by James Wyatt
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Welcome to the Whitethorn Spire,” Kri announced. “Your birthright.”
The old priest stood outside the open doorway and bowed, making a sweeping gesture with his arm to invite Albanon inside. Albanon stepped over a demon corpse at the threshold and entered the tower.
The entrance hall was grandly elegant despite at least a century of disuse and the recent intrusion of the demons. Slender columns ringed the circular hall, supporting a staircase that wound around the wall. Living ivy spiraled up the marble columns as if sculpted there. A scattering of rubble and a few brown leaves cluttered the floor, which was tiled in an intricate mosaic depicting the stylized eye of Ioun set within the sunburst of Pelor. Far above, the domed ceiling was carefully painted with an array of figures Albanon couldn’t identify at such a distance. One slender archway, directly opposite the entrance, led to a short hall with doorways on both sides. Similar arches led off from the stairway above it, granting access to the tower’s five higher floors.
“Where do we start?” Albanon asked.
“Wherever you like,” Kri said. “The tower is yours to explore now. Start at the bottom and work up. Start at the top and work down. Start in the middle and work randomly, following your instincts. It’s up to you.”
Albanon grinned, staring up at the stairway with its arches. Mine to explore, he thought. It’s my birthright.
Part of him wanted to race through the tower, peering through every door, learning his way around as quickly as possible before deciding what to explore in more depth. But another part wanted to savor the discovery of it all, to choose one room and explore every bit of knowledge it had to offer up to him, whether it took hours or weeks, before moving on to another room. He let the two parts argue in his mind for a moment, savoring the anticipation and uncertainty.
“I want to see the mural,” he announced at last. Without waiting for an answer, he walked to the stairs, stealing a glance down the ground-floor hallway as he went past. Three doors-two on the left, one on the right, all closed. He smiled, filing that knowledge away. Closed doors meant secrets awaiting discovery.
At each archway, he allowed himself no more than a furtive glance through, the merest hint of what lay beyond. More closed doors-three or even five on some floors, two on others. A large library full of dusty shelves, each shelf crowded with books and scrolls, was almost enough to make him stop and explore, but he stuck to his original plan, forcing his eyes back to the mural and his feet back to the stairs.
At last he reached the top of the stairs and found himself on a narrow gallery running almost all the way around the hall, except where the stairs emerged. A thin railing offered little reassurance when he looked down at the drop to the mosaic floor below. Wrenching his gaze upward again, he found that the gallery was perfect for examining the mural in the dome-but he still understood little of what he saw.
The dome was divided into eight segments. Each one featured a depiction of a short pillar topped with a crystal orb that glowed with purple light. Thirteen figures-not all of them humanoid, he realized-were arrayed around the dome, as if spread around a great vaulted chamber. In a focal position, right above the line of arches running up the side of the hall, stood an eladrin wizard, posed in action as if casting a spell.
“Sherinna,” he guessed. He took a moment to study this depiction of his grandmother.
She was lovely, he decided, full of power and grace and wisdom. Or at least that’s what the artist tried to convey, he reminded himself. And she was paying him to pull it off. He smiled, then let his eyes explore the rest of the paintings.
To Sherinna’s left stood a human man in plate armor, locked in battle with a hulking brute of a demon, a monster with six claws and a massive carapace formed of red crystal.
Just like Vestapalk’s minions at the Temple of Yellow Skulls. Albanon’s heart quickened. Kri was right, he thought. Here we’ll learn what’s behind all this.
Next around the dome, an armored woman with the gently pointed ears of a half-elf swung an axe at a creature with the head and forequarters of the demons Albanon and Kri had fought at the tower, but its hind quarters were human legs encased in armor. In the background of that scene, a male dragonborn breathed fire over his own hand, but the fire coiled up and back on him.
In the next segment, an enormous mass of red spiders with crystalline shells swarmed around an elf female’s face screaming in pain. There was no sign or depiction of the rest of the elf, leaving it unclear whether she had already been consumed by the swarm or was perhaps transforming into it.
