by James Wyatt
“I wasn’t.” His body still ached from the memory of the pain, and even the slightest movement sent sharp tingles through him.
“I’m sorry, Albanon. I’m so sorry.”
Kri looked so stricken that Albanon couldn’t sustain his anger. He sat up, wincing at the pain, and saw the smoldering remains of the cultist behind Kri. “At least I didn’t end up like him,” he said, trying to smile.
Kri turned and looked down at the cultist’s corpse as well. He muttered something Albanon couldn’t understand as he stomped over to the body, then crouched down beside it. He reached down and lifted the spiral symbol off the dead man’s chest, pulling the chain over the bulky helmet and hefting the heavy amulet.
“What is it?” Albanon asked. “The symbol of the Chained God?”
Kri started, hiding the symbol behind his body. Then he drew it back out and looked back down at it—a little guiltily, Albanon thought. “This? It’s the symbol of the Elder Elemental Eye. Which is the Chained God. Except most of the cultists of the Eye don’t realize it.”
“They think they’re serving the Eye, but it’s actually the Chained God giving the orders?”
“Exactly.”
Albanon got slowly to his feet, his brow furrowed in thought. “Does Ioun give you orders?” he asked.
“Sometimes.” Kri stared at the symbol. “Mostly I do what I think she would want me to do.”
“How do you know what that is?”
“Her teachings are preserved from the Dawn War. ‘Seek the perfection of your mind by bringing reason, perception, and emotion into balance with one another. Accumulate, preserve, and distribute knowledge in all forms. Pursue education, build libraries, and seek out lost and—’ Lost and something. Lore—‘seek out lore.’ ”
“You’ve forgotten?”
“I’m distracted,” Kri snapped, looking down at the spiral symbol in his hands again.
“So what do Ioun’s teachings have to do with our mission now?”
“Ioun gives her blessing to the Order of Vigilance because its mission is the preservation and accumulation of knowledge.”
“What about distributing it?”
“What do you mean?”
“It seems to me that Ioun would want you to teach the world about the threat of the Voidharrow, or whatever it is. Not hoard that knowledge. Not keep it locked up in wizard’s towers.”
Kri bristled. “There is some knowledge the world is not ready for.”
“So you treat the whole world like your stupid apprentice, not ready for the terrible secrets that only you are qualified to learn?”
“Wait a moment,” Kri said, holding up his hands. “Are we talking about the Order of Vigilance or Moorin now?”
“Moorin was a member of the order, same as you. But I’m not talking just about me. You said Ioun wants you to distribute knowledge, build libraries, educate people. Why have you and the order treated Sherinna’s knowledge like a secret?”
“You’re a fool, Albanon. What purpose would it have served a hundred years ago to declare the threat of the Voidharrow? To spread fear and suspicion?”
“To promote vigilance, to let all the people of the world share in the responsibility of watching for the threat, instead of appointing yourselves the guardians of the world.”
“The world needs heroes. The mass of people are—yes, they’re stupid apprentices. They might learn, but they’ll never understand. The few who have a glimmer of understanding will try to use their knowledge to gain riches or power. And should the threat actually arise, they’ll cower in fear until a hero steps forward to protect them. It might not be kind to say it, but it’s the truth.”
“But your order almost failed. Moorin died, leaving you the last of the order. What if you had died, too, before you could pass on Sherinna’s precious knowledge? The world would have been left without knowledge of the threat it faced.”
“But I didn’t die,” Kri said. “The gods ensured that the knowledge would be preserved.”
“I thought that was your job, not the gods’.”
“We are but helpers to the greater purposes of the gods.”
“Just like that poor fool,” Albanon said, nodding toward the corpse on the floor.
“No!” Kri screamed. “Not like that miserable, pathetic imbecile of a priest!”
Albanon backed away from Kri’s furious outburst, holding up his hands in a futile attempt to placate the old priest.
“I am nothing like him!” Kri said, tears welling in his eyes. “I serve with knowledge and understanding. With purpose!” He slumped to the floor and buried his face in his hands.
