by James Wyatt
Claws of red crystal slashed through her armor and bit into her chest, but fear drowned out the pain. The red crystal’s in my blood now, she thought. Am I infected with this plague? Am I going to change?
And what about Quarhaun? She glanced back to where he lay and saw Kssansk crouching beside him, intoning his strange evocations to the water spirits.
“Let’s finish this, demon,” she growled, ignoring the fresh wave of pain in her chest. She whirled her sword in an intricate display above her head as she advanced on the demon, driving it back a few steps as it tried to anticipate her next attack.
Just when it thought it saw an opening and thrust another claw at her, she roared and leaped at it, driving her blade deep into its skull. It screamed in pain and thrashed around, knocking her away with one wild claw as it rolled onto its back, kicking at the air and the mist.
Then the lizardfolk were around it again, shouting in triumph as their clubs battered it into stillness. Shara turned, suddenly exhausted, and walked to Quarhaun’s side. She crouched beside him and took his hand, and his eyes fluttered open.
“Estessa tha meletiere iam,” he said weakly, a faint smile on his lips.
Confused, she looked at Kssansk, but the lizardfolk didn’t respond, and the words didn’t sound like Draconic.
“What was that?” she said.
“I knew you cared for me,” Quarhaun said.
Shara felt her face flush, and she laid his hand back down on his chest. “Of course I do. No one on my team is expendable.”
His wounds were serious, but Kssansk’s primal magic was already working to repair the deep wounds the demon’s claws had made in his chest. Water flowed over his body in a thin sheet, carrying blood back into his body and-she realized with horror-liquid crystal out of the wounds, leaving it to pool on the floor beside him. Each glob of the stuff that was deposited onto the floor flowed into the last, staying separate from the water and congealing into a mass the size of Uldane’s fist.
“And speaking of which, I need to check on that warrior who was hit by the shards. What is his name?”
“His name?” Quarhaun scoffed. “He’s Third Lizardfolk from the Left.”
“Those warriors saved our lives. Twice now. And their shaman is in the process of saving yours. I think they deserve more respect than that.”
Quarhaun shrugged, then scowled in pain as Kssansk hissed a reproach. The words meant nothing to her, but the meaning was clear enough.
Shara smiled and stood, scanning the ranks of the lizardfolk warriors for the one who’d taken those injuries. She found him, a hulking specimen with a beaded band around his left bicep and a small silver ring pierced through his crest. Suddenly nervous, she approached him, carefully keeping her smile fixed in place.
The lizardfolk noticed her approach and her smile, and he raised his crest and bared his teeth, hissing in what looked like a very aggressive way. She stopped, taken aback.
“Don’t smile at them,” Quarhaun called from the floor. “All they see is teeth.”
She let the smile drop as Quarhaun continued in Draconic.
“Now bob your head just a little-you’ve seen them do it.”
She had, and she tried her best to imitate it, ducking her head like she was walking beneath a low beam, keeping her eyes fixed on the warrior. He returned the gesture, and she could see his body relax. She stepped closer, then put a hand on her chest. “Shara,” she said, as clear as she could and a little too loud.
The lizardfolk cocked his head in a very birdlike way, then repeated her name. “Sssha’rra.” He drew out the sibilant start, rolled the R, and inserted a heavy glottal stop in the middle, but she recognized her name and almost smiled again.
“They know your name, Shara,” Quarhaun said, and she could almost hear his eyes roll with impatience. Kssansk shushed him, a look of amusement in his eyes as he observed the interaction.
“That’s right,” she said to the lizardfolk, realizing as she said it that she sounded like she was speaking to a child. “What’s your name?” She put her hand on the lizardfolk’s chest.
He lurched away from her touch and hissed again, his crest flaring like bright orange flame above his head.
“I’m sorry!” she said, bobbing her head again and stepping away from his bared teeth.
Quarhaun called to the lizardfolk and he turned slightly away from her, stretching his neck until she heard the muscles pop and crack. Then he bobbed his head slightly, only barely in her direction, as his lips twitched back over his teeth.