Directly opposite Sherinna stood an archway formed of scarlet crystal, with a lush green landscape visible through the arch, forming a stark contrast to the dark chamber around it. A human man stood before the arch, but his legs were twin columns of red liquid shot through with flecks of gold and veins of silver.
“That’s the Vast Gate,” Kri said. Albanon started-he hadn’t heard the priest approach, and thought he might have stopped off in the library or somewhere else in the tower.
“What’s that?” he asked. “What is this scene?”
“Well, you’re coming in at the end of the story,” Kri said, stroking his beard. “But I have told you the story before. That’s Sherinna, as you might have guessed.” Kri pointed at the beautiful, powerful eladrin, and Albanon nodded. “Next to her there is Brendis, a paladin of Pelor. And that”-he pointed across the dome, where a male tiefling lurked in the shadows near a human whose hand glittered with red crystal-”is Nowhere.”
“Nowhere? That was his name?”
“Yes. An expression of his alienation, I suppose. The three of them discovered a sinister cult operating in Nera.”
“When was this?”
“Two hundred years before the fall of Nerath.”
“So three centuries ago.”
“Yes. The cult leader was that man there.” Kri pointed at the legless human beside the arch. “Albric the Accursed.”
“Nu Alin,” Albanon said. “He’s in the middle of transforming into the demon.”
“Yes. He escaped the three heroes in Nera, but he left behind some writings that pointed to the ruins of Bael Turath as his next destination. Those writings also indicated that he was looking for something called the Living Gate.”
“Not the Vast Gate?”
“No. As I understand it, the Living Gate was a mysterious portal located somewhere in the depths of the Astral Sea. I believe it actually shattered during the Dawn War, and what the cultists sought was just a fragment of its substance. Which, perhaps coincidentally, took the form of a reddish crystal.”
“Perhaps not,” Albanon said.
“Indeed. Anyway, in Bael Turath, Sherinna and her companions met another pair of adventurers. Miri”-he pointed to the woman with the battleaxe-”and the Sword of the Gods.” This last hero was a fearsome man with pale skin and strange scarlet tattoos, holding a staff in one hand and an enormous sword in the other. A halo of divine light surrounded him, and the man he was facing recoiled in terror.
“The Sword of the Gods?”
“He was a cleric of Ioun, but he also seems to have been a figure of prophecy, something more than an ordinary divine servant. His origin is mysterious, and he did not survive this battle. But I am skipping ahead. Miri and the Sword of the Gods helped Sherinna and the others find the cultists, and they chased them through a portal leading to the abandoned dominion of Pandemonium, adrift in the Astral Sea. Which is here,” Kri said, gesturing to the scene depicted on the dome as a whole.
“And you said before that they were trying to break open a prison? To free some great evil?”
“Yes. They used a shard of the Living Gate to open this portal.” He pointed at the archway shown opposite Sherinna. “The Vast Gate, it was called-a doorway capable of reaching into many worlds and planes. They didn’t free the entity they sought to release, but they did manage to bring the Voidharrow through their gateway. And by the time Sherinna
arrived on the scene, several of the cultists were already in the process of changing into demons.”
Albanon nodded, looking around at the variety of monstrous forms-all of which included some element of red crystal. “As the mural shows.”
“Yes. And as you can see, they engaged the demons in battle. What the mural doesn’t show is the outcome.”
Albanon nodded. “The cultists defeated, the Vast Gate closed. And the Sword of the Gods dead.”
“Although Nu Alin obviously survived the battle. At least one other cultist fled through the Vast Gate, and the Sword of the Gods was carried through it when he died. And Nowhere’s fate is not clear to me. Perhaps most relevant to our investigation, though, Sherinna brought back with her a sample of the Voidharrow, sealed in a vial.”
“Which the Order of Vigilance passed down until some of it ended up in Moorin’s tower.”
