoulder to shoulder with him and the others in the past, the warrior Shara had not taken part in the final fight against Nu Alin. Instead, she had slipped away, turning from the defense of Fallcrest in pursuit of her own vengeance against Vestapalk. The murder of her friends and family-among them her father, Borojon, and her love, Jarren-by the dragon haunted her. She’d left at the side of her new lover, Quarhaun-a drow, as hard and cruel as the hatred Shara held for Vestapalk.
Roghar couldn’t find it in himself to support her decision. Nor did he think Albanon was particularly wracked by grief, certainly not to the point of delaying their departure from Fallcrest. The guilt that crept into Uldane’s eyes whenever Shara’s name was mentioned, however, was painful. He was one of her oldest friends and he’d been with her when Vestapalk had slaughtered their companions. He’d also been the last to speak with her. To argue with her, in fact. His harsh words, accusations that Shara dishonored the memory of Jarren by loving Quarhaun, had been the wedge that split their friendship.
“I think,” Roghar said carefully, “that none of us should let the choices Shara made hold us back. We have a greater duty now. Shara went looking for Vestapalk, too. If we’re looking for him, maybe we’ll find her along the way.”
“Just her?”
Uldane didn’t mention Quarhaun by name, but Roghar knew exactly what the halfling meant. Roghar had no love for the drow, either. He wrinkled his muzzle and looked back out over Fallcrest’s lower town. “There is no peach without a-”
Figures moved among the ruins, running hard along a rubble-strewn road. Roghar squinted, trying to make them out. “Uldane,” he said, “look there. Just where the Blue Moon Alehouse used to be.”
Uldane eyes were sharper than his. “I see them. And I see what’s chasing them!” He flung up an arm and Roghar looked where he pointed.
Some distance behind the running figures, more shapes came bounding over the rubble of what had been a gate in the wall of the lower town. Where the figures in the street ran on two legs, their pursuers ran sometimes on two, sometimes on four. The afternoon sunlight flashed on red crystal as the creatures ran and a shift in the wind brought a faint, inhuman shriek to Roghar’s ears.
“Plague demons!” he spat. “Uldane, you said Albanon and Tempest were close? Get them!” He whirled and leaped off the wall, drawing cries of surprise from startled workers.
“You’re going down there?” Uldane called after him. “Armed with what?”
“Bahamut’s warriors may set aside their weapons, but they never leave them.” Roghar reached into a niche and pulled out a canvas-shrouded bundle. The wrapping fell away as he lifted the bundle, revealing his sword and a shield emblazoned with the dragonhead crest of his god. He looked back up at Uldane. “Hurry and I’ll let you come with us!”
“Like you could leave me behind.” The halfling sprinted off along the wall.
Around Roghar, townsfolk were reacting as others caught sight of the pursuit below. Some screamed in fear that the refugees might lead the demons straight into their haven. Hardier souls shouted for members of the guard to go to the refugees’ aid, but the few guards close to the scene only looked at each other in confusion. They would never organize themselves to reach the lower town in time. Roghar slid his arm into the familiar straps of his shield and touched the fingers of his other hand to the holy symbol on the shield’s face.
“I answer your call, O Bahamut,” he growled. “Put speed in my feet and strength in my arm.” He snatched up his sword, flicked away the scabbard, and charged through the half-finished gate. “ For Fallcrest! ”
“Bless you, eladrin.” The old woman’s gnarled fingers fastened on Albanon’s hand before he could draw away and she looked up at him with weary, but grateful eyes. “May all the gods smile on you.”
Albanon stiffened, but forced himself to answer kindly. “May the gods of light smile on us all,” he answered and slid his hand away, leaving a fat wedge of cheese from the basket he carried in the woman’s grasp. She turned, breaking the cheese in two to share with an even older man.
“You get blessings,” murmured a voice in his pointed ear, “I’m lucky if I get a surly look, although there was one charming child that spit at me by way of saying thank you.”
He answered without thinking. “Maybe some kind of mask or a hood. Or a bag over your head.”
The air seemed to warm around him and he caught a distinct whiff of smoke and sulfur. “You’ve been around Uldane too long.”
Albanon blinked, shook his head, and turned to Tempest. The tiefling stood behind him with her eyebrows arched so high they almost merged with the curled horns on her head. Her thick, fleshy tail lashed the air and her dark red eyes glared at him. A hint of the infernal power she wielded both by heritage and by bargain rose from her.
“Sorry,” he said hastily. “I didn’t mean that. I think it’s Uldane and Splendid both.”
“ Pfft.” The little pseudodragon that curled around his shoulders raised her head. “I would never say such a thing.”
“Thank you, Splendid,” said Tempest, her voice as icy as her gaze was fiery.
“A bag wouldn’t cover your tail.” Splendid stretched grandly and rearranged herself.
Tempest’s eyebrows rose even higher. Her lips tightened until they were almost white. Albanon felt himself shrivel under her gaze-until she laughed abruptly, genuine amusement putt
ing a smile on her face.
“You should see yourself,” she said. “Albanon, I’m a tiefling. If I worried about people judging me by my appearance, or what they think of me, I’d never go out my door.”
A flush warmed Albanon’s cheeks. “But friends aren’t supposed to say things like that.”
“I know you didn’t mean it.” Tempest regarded Splendid. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.”
The pseudodragon let out a derisive snort but didn’t stir from the comfort of her new position. Albanon allowed himself a tentative smile as well. “Still-”
“Still, nothing,” said Tempest, moving on along the street. “Let it go. I’m just glad you agreed to come out of that study. You look like you’ve hardly slept lately. We may need all the help we can get when we face Vestapalk, but too much study has its dangers.” She looked back at him. “I think we can learn that lesson from Kri.”
Albanon’s belly tightened. “That’s not a lesson I’m going to forget,” he said immediately, and perhaps a little too harshly. Tempest glanced at him.
“I’m almost sorry I never met the old priest,” she said. “To come here and win your trust, then to turn on you and his god… you might say it wasn’t his fault, that something he found drove him mad and made him renounce Ioun, but I’ll tell you this.” She paused and faced him, dropping her voice. “In my experience, anyone who has ever been seduced by power gave it the first toehold willingly.”
“I understand what you mean,” Albanon told her.
“Do you? Kri turned to Tharizdun, Albanon. The god of madness and annihilation. The Chained God, imprisoned by the other gods for creating the Abyss. Kri may have started looking for a way to defeat Vestapalk and the Voidharrow, but he ended up trying to set Tharizdun free.”
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