“Gsshin,” he said, banging his club against his shield.
“Gushin?” She knew it wasn’t quite right, but she hoped it wasn’t so bad as to cause offense.
Gsshin bobbed his head and lowered his crest, and she knew she’d done well enough.
“I want to see your wounds,” she said, pointing at the places she could still see where the demon’s crystalline shards had burrowed into his flesh.
Gsshin flinched away from her finger, and looked over at Quarhaun as if waiting for a translation.
“No, look,” Shara said, shifting into his line of sight. She pointed to her own eyes. “I look,” she said slowly. “Look.” Then she pointed at the largest gash, across his stomach. “At your wounds.”
Gsshin rolled his eyes in a gesture so human it made her smile despite herself, and he called out something that could only mean, “What is this crazy human trying to say?”
With a rhythmic rumbling that might have been laughter, Kssansk stood up from Quarhaun’s side and lumbered over to Shara. He bobbed his head at her, and she returned the gesture. Then he exchanged a few words with Gsshin, who reluctantly spread his arms wide so Shara could get a good look at his wounds. Kssansk pointed at the largest one and started speaking, addressing Quarhaun as if he expected the drow to translate.
And to Shara’s relief, Quarhaun finally decided to cooperate. “He says that the crystal burrowed deep, and the water spirits had to work hard to flush it all out. He didn’t have time to fully close up the wounds, but he’s confident that the crystal substance is gone. And Gsshin fought bravely despite his injuries, and so on.”
“Not ‘and so on,’ what did he say?”
“He says that a warrior could do no less, with your example to lead them.”
Shara felt a flush of pride and satisfaction, but decided not to gloat over Quarhaun-at least not any more than was strictly necessary. She bobbed her head to Kssansk and Gsshin, then to all the warriors looking on, and turned back to the drow.
“And that’s leadership, Quarhaun.”
“Nearly got me killed,” he grunted.
“Eh.” She shrugged, holding back a smile. “Maybe you’re expendable after all.”
A search of the ruin revealed nothing to indicate that it was any more than an elaborate warren for the pack of demonic beasts, as Uldane had suggested. With the pack leader dead, the survivors from the battle upstairs scattered, apparently for good. And Vestapalk was nowhere to be found. Shara led the way back to the surface, and finally they emerged from the ruins into the dim sunlight filtering through a film of haze across the sky.
“Let’s get out of this swamp,” Uldane said brightly.
“I’m ready,” Quarhaun said. Kssansk’s ministrations had gotten him back on his feet, but he needed more rest before he could face any more combat.
Shara stopped and frowned back at the ruins.
“What is it?” Uldane asked.
“What are we doing, Uldane?”
“Going home, right?”
“No, I mean, what was that all about? I want revenge, so I led us into this swamp looking for the dragon. All we found was a nest of demons that nearly killed us all. And if it hadn’t been for Quarhaun and the lizardfolk, we’d be dead down there. We’re no closer to killing Vestapalk than we were when we started. Just worn out and broken down.”
“It was worth it.”
“Was it?”
“You bet! Watching you try
to talk to Gsshin was almost worth it just by itself. The way he snarled at you when you touched his chest? Better than gold.”
“Hm.” Shara smiled. “I suppose I was hoping for something a bit more tangible.”
“Gold and glory? The dragon’s head on a pole? Shara, we made a big difference. That demon was spreading the plague, turning lizardfolk and the beasts of the swamp into its minions. And they were killing a lot of lizardfolk as well as the animals they eat. We saved them, Shara.”
“Well, we helped them save themselves, I guess. And all this time I thought they were helping us.”
“Isn’t it funny how that works?”
Shara turned around and saw Quarhaun bobbing his head to Kssansk, evidently in the midst of a farewell. She watched, smiling, as he exchanged some more words with the shaman. He seemed at ease, in a way that made her feeble attempts to communicate with Gsshin all the more comical by comparison. And for all his talk about the lizardfolk warriors being expendable, his respect for Kssansk was plain to see, and somehow that increased her respect for Quarhaun.