Albanon looked down at the old man sobbing on the floor, his thoughts in tumult. This is the man I hoped would be a new mentor, he thought, guiding me as I step into a new phase of life?
“Kri,” he said gently.
The priest only sobbed harder, shaking his head.
“I’m worried about you, Kri.”
Kri nodded, rocking his whole body slightly as his head bobbed. “You must understand your enemies if you wish to defeat them,” he murmured. “Albanon, I … might be going mad,” he said slowly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Uldane threw himself into the task of disguising Quarhaun with all the enthusiasm of a child engaged in a game of dress-up, making Shara smile even as Roghar harrumphed. The halfling wrapped long strips of cloth around Quarhaun’s head, covering his hair and most of his face until he looked like a beggar concealing some ailment or deformity. With the drow’s hooded cloak in place, his face was invisible, and the cloak covered the sword hung on his back as well. An assortment of worn cloths wrapped and tied in key locations on Quarhaun’s body completed the illusion, concealing his finely tooled leather armor.
“Fine, he looks like a beggar,” Roghar said. “Now, what’s a beggar doing in this group? Or do you plan to make us all look like beggars? Perhaps give my armor a few more dents?”
“Oh, I didn’t think of that,” Uldane said.
“Of course not,” Roghar said.
“I could go in ahead of you,” Quarhaun said. “Just a wandering hermit, nothing to be alarmed about.”
“That … could work,” Roghar admitted.
“Or you could tell the truth, Roghar,” Tempest said. “As you were traveling the King’s Road into town, you found this poor man under attack by demons. You hurried to his defense and agreed to escort him into the safety of the town’s walls.”
“The truth?” Quarhaun said. “It’ll never work.”
Roghar laughed and clapped Tempest on the shoulder. “It’s a great plan—devious in its sheer honesty.”
“I need a staff,” Quarhaun said.
“Of course!” Uldane said. “That will nicely complete the disguise.”
“Yes,” said the drow, “and it will allow me to walk across the bridge without leaning on Shara.”
“I’ll cut you a branch,” Shara said, starting back toward the orchard.
As she walked, she thought about the argument that had erupted between Quarhaun and Roghar and hoped they weren’t starting it up again in her absence. It was interesting—a bit disturbing, actually—to introduce Quarhaun to other friends for the first time. Albanon had met the drow first, introduced him to the others. Uldane had been there when she met Quarhaun, and they’d all warmed to him quickly as he fought Raid at their sides.
Now she was seeing Quarhaun through Roghar’s eyes, and it was a bit like seeing him for the first time—and not necessarily in the most positive light. The drow was certainly the product of his background, shaped by his harsh life in the Underdark and the sheer brutality of drow society. That background was so different from her own that she doubted she could ever fully understand him.
So why am I so drawn to him? she wondered.
She found a branch long and strong enough to serve as a staff and cut it from its tree, briefly considering the ruby-red fire apples she came across in the process before she decided to leave the
m to rot on the ground.
Fire still danced in the wreckage of the Nentir Inn, and she watched it for a moment. The flames moved almost as if they were alive, occasionally leaping where there was no fuel for them to burn.
“Elementals?” she wondered aloud. She shrugged and turned back toward the bridge.
He likes me, she thought. Despite everything, despite my grief and my failure. Uldane tells me to change—Uldane!—but Quarhaun likes who I am.
The way Quarhaun’s body shifted when he saw her return affirmed that. She couldn’t see his face, but she could imagine his smile from the alertness of his posture, the way she so obviously drew his attention. It made a warmth spread through her belly. And when she handed him the staff, he brushed her hand with his own. A leather glove covered his fingers, but the touch still sent a thrill through her skin.
Roghar led their procession across the bridge, while Shara brought up the rear, keeping an eye and an ear out behind them. Tempest and Uldane walked on either side of Quarhaun, as if protecting the helpless hermit from danger. Shara smiled to herself—it was a convincing illusion, at least to her mind.
“Ho there, travelers!” one of the soldiers on the bridge called. “Let me see your empty hands as you approach, please.”
