Oath of Vigilance tap-2

by James Wyatt

  Then the Voidharrow was gone entirely, but the attention of Tharizdun, which had diminished to a mere brooding presence in the room, surged outward again, as if it had been waiting for the Voidharrow to get out of its way. Albanon rehearsed the formulas in his mind, focused his power to keep his own lattice in place, thinking perhaps he could hold the Chained God back.

  He quickly realized how foolish a hope that had been. With eagerness born of untold ages of imprisonment, a flow of shadowy slime began to pour out from the Vast Gate. A dark mist rose up from the slime, and Kri stood in a billowing cloud of it, breathing deeply as if to draw the Chained God’s power into himself. The dark slime flowed out into the channels of Albanon’s light, and all his exertion couldn’t stop its flow or even slow it down. It ran like a surging river along every channel at once, converging around him before he could move from his position on the floor.

  Soul-numbing cold gripped him as the liquid shadow surrounded him on every side. His body convulsed with what would have been agony if the cold hadn’t deadened his every nerve. His mind reeled once again, driving away all sense of purpose, shattering his memory and robbing him of his power.

  He watched dumbly as Kri drew in more and more of the shadowy mist, gathering it in a dark nimbus around himself. The old man seemed to grow younger, stronger, and even taller as the power flowed into him. He strode through the eddying mist to stand beside Albanon’s inert body, and Albanon stared up at him without managing to form a coherent thought.

  Kri crouched down and seized Albanon’s shoulders, lifted him effortlessly from the floor, and stood him on his feet. Albanon’s head swam but his feet stayed under him somehow. Kri stared into his eyes and smiled, but there was no hint of humor or kindness on his face.

  “The Chained God is chained no more, Albanon,” he said. “He emerges from his prison. And you are a witness. You will be my right hand in the new temple of Tharizdun.”

  The words washed over Albanon without registering any meaning, but they left a foul taste behind. Billowing shadow loomed up around him, threatening, but Albanon could feel the promise of power beneath the threat-power that could destroy him or exalt him. Kri wielded that power already, and slowly Albanon understood that Kri was offering to share it with him.

  Not offering, he realized-Kri presented him no option to refuse.

  His mind grasped at the last word he’d heard, Tharizdun. Three syllables, nine letters, three threes. Each third was a microcosm of the whole, and the whole could be expanded into an ever-growing geometric formula …

  Albanon’s body shook with building power and he let it out in a flash of lightning and roar of thunder that hurled Kri away from him and across the room, shook the Vast Gate, and even seemed to push back the billowing mist for a moment. In that moment, he threw himself at the gate.

  A snaky tendril caught his ankle and sent him sprawling. Black slime crept toward him on every side, and he felt the full brunt of the Chained God’s awareness focused on him. That more than any physical restraint kept him pinned to the ground, straining to keep a hold on his fragile mind. The physical manifestation of the god, he realized, was just the tiniest extrusion of Tharizdun’s power, like a fingertip poked through the little hole between worlds created by the Vast Gate.

  Then Kri was beside him again, looking down and shaking his head. “Albanon, you fool,” he said. “You could have become one of the mightiest beings in all the worlds. Instead, you will be the first thing destroyed when the Eater of Worlds makes his return. The first of many.”

  Albanon felt himself lifted up, like an insect pinched between the fingertips of a mighty giant, and drawn toward the Vast Gate. Tendrils of black slime held him aloft, dangling upside-down, as wafting shadow swirled around him. With a jolt of fear, he realized that the tendrils holding him were part of Kri now-the old priest’s legs were gone, replaced or fused with the sickening mass of sludge that extended out to cover the room.

  Albanon hung before the Vast Gate and stared into the void beyond. The vastness of nothingness threatened to unhinge his mind again, but he forced himself to consider the curvature of the gate’s archway and the crystalline structure of its substance, which he had helped Kri to form and to focus.

