“It’s been hard everywhere lately,” Belen pointed out.
“Aye, I’ve heard that,” Thair said with a nod. “But it seemed like this cursed plague took hold around Winterhaven earlier. When there were only rumors in Fallcrest, there was near panic here. People were disappearing from the more isolated farms and hunting lodges.”
Albanon held back a wince. That had been Hakken Raid, spreading the beginnings of the Abyssal Plague for Vestapalk while the dragon laired at the Temple of Yellow Skulls. He and Kri had used that time to try and plan a trap for Raid—a trap that had ended in Albanon’s own capture by Raid. How many lives might they have saved by acting swiftly and warning Winterhaven instead?
How many more lives might he have saved by not hiding in Fallcrest for the last week?
Thair seemed oblivious to his unease, however. His eyes had taken on a distant look, as if he stared at horrors he’d rather forget. “We pulled back inside the village walls, of course, but it was too late. Some were already infected with the plague—we didn’t realize then that it passes through the wounds inflicted by the demons—and they transformed among us. We had to kill them, but they weren’t the folk we knew anymore. The people they wounded before they were put down, though …”
He sighed, reached for his tankard, and took a deep swallow of thin beer, the best Salvana had been able to set before them. “We still knew them.”
“You had no priest among you?” asked Roghar. “The holy light of the gods can sometimes purge the plague from the infected.”
Thair’s chuckle was bitter. “We haven’t seen Sister Linara in weeks. She didn’t spend much time in Winterhaven to start with. She loved ministering to those on the outlying farms. We think the demons got her early.” Thair sipped again, then set the tankard down. “At first we only saw the demons at night, so we thought it was safe to leave the village during the day. We found out that wasn’t true. After that, we went out in squads, gathered all the crops we could and drove any livestock we could find back into the village. We’ve been living well enough, but it’s not much of a life.”
“If that’s the case,” said Uldane quietly, “it seems like there should be more people around.”
“Not everyone wants to live under siege.” Thair gestured around the inn. “We’re the ones who are too stubborn to leave what we’ve built—or too weak or too stupid. Everyone else fled in various groups to look for sanctuary in Fallcrest.” He dropped his voice. “If Salvana asks whether you’ve seen anyone safe in Fallcrest, I suggest you lie.”
Albanon nodded numbly along with the others. Had he heard of any refugees from Winterhaven in Fallcrest? Granted there had been other things on his mind, but the town was so packed with people that there must been some from Winterhaven.
On the other hand, he hadn’t heard Uldane mention any and surely the halfling would have.
Nor did he now. Instead, all he asked was “Shara?”
“She stopped for a night about three days ago, like I said. It looked as if she’d been travelling and sleeping rough—not that that’s anything to worry about with her. Borojon taught his daughter well. It seemed like she was just looking to take a night indoors.” Thair’s face tightened. “Her and her … friend.”
“Quarhaun,” Uldane said. His voice turned hard. “The drow.”
“Aye,” said Thair. “There were a lot of strange looks when that one came walking through the gate behind her. Some of us remember the drow raids. Shara vouched for him, though. Said he was a friend and could be trusted.”
“She’s taken up with him.”
“That was obvious. They were acting like first loves. The two of them together got even more strange looks than the drow alone.” The dwarf shook his head. “Jarren hasn’t been gone that long.”
Uldane gave a bitter, angry smile. “That’s what I tried to tell her.”
“He was a good man,” said Thair. “Drow are … drow.”
Albanon glanced at Tempest. None of the rest of them had known Jarren, Shara’s betrothed. Vestapalk had slaughtered him along with her father, and their deaths were the source of her single-minded desire for revenge against the dragon. In truth, she didn’t talk much about him. It seemed as if she preferred to keep her grief to herself, expressing it through her rage. The revelation that the relationship between her and Quarhaun had become romantic—as well as physical—had been a surprise to them all. To Albanon it seemed almost natural in some ways. The drow wanted revenge on Vestapalk as well, partly for the death of a number of his people, but mostly for Vestapalk’s attempt to transform him into a demon.
Albanon didn’t think much of the way Shara had run off with Quarhaun, leaving the rest of them behind, but it was her life, not his. Uldane, however, took a more personal view of it. And it seemed like he’d find matching views in Winterhaven.