“Which the death knight stole,” Kri said. “And then Nu Alin followed him across the Nentir Vale to find it.”
Albanon rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “And Nu Alin, when he’s not possessing someone, looks like a living blob of the Voidharrow. So what is the Voidharrow? Where did it come from? Did it come through the Vast Gate, or was it awaiting the cultists when they arrived in Pandemonium?”
“Those are the questions we’re here to investigate. If answers exist, this is the place to find them.”
“Here or Pandemonium, I suppose.”
“Here at least we have the benefit of records, the fruits of Sherinna’s own research and experience. Of all the founding members of the order, she was the most scholarly.”
“Do you suppose that’s why the demons were here? How much does Vestapalk know about the Order of Vigilance?”
Kri scowled. “Nu Alin was present at its founding, in a way. We must assume that his knowledge far exceeds our own.”
Albanon stared up at the mural, his thoughts spinning. A few moments ago, he’d been so excited, eager to explore what the tower had to offer. Now he was confused and tired, confounded by the puzzle that lay before them and daunted by the prospect of trying to sort it out.
“I wonder,” he said slowly, “do you think we might spend some time just getting familiar with the tower? Hold off on plunging into research until we … I don’t know, until we know our way around a little better, maybe?”
Kri glowered. “While your friends fight the demons in our stead? While Vestapalk sends new minions to unearth whatever secrets this tower holds? While the abyssal plague spreads across the worlds? Of course! Take your time! Enjoy yourself.”
Albanon felt his face flush crimson, and he turned away from the old priest. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Clearly. Remember our mission, Albanon. We have to understand our adversary if we are to defeat him. Shara and Uldane are depending on us.”
“I … I suppose I’ll visit the library now.”
Kri nodded, and Albanon slunk back down the stairs. He paused outside the doorway leading into the library and peered back up at the dome. Kri was still standing on the gallery, bony hands clenched around the thin railing, staring up at the depiction of the Vast Gate.
“Apprentice,” Splendid chirped.
“Hm,” Albanon answered, lost in a scroll in Sherinna’s library. It was a fascinating study of the magical principles underlying the use of fire, outlining the problems and techniques of fire magic in a way he’d never even begun to consider. The author of the treatise, according to a line at the top, had been Sherinna herself, and Albanon enjoyed imagining that she was teaching him. He wanted to try the techniques she was discussing, but didn’t want to stop reading long enough to leave the library and find someplace less … flammable.
“Apprentice!” the pseudodragon said again.
Annoyed, Albanon tore his attention from the scroll and scanned the library until he found the little drake perched on the top of a bookshelf, peering down at him.
“I’m not an apprentice any more, Splendid.”
“Of course you are. The great Moorin never finished your training.”
“The great wizard Moorin, in case you’ve forgotten, is dead and never will finish my training. I have no master, so I am not an apprentice. But the acquisition of knowledge is a lifelong pursuit.”
“According to the ancient traditions of wizardry that the great wizard Moorin followed scrupulously, no apprentice can claim the title of wizard until a master has certified that his training is complete.”
“Did you have something you wanted to say, Splendid, or can I go back to my reading now?”
“I wanted to say that you should be careful.”
Albanon sighed. “About anything in particular?” he asked.
“About the priest. I don’t trust him.”
“Now you don’t trust him? All it took was a few strips of honeybark and some kind words in Moorin’s tower and you were his best friend. Practically everyone else we’ve met since we left Moorin’s tower, though, smelled wrong to you, starting with Roghar and Tempest. ‘The tiefling smells of pact magic,’ you told me. ‘And the dragonborn reeks of stale ale and-’ What was it?”
“Stale ale and overpriced mead. He does!”
“And he’s a paladin of Bahamut, and one of the most noble souls I know,” Albanon said. “Even if he does call me an elf,” he added under his breath.
“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong about the priest.”
“It means you’re a terrible judge of character. What crime has Kri committed? Smelling like incense and scented candles?”
“Well, he does.”