  Focus. With the power of the Chained God still flowing through the gate, its focus was fixed in place, the connection between the world and the god’s prison firmly established. That didn’t mean it couldn’t be changed, though.

  He had no time for thought, not with the Chained God’s eye fixed on him. Swinging in the grasp of Kri’s snaky tendrils, he planted a hand on the crystal of the Vast Gate and exerted his will to change its destination.

  Kri yanked him away from the gate and the smooth crystal fell away from his hand, but too late. The blackness within the arch blinked and vanished, and the power and will that had filled the room was gone. Slimy tentacles still writhed everywhere, and a cloak of misty shadow still surrounded Kri like a manifestation of the power that churned within him, but the Chained God was cut off. Where there had been inky blackness and roiling malice on the other side of the portal, now there was only a dry plain.

  “Damned fool,” Kri said. “You are wasting my time. I will kill you, then, and refocus the Vast Gate myself.”

  Another inky tendril wrapped around Albanon’s neck, and Kri began to pull from both ends of his body, as if to tear him apart.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Roghar stepped out of the Silver Unicorn and was greeted by a cheer-a handful of ragged voices raised in his honor after too much to drink in the local public house. Their acclamation had seemed much louder in the confined space of the inn’s common room, and their numbers had looked greater as well. He looked around the cluster of soldiers and counted about a dozen, all clutching torches and weapons, stamping their feet and clanging steel against their shields.

  “What in the Nine Hells was I thinking?” he muttered to Tempest.

  “Hush,” she said. “These people need leadership, and they know a hero when they see one.”

  “That certainly explains the welcome we received on the bridge.”

  “You promised them what they need. Now give it to them.”

  He glanced down at Uldane and saw the halfling beaming up at him, the anger of the last hour and the bitterness of his final exchange with Shara apparently forgotten in the excitement of the moment. “You raised an army, Roghar!” Uldane said. “Well, it’s more people than we had when we fought the demons on the bluffs, anyway.”

  Somebody set a wooden crate on the cobblestones in front of him and he stepped onto it, looking out over his little army. A line of vermilion across the eastern horizon marked the approach of dawn, though a few stars still burned brightly overhead, shining through chinks in the cloud and smoke that draped the sky. He drew his sword to more cheers, and lifted it high over his head.

  “People of Fallcrest!” he said.

  Slowly the cheering diminished as the soldiers quieted to listen to him. He let his eyes range over the crowd-he counted fourteen this time-and tried to size them up. A couple were professional soldiers, judging by the quality of their arms and armor, but most were militia, ordinary folks who had risen to the defense of their homes. That was perhaps the only advantage he could claim in the battle ahead. His soldiers would be dedicated to protecting their town. That would have to suffice.

  “We face a foe unlike any you have faced before,” he said when the cheers had quieted. “These are not orcs from the Stonemarch, come to sack and burn the way they did ninety years ago. These are not bandits united under some warlord, come to plunder and pillage. You’ve seen them. These are demons, spawned in the dark pit of the Abyss with just one purpose-to destroy everything we know and love. The farms of our neighbors are burning, the Nentir Inn is aflame. Lowtown has become their haunt, and the forests across the river are silent.”

  Roghar looked at each soldier gathered there-now he had eighteen-and saw fear in every eye. Good, he thought. They should
be afraid.

  “But they can be fought,” he went on. “You saw that tonight. Some of them are creatures of living fire, others are nightmare made manifest. But they’re all still flesh and bone that sword and spear can pierce and break. Their greatest weapon is fear. Ours is hope-hope that casts out fear, hope that strengthens our arms to protect our homes, hope that shines light into the darkness!” He lifted his sword again and it began to glow, growing stronger until it was a blazing sun, a beacon of divine light shining across the square.

  The little army erupted in cheers again, and at that moment the sun broke over the horizon, sending beams of light into the clouds.

  “For Fallcrest!” Roghar shouted over the cheers. “For Bahamut, and for glory!”