Shara slid her sword into its sheath on her back and held her hands out to the sides of her body. Her companions did the same—except Quarhaun, who still gripped his staff with both hands, leaning heavily on the branch as he walked.
“You in the middle, let me see your hands,” the soldier called again.
Quarhaun stopped and stretched out his arms for a moment, then gripped the staff again as he hobbled forward. He was reaching the end of his strength, Shara realized, and needed to rest soon.
“Well, well,” the guard said as they drew closer. “Bold adventurers come to deliver our town from the monsters and plague?”
“I am Roghar,” the dragonborn announced, bowing slightly. “If my sword and Bahamut’s strength can be of help to Fallcrest, I offer them gladly.”
Shara counted eleven soldiers on the bridge—ten clutching longspears, arrayed behind the commander who was speaking to Roghar. That was more soldiers than she’d ever seen in one place in Fallcrest—perhaps anywhere in the Nentir Vale. She suspected that most of them were farmers or laborers drafted into the militia when the town came under attack. Fallcrest had precious few professional soldiers in its guard, and they would probably be spread around the perimeter of the walls, the bluffs, and the waterfront, commanding groups of militia recruits.
The commander returned Roghar’s bow. “I apologize if I sounded flippant, paladin,” he said. His apology seemed sincere, but Shara thought his voice retained a bit of its edge. “Too many would-be heroes have found their way here in our trouble and lived like leeches off the generosity of our citizens.”
Was that an explanation or a warning? Shara wondered.
“When did this happen?” Roghar asked.
“We’ve been under attack for two weeks. The monsters swept through Aerin’s Crossing and Lowtown like wildfire, driving the survivors into the relative safety of Hightown. We’re crowded and getting desperate, so the last thing we need are parasites.” Shara thought she saw the man’s eyes rest on Tempest, then Quarhaun, during his last sentence.
“My companions and I have already slain many of the demons that infest the Nentir Vale,” Roghar said. “Why, just moments ago, we rescued this poor man from a demon attack.” He gestured to Quarhaun.
Shara gritted her teeth. You didn’t have to draw attention to him, Roghar, she thought.
The guard stepped around Roghar to look at Quarhaun more closely. “So you’re not one of these bold adventurers?” he said. “A hermit, are you?”
“That’s right,” Quarhaun said.
The guard frowned at Quarhaun’s unfamiliar accent. “Of what order?”
“What?”
“Are you a member of a religious order? Or just one of those fanatics who think they’re too good for the temples?”
“The latter, I’m afraid,” Quarhaun said, drawing himself up.
Shara stretched her fingers and shifted her weight, unsure how this confrontation was going to play out.
“But now you come slinking back to the shelter of town. What’s the matter, did things get too dangerous in your woodland retreat? After repudiating our ways, you come back to our walls and soldiers when things get dangerous.”
“On the contrary,” Quarhaun said, “I encountered no difficulties with these demons until I arrived in your fair town.”
“I don’t think I like your tone,” the guard said.
“Commander,” Roghar said, trying to interpose himself between the guard and Quarhaun. “I promised to escort this man to the safety of Fallcrest. I would not violate my sacred oath …”
“Don’t make promises that are beyond your ability to keep,” the soldier said. “What was it, then? The plague? What’s hidden under those wrappings?” He peered into the shadows of the drow’s hood. “Show your face.”
Quarhaun stammered. “Th … the ways of my order—”
“You just told me you weren’t part of an order. Show your face.” The soldier drew his sword, though he kept the point lowered. The other soldiers shifted nervously behind their officer, making their spear points ripple threateningly.
“I will not,” Quarhaun said.
“You will, or you will die where you stand.”
“Commander,” Roghar said.
“Stay out of this, paladin, or I might have to assume that you were complicit in this man’s deception.” His scowl deepened. “If it is even proper to call him a man.”
Quarhaun hesitated for a long, tense moment, then lowered his hood and pulled the wrappings away from his face. The whole force of soldiers took a step back with a gasp, eyes wide with fear and mistrust.