“That’s because he’s a priest, Splendid. He’s a devotee of Ioun, the god of knowledge. And his knowledge is deep and wide! This library couldn’t contain it.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s working for good.”
“He saved my life-twice-and kept me from turning into a demon. He fought by our side, helped us defeat Vestapalk’s second in command, and helped fight off the demons we found here. What part of that doesn’t seem like he’s working for good?”
“He says he ran out of honeybark.”
Albanon sighed. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“But I don’t believe him,” the dragonet said, her voice growing shrill. “I can still smell it on him.”
“Through the incense and scented candles?”
Splendid harrumphed, a sound somewhere between a meow and a squeak. “He’s hiding something, apprentice.”
“All right, Splendid. You don’t trust him. What do you want me to do? I’ll keep a close eye on him.”
“Do you know where he is right now?”
Albanon looked around the library again, blinking. “I have no idea. He was here earlier.”
“That was hours ago.”
With a start, Albanon realized that the entry hall outside the library was dark-the sun had gone down as he read, and he hadn’t noticed. Several magical lamps kept the library well lit, and he’d been engrossed in the abundant volumes the library had to offer.
“Perhaps he got hungry,” Albanon said, “or tired. How long has it been dark?”
“I’m hungry,” Splendid said.
“Fine. Leave me alone and get yourself some food.”
“You should eat, too. The great wizard Moorin-”
“Splendid, enough about the great wizard Moorin! He’s dead and gone!”
The dragonet seemed to get smaller, furling her wings and drawing her tail close around her legs. Her eyes grew wide, and she looked down at him with a mixture of grief and reproach that only fueled his anger.
“In fact, I’ve had about enough of you!” he shouted. “You’ve been following me around since Moorin died, hovering like a chaperone trying to keep me out of trouble. I don’t need a chaperone-especially an impudent, self-important, overgrown familiar like you!”
With each word, Splendid shrank back from his growing anger, and with his final exclamation she turned tail and leaped off the s
helf, flapping out through the archway in bitter silence.
“Good riddance,” he muttered, trying to find his place in the scroll.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Shara roared her fury and charged the enormous demon. Quarhaun groaned weakly as its claws sank deeper into his chest.
“Get off him!” she shouted, then her sword bit into the thing’s leering face.
“Remember, warrior,” Vestapalk’s voice said from the demon’s mouth, “wanting a thing does not put it within your reach.”
“Oh, I’ll have my revenge,” Shara said, aiming another slice at the demon’s throat. It batted her blow aside, but at least that claw was no longer embedded in Quarhaun’s chest. “Believe it, dragon.”
“Not dragon. So much more.”
The demon shuddered and Shara knew, in a way she couldn’t explain, that Vestapalk was gone. The creature before her was full of destructive fury, intensified by the pain of its injuries, but it lacked the dragon’s sheer malice-and, for that matter, its guile.
It doesn’t stand a chance, Shara thought.
Her sword was a blur of motion as she jumped within the demon’s reach, standing over Quaraun’s inert form and slashing up at the demon’s belly, the tendons under its forelegs, and, as it tried to back up and bite her, its throat. Every swing drew thick scarlet blood, gleaming like crystal in its wounds.
The lizardfolk had the demon surrounded, and they beat their clubs against it in a methodical rhythm, though they were attacking cautiously, avoiding the crystal growths on its back that had injured their fellow. Uldane danced in and out of the fray among the lizardfolk, always attacking exactly where the demon’s attention was not, striking vulnerable spots that made it yowl in pain and growing fear. The demon crouched low, bringing its belly within Shara’s reach.
“It’s going to jump!” Uldane shouted.
Instead of striking its belly, Shara rolled toward its hind end and slashed at the tendons of its rear leg, just as it started to spring. Her blow sapped the strength from its leg and it barely cleared the ground with its jump, then staggered forward, dragging that injured leg. Shara chased it, but it spun around and swatted at her with one great claw.