  Twenty-four soldiers stood before him now, cheering and rattling their weapons. His army had doubled in strength in the time he had taken to speak to them. He wondered how much larger it might grow if he spoke longer, but he shook off the thought. His soldiers were ready to fight, and there would be no better time to strike.

  “To the bluffs!” he called. “First we take the Market Green!”

  Roghar stepped down off the crate. All around him, soldiers clapped him on the shoulder or slapped their swords against his shield. Tempest and Uldane found their way through the soldiers to his side, and together the three of them led the way down Market Street toward the bluffs.

  “Well done,” Tempest whispered to him as they walked.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your timing was amazing,” Uldane said. “Did you know that the sun was going to rise at that exact moment?”

  Roghar laughed. “I had my eye on it, but I basically got lucky. Or else Bahamut put in a good word for me with Pelor.”

  “I’m not sure it works that way,” Tempest said.

  “Lucky, then.”

  “Let’s hope our luck holds,” Uldane said.

  Roghar glanced over his shoulder at the soldiers following them-following him, really. He was almost certain their numbers had swelled still further.

  “More of them keep coming,” he said to Tempest.

  “Of course they do.”

  “I hope the Lord Warden doesn’t take offense at me for presuming to lead his troops.”

  Tempest smiled. “Well, I can think of two likely outcomes. Either you lead them to victory, in which case he can’t really complain. Or you lead them to annihilation and he gets furious, but you’re not around to get punished.”

  “I like the first option,” Uldane said.

  Roghar nodded. “I agree. Let’s aim for that.”

  “Do you have a plan?” Tempest asked.

  “When have I ever had a plan?”

  “You sound like Shara,” Uldane said with a grin that quickly dissolved into a scowl.

  Roghar walked a few paces in silence, confident that if the halfling wanted to talk about whatever was bothering him, he would. Uldane could generally be counted on to speak up in any circumstance, even on the way to a battle that might be his last.

  “It’s like she just doesn’t care any more,” Uldane said at last. “I mean, she always enjoyed fighting, but after Jarren died she just got reckless. And you know nothing scares me, but I don’t like the feeling that my friend doesn’t care if I live or die-doesn’t even care if she dies. Jarren cared. Jarren cared for us both.”

  Roghar put a hand on Uldane’s shoulder as the halfling rubbed at his eye. “And the drow?”

  “He doesn’t give a damn. He doesn’t care about anything but himself. It’s like being with him is just another way for Shara to put herself in danger.”

  “You think she’s in real danger?”

  “Yes! I don’t think he’d pause a minute before turning on her if he thought he could save himself.”

  Roghar scratched his chin. “Shara told the soldiers on the bridge that he had saved her life, more than once.”

  “He helped us fight the demons, it’s true. But he’s just looking out for himself.”

  “Hm. I think that’s a little different than saying he himself is a danger to her.”

  Uldane shrugged. “I don’t see how.”

  “Well, Uldane, Shara’s heart was broken. And I think she blames herself for Vestapalk’s return when we all thought he was dead.”

  “So she’s punishing herself?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “That’s stupid. It’s like … like making a wound larger because it doesn’t hurt enough.”

  “People who are hurting sometimes do things that don’t make much sense.”

  “All you tall folk do things that don’t make sense, all the time. I guess it’s nothing new.”

  Roghar stopped walking. The straight and level road had come to an end, and ahead was the winding track leading down the bluffs to Lowtown and the Market Green. “Like leading a ragtag gang of militia into battle against a horde of demons?” he said.

  Uldane stepped to the very edge of the bluff and leaned over so far that Roghar felt a rush of vertigo on his behalf. “Exactly like that,” the halfling said. “Look, you can see some of the burning ones moving around down there.”

  “Do you see any on the trail down the bluff?” Roghar asked.

  “No sign of fire. But it was the nightmare ones that attacked us over on the west side. They’re not so easy to spot in this light.”