“So our hermit is a drow spy,” the commander said. “And yet, I don’t see surprise or horror on any of your faces,” he added, gazing around at the rest of the group. “So you all knew, and you lied to protect him.” He glared at Roghar. “I’ve heard a lot of lies and excuses in my career, but never so bold a lie from a paladin of Bahamut.”
Roghar hung his head and Quarhaun glared defiantly at the commander, so Shara stepped forward to try to alleviate the tension. “Commander,” she said, “this man is a hero of the Nentir Vale. He has slain demons beyond counting and saved my life more than once. Don’t judge him by his race.”
“I judge him by the lies of his tongue. He hasn’t acted like a hero—none of you have. Full of empty boasts and deception, the lot of you. You’re not welcome in Fallcrest, not in these times.”
“Officer, our deception was regrettable, but we felt it necessary. In times like these, it’s natural that you would feel especially protective, more likely than usual to question the business of a drow within Fallcrest’s walls. We sought only to avoid giving you alarm.”
“Regrettable, indeed,” the officer said, his eyes on Roghar again.
“I spoke no falsehood,” Roghar said. “My companion Tempest and I happened upon these three in the midst of a demon attack on the bluffs near the Nentir Inn. Just moments ago, we did in fact rescue this poor man from demons.”
“Your ability to deceive with truthful words is nothing to boast of.”
Roghar turned to Shara and threw up his hands. “I told you this was a bad idea,” he said.
“So we leave,” Quarhaun said. “Let Fallcrest burn, if these men won’t admit the champions who might save it.”
“Quiet,” Shara said to him. “You’re not helping.” She turned to the commander. “Please. Quarhaun is no spy. His reasons for coming to Fallcrest are the same as ours, and his dedication to destroying the demons that plague the town is the equal of anyone’s. His sword has slain many demons, and it’s prepared to slay more. If you turn him away, it will be to Fallcrest’s detriment. Consider the good of your town.”
“That’s what I s
aid,” Quarhaun muttered under his breath, but Shara silenced him with a sharp glance.
The commander took a slow breath as his eyes ranged over the group of them, as if measuring what he could see of their character. His gaze lingered longest on Roghar and then Quarhaun. Finally he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You may enter, all of you.” His upright stance relaxed slightly, and Shara realized for the first time how much the demonic attack must be wearing on the town’s defenders.
“Thank you,” Roghar said, bowing again to the commander. Shara and the others echoed his thanks and mimicked his bow, and Roghar led the way past the other soldiers and across the bridge.
As Roghar passed the soldiers, one put a hand on his arm. “Paladin,” the man said. “Deliver us.”
“I will,” Roghar said. “We all will. I swear it.”
Roghar scowled as he crossed the bridge, resolving never to allow this drow to force him into such an awkward position, ever again. I’m supposed to stand for justice and honor, he thought, not show the world an example of deception and trickery.
Well, he thought, Fallcrest will see Bahamut’s justice meted out at the point of my sword soon enough. And my little deception will be forgotten.
The bridge crossed over the fastest and loudest part of the river before the falls, depositing him just south of the Upper Quays. The street was choked with people, milling around or loitering under the eaves of buildings. He saw people settling their families into makeshift camps inside wagons or in the mouths of alleys. He saw people who looked more like respectable shopkeepers than the downtrodden and destitute, standing on street corners and begging for food. He saw desperation, fear, or despair in the eyes of nearly everyone he passed.
He looked over his shoulder at Tempest, whose eyes were fixed on the cobblestones at her feet. She and Fallcrest are the same, he thought. Both besieged, invaded, and violated—and reeling from the shock of it. But how do I deliver her?
Lost in his thoughts, he led the way to the Silver Unicorn Inn—not typically his first choice of places to stay in Fallcrest, but with the Nentir Inn in flames, he had little choice. The service was better, anyway, but the group would pay handsomely for it. If there were rooms to be had at all—with Hightown so crowded with refugees from the rest of the town, it seemed unlikely.