Gsshin came and stood next to the shaman, speaking quickly to Quarhaun and gesturing in Shara’s direction. Quarhaun laughed-covering his mouth as he did, she noticed-and nodded to both lizardfolk, then turned to her.
“Shara, Gsshin wishes me to convey his appreciation for your leadership and your martial skill.”
Shara bowed, feeling overcome with emotion.
“He says that as soon as you learn to speak, you will be a human worthy of respect.”
“How do you say ‘thank you?’ ”
Quarhaun turned back to the lizardfolk, but Shara stopped him with a hand on his arm. “No, tell me. Teach me the words.”
“Just one word. Ashgah.”
She stepped up to Gsshin, bobbed her head, and copied the strange sound as best she could. “Ashgah, Gsshin.” She repeated the gesture to the shaman. “Ashgah, Kssansk.”
Both lizardfolk rumbled with laughter and bowed to her. Then they turned and walked into the swamp, leading the other warriors back to their homes.
“Thank you, Quarhaun,” Shara said.
He regarded her with a strange smile and said nothing, staring until she felt her face start to flush and she started looking for a path back to Fallcrest.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Roghar carried the four bound cultists, including Marcan, out to the hall and left Travic to keep an eye on them. He wanted Gaele to think she was alone, figuring that might make her simultaneously more afraid of him and less reluctant to show weakness in front of her followers. And Travic had been a friend of hers, which made him exactly the opposite of what Roghar wanted in the room. A hulking dragonborn and a sinister tiefling could scare information out of a helpless prisoner. A sympathetic, graying priest could not.
He leaned over Gaele, rolled her onto her back and gently slapped her cheek. “Wake up, Gaele. Time to answer a few questions.”
Tempest stood behind him, arms crossed, a menacing cloak of shadows gathering behind her. He stood up and put his hands on his hips as Gaele’s eyes fluttered open.
“Good, you’re awake. I’d advise you against trying that scream again, unless you want to be knocked out.”
Gaele opened her mouth and drew a deep breath, and Roghar tensed, ready to kick the air out of her if he had to.
“I will be free, the Chained God says.” Gaele’s words came fast and slurred, and her eyes weren’t quite focused on him.
“The Chained God is going to free you, you think? I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you.”
“I will be free, and all will perish. The Chained God says, the Chained God says.”
“Oh, dear.” Roghar sighed. “This might be harder than I thought.”
“So it shall be, so it shall be,” Gaele said, her head rolling back and forth.
“Gaele, listen to me.” He bent over her and tried to make her eyes focus on his face. “A few minutes ago you demonstrated that you were capable of coherent speech. Don’t go all manic on me now.”
“They will drown in blood. So it shall be.”
“Gaele, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you know where you are?”
“You! You will go before me!” Gaele’s eyes darted around the room, trying to see something past Roghar. He looked around.
“The altar?” he asked. He peered into the cups that surrounded the skull on the purple cloth. One held a thick jelly that burned with a guttering flame. Gravel and dirt filled the next. The third held some murky water, and a chunk of ice that had partly melted was in the fourth. The last cup was empty. Air, he thought.
“Before me to become the Living Gate, so it shall be.”
Roghar lifted the skull and held it toward Gaele. “A friend of yours?”
She was looking past the skull, past the altar, to the alcove, he realized, looking at the strange shaft of light. He’d figured it was open to the surface somehow, maybe using mirrors to channel sunlight down from above. Maybe there’s more to it.
“Tempest, will you take a look at that alcove for me, please? Maybe we can get a little more of Gaele’s attention.”
Tempest glared down at Gaele as she stepped around the altar, playing her part perfectly.
Gaele seemed oblivious, lost in her rambling. “To open my way to freedom, the Chained God says.”
Roghar frowned down at her. “Your way or the Chained God’s way? Whose freedom are we talking about?”