  “Right. They’re hard enough to spot right before they attack. Eyes and ears wide open as we head down, then. We’ve got to spot them before they attack the soldiers behind us.”

  Uldane and Tempest both nodded, their attention focused over the edge of the cliff.

  Roghar turned to face his little army again. The numbers had swelled further, to more than he could quickly count, and he felt a surge of gratitude that made his chest ache. “Warriors of Fallcrest!” he called. A chorus of cheers, louder than anything he’d heard back at the inn, answered him. “We march into enemy territory,” he said. “But we’re not going to find massed lines of demon soldiers waiting for us-they don’t fight that way. They’ll send little squads to harry us, to bite at our flanks and nip at our heels. That means we need to be as nimble as they are. If there’s too many of them and too few of you, fall back and find help. There’s no disgrace in it.”

  He let his eyes range over his troops. He saw nods of understanding, faces set in determination as soldiers steeled themselves for battle, and a few of them taking nips from little flasks of liquid courage. The early rays of sunlight gleamed on their steel caps and spearheads, resting like the favor of the gods on each of them.

  “On to victory!” he shouted.

  “Victory!” came a cheer in response.

  Roghar lifted his glowing sword over his head and started down the trail, Uldane and Tempest close behind him and a surge of desperately eager soldiers pressing him on.

  The cliff that divided Fallcrest in two offered a sheer drop of more than two hundred feet in the center of town. The track made use of natural ledges and dwarf-cut switchbacks to provide a path a wagon could follow, albeit slowly and very carefully-especially on the turns. It was only barely wide enough for a wagon, and every time a wagon started the descent a runner would hurry to the bottom to make sure a different wagon didn’t start up at the same time. But even that arrangement was better than what the other two roads that traversed the bluffs offered-riders and small carts could navigate them, but wagons were out of the question. That made Market Street the best option for his soldiers, but still not a great option.

  Roghar tried to listen for any sign of an ambush, but the soldiers behind him made an unbelievable amount of noise. Wayward footsteps sent trickles of gravel down the cliffside around him, and even the whispers of more than two dozen men added up to a constant low murmur that made him despair of hearing anything else.

  “Up ahead!” Uldane said suddenly. He pointed to a narrow stretch of the trail, where the cliff edge was marked with red warning banners. Roghar knew that at least one wagon had slipped over the ed
ge there and plummeted down, killing several people and as many horses. It was a logical place for an ambush.

  He followed Uldane’s pointing finger and tried to make out what the halfling had seen, but his eyes showed him no sign of danger.

  “I see it,” Tempest said. “One of the nightmare demons.”

  “More than one,” Uldane said. “Look up the bluff from the road.”

  Roghar looked up and spotted at least some of the demons Uldane saw-three or four of the shadowy demons, lurking among the scrub trees that clung to the bluffs. “Well done, Uldane. Let’s get them!”

  His sword blazing like the sun, Roghar charged forward. As he neared the point where he’d spotted the demons, he called on Bahamut’s power, and a gust of wind like a swooping angel lifted him off the ground and set him down in the midst of the demons on the bluff. One foot slipped as he landed, and for a moment he feared he was about to tumble down the cliff, but he got his feet under him again and stood his ground as three shadowy figures surged toward him.

  “You killed us,” one of the figures said, no longer a demon of shadow and Voidharrow but a soldier just like the ones behind him, clad in leather and clutching a spear. The man’s eyes were dead and his flesh gone gray, but he moved with all the speed of the living. The other two figures took on similar shapes, and they reached for him with their dead hands, whispering words of condemnation.

  “You led us to our doom,” one said.

  “Foolhardy,” said another.

  The ground beneath Roghar’s feet began to rumble, matching the pounding of his heart. His mind knew that these demons could prey on his fears and turn them against him, but when faced with his deepest terrors given flesh, he found it nearly impossible to listen to that part of his mind. He glanced around and saw gravel tumbling down the bluffs, and he realized what the rumbling meant.