Or perhaps not. Thair shrugged and reached for his tankard again. “But I’ll say this for that drow: he treated Shara well. Everyone can change. Maybe she changed him. She looked as happy as I’d ever seen her with Jarren.”
The angry smile froze on Uldane’s face. For a long moment, he didn’t move at all. Then he got up and walked out of the inn. “Uldane?” Thair called after him. “Uldane!” He looked to Albanon and the others. “What was that?”
“Uldane had words with Shara before she left Fallcrest,” said Tempest. “About Quarhaun and Jarren.”
“Ah,” said Thair. He took another swallow of beer. “I suppose that would explain why Shara didn’t mention him at all. Everyone thought it was strange that they weren’t together. After Borojon and Jarren were killed, Uldane was the one who saw her through the rough times. We always thought they were inseparable.”
“Trust a drow to make problems,” Roghar said. “Thair, where did Shara and Quarhaun come from?”
“They came out of the east,” the dwarf said promptly. “I saw them arrive. I asked Shara about it, too. She said they’d been travelling along the southern edge of the Winterbole Forest. Still looking for that dragon. We were just a stop on their search.”
The friends glanced at each other. “Which way did they go when they left?” asked Roghar. “West? Southwest toward the Ogrefist Hills?”
“Northwest to the Cairngorm Peaks. When Vestapalk first appeared in the Nentir Vale, that’s where he came from.” One of the men who had been standing around the bar sat down in Uldane’s vacated space. “Pardon the intrusion. I’m Ernest Padraig.”
“Lord Padraig,” said Thair somewhat indignantly. “You’re still the ruler of Winterhaven, my lord.”
Padraig’s lips twitched. “Desperate times, Thair,” he said. “A lord whose rule doesn’t extend beyond the village walls doesn’t inspire much respect.” He looked at the rest of them with sharp, if weary, eyes. “I apologize for not speaking to you earlier—Uldane I know, but I wanted to take the measure of the rest of you while you talked to Thair. There are two favors I ask of all decent travelers coming to Winterhaven in these times.”
“Name them,” said Roghar without hesitation.
A raised eyebrow joined Padraig’s twitching lip. “Nothing heroic, paladin. I just ask that before you leave us, you take a turn on the walls to give some of my people a chance to rest. As you can see, we’re stretched thin.”
“You seem to have done a good job of defending Winterhaven so far, my lord,” said Belen.
“Luck more than anything else.” Padraig held up a hand to forestall Thair’s protest. “The plague demon attacks have waned lately. Either they’ve gone in search of easier prey or they’ve decided it’s not worth trying to break down walls to get the few of us who are left. Possibly both.”
“We noticed that some of the farms outside the village looked like they’d been scavenged, and not by demons,” Roghar said. “Are there others in the region? Bandits living off the land?”
Thair grimaced. “Tigerclaw barbarians from Winterbole. Rare enough to see them here, but these didn’t even act like themselves. Usually Tigerc
laws come in bands of roaring raiders that try to overwhelm a place. These were more like thieves, slipping by silently. They didn’t even make an attempt on Winterhaven.”
“Scouts?” suggested Immeral.
“Scouts do their best not to be seen,” said Padraig with a shrug. “These Tigerclaws didn’t seem to care if we saw them or not. They scavenged the farmsteads for a few days, then disappeared again.”
“Are they still in the area?”
“They could be two valleys over and we wouldn’t know it. But that’s the other favor I ask travelers.” Padraig leaned over the table. “Tell what you’ve seen on the road. Tell me what’s happening in Fallcrest or anything beyond the Vale you know of. We’re starved for news. Anything you’ve seen or heard, tell me—no matter how small or worrisome. If we’re going to hold out here, we need information. Tell me, then go seek your rest.”
Albanon glanced at the others, lingering on Roghar. There didn’t seem to be any point in telling Padraig about their own quest into the north—or their very direct involvement with Vestapalk and the plague—but there were other things they could tell him. Roghar gave him a slight nod. Albanon looked back to Padraig. “Let’s start with the Cloak Wood. The plague demons may have left Winterhaven, but they haven’t gone very far.”
Night crept closer. It wasn’t necessary to wait until dark blinded those—or most of those at least—within the walls, but it would be easier.