“We will soon be free, the Chained God says. Free to consume and destroy. Free to drown the world in blood. So it shall be, the Chained God says.”
“No,” Tempest whispered.
“What is it?” Roghar looked up to see Tempest staring aghast at something in the alcove, drawing back from it with an expression of utter horror on her face.
The prisoner on the floor forgotten, he rushed to Tempest’s side and took her arm. “Tempest?”
“No no no no no!” Her voice started as a whisper but rose to a shriek of terror. She pulled away from him and fell to her knees, her back to the alcove and whatever horror it held.
“You will go before me to become the Living Gate!” Gaele shouted. “To open my way to freedom!”
“Silence!” Roghar bellowed, but neither Tempest nor Gaele heeded him.
Roghar stepped around Tempest and looked in the alcove himself. The light came, he saw now, from a clear crystal dome embedded in the stone at the top of the alcove, and it shone down in a perfect column to strike an engraved circle in the bottom, at about the height of his knee. The effect almost suggested a tube of glass, but Roghar could see motes of dust dancing in and out of the column.
He didn’t immediately see what had disturbed Tempest so greatly. The alcove was bare of any decoration aside from the magical mechanism of the light, the dome in the top and the circle engraved in the bottom. He stuck his hand into the shaft of light. A brief tingle ran over his skin, and his hand felt strangely weightless.
Then he saw it. A glob of liquid hung suspended in the shaft of light, a little lower than his hand. It was no larger than the tip of his thumb, but it seemed to respond to the presence of his hand, stretching itself toward him. He yanked his hand out of the alcove and the liquid fell still. He bent down to examine it more closely.
It was red, and for a moment he thought it might be blood. But it shimmered in the light, almost like a gemstone with a million tiny facets. Gold and silver ran through it in streaks and flecks, just like-
Just like the thing that had taken Tempest.
“Oh, Tempest,” he said, crouching behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders.
She pulled away from his touch and put her back to the wall, staring wild-eyed at the shaft of light. “I can’t escape him,” she whispered. “Not even here.”
“How did that get here, I wonder?”
“Get it away,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Tempest, calm-”
“Stop her!” Tempest shrieked.
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Roghar spun around and saw Gaele on her feet, hopping around the altar. Before he could reach, she thrust her bound hands into the alcove.
“That’s enough of that,” Roghar growled, pulling Gaele away and throwing her to the floor.
“Now we spread!” Gaele cried. “The Voidharrow!” She lifted her hands to her face and covered it, as if cowering from him.
Roghar scowled down at her, then realized that the red liquid substance had clung to her hand and now stretched itself down to her face. He seized the rope that bound her hands and yanked them away from her face, but the liquid had pooled beside her nose. He reached for it, but hesitated just an instant before touching it, unsure he wanted it on his skin.
In that instant, it disappeared inside her nostril, and she screamed.
Like the howl she’d unleashed before, her scream was girded with supernatural force that sent him staggering away from her, clutching his ears and trying to keep his mind from splitting apart. But it lasted only a moment as her body writhed in agony and started to change, then the scream died with a gurgle in her throat.
“What in Bahamut’s name?” Roghar said, stepping away.
“Roghar, what’s happening?” Travic appeared in the entry, trying to keep an eye on his prisoners as he peered in to see what all the screaming was about.
“I don’t know,” Roghar said. “I think she might be possessed.”
“Roghar, kill her,” Tempest shouted. “Kill her now!”
“She’s tied up-”
With a roaring howl, Gaele yanked her hands free of the rope Roghar had tied around her wrists. At the same time, shards of red crystal tore themselves free of her shoulders, forming a jagged cowl around her neck. The rope around her ankles, which had already proven useless in keeping her immobile, snapped as her legs thickened, the skin turning into a smooth, black armor.
“Kill her!”
Roghar fumbled for his sword, slid it from its sheath, and brought it down in a mighty arc toward her neck. A massive claw batted his sword away, and it took an instant before Roghar realized it was Gaele’s arm.