He kept those he had selected to fight with him quiet and still. They were his weakness, the thin scale in the hide of his intentions. He would have done without them if he could have. But then if he could have, he would have descended on the village in a great rush of glittering wings, smashing buildings and scattering villagers in search of his prey. He ran a tongue along his muzzle at the thought of such mayhem and dug his claws into the soft ground as if into flesh.
Anticipation weakened his control for a moment. Around him, demons growled and stirred.
“Silence,” he hissed. “This one orders you to silence.”
The demons subsided, unwillingly it seemed. They anticipated blood and destruction now. Holding them within his will was more difficult.
He made them an offering. “Tonight, there will be no restraint. Tonight, you kill”—he felt their attention, his promise bringing them to rein—“except for these. Their deaths belong to this one.”
He forced the images of his prey once more onto what passed for the demons’ minds. The eladrin wizard. The tiefling. The halfling. The dragonborn. Along with the images, he impressed threats of what would happen if he was disobeyed.
The demons went still and he felt their submission. Once again, everything grew quiet. He watched the sun sink, red as the Voidharrow, beyond the walls of Winterhaven.
Albanon took the first of two watches over the night. With the sky clear except for a few swift-moving clouds and the moon rising bright, he could see almost as well as he could during the day. An elf woman of Winterhaven, Ninaran, walked the walls opposite him, and Tempest and Immeral would take the second watch. Two people to see in the dark at any time—most of the villagers remaining in Winterhaven were humans and halflings, dependent on torches and lanterns to get by in the night. If he and the others hadn’t arrived, Thair would have had to pull a second watch duty. Small wonder the dwarf had been happy to see them, Albanon thought.
There were six others on the walls with him and Ninaran. Seven if Splendid, perched in her usual spot around his neck, counted. If anything happened, an alarm would bring the full force of the village charging to the rescue. To Albanon that still seemed like a feeble response to whatever might come knocking in the night. He paused by the gates and peered out into the darkness.
The countryside lay quiet and still, a deceptively peaceful landscape broken by abandoned farmsteads and thick copses of trees. Above it, the night sky went on and on. It was intimidating in its vastness. The scattered clouds served only to emphasize how huge and deep it was. Philosophers and sages wondered what mysteries and secret powers lay beyond the multitude of cold, distant stars. Albanon felt like he already knew. The draw to the north was a physical ache inside him. He raised his eyes to the vault of the night.
The eye of Tharizdun looked back at him. The Chained God’s gaze was merciless and heavy, a void that consumed the stars themselves. Go, it seemed to command him. Go now and find what waits for you.
Albanon squeezed his staff in his hands and clenched his teeth until they hurt. “No,” he snarled. “I go at my own pace by my own will, not by yours!”
Something brushed his cheek, dry and scaly. “Have you fallen asleep?” demanded Splendid’s acid voice. “It’s cold. Keep moving.”
The weight of Tharizdun’s gaze vanished. Albanon opened eyes he didn’t remember closing and took a slow breath. The night was only the night. The stars were only the stars. He forced his cramped hand off his staff and reached up to scratch Splendid under her chin.
She twitched back for a moment before leaning into the scratch. “Ahhh,” she said. “That’s more like it.” The pseudodragon rubbed her body against his neck and shoulder, her scales rubbing almost—but not quite—painfully. “You need to do that more often.”
Albanon chuckled. Splendid loved her simple pleasures. “If you had your way, I would wear my fingers down and you’d want me to keep going.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She wriggled around, stretching her neck out to look at him. “Moorin knew how important it was to stop and relax sometimes.”
His fingers slowed. “Moorin didn’t face what I do, Splendid.”
“Didn’t he? Moorin was a member of the Order of Vigilance, training you to take his place. He was the guardian of the captive Voidharrow, something so secret he didn’t even tell me about it. He still found time to forget his responsibilities and enjoy life.”
“I don’t remember that.”
Splendid snorted and pulled away. “Apprentices never remember the good times. Ungrateful wretches.”
Albanon smiled. “I like you too, Splendid.” She sniffed and turned her head away, but her forepaws kneaded his chest affectionately.
A boot scraped on the stone behind Albanon. The wizard knew who it was before he turned around. Only one person deliberately dragged his foot that way to announce his presence. “Uldane,” he said, “you don’t have to be up here until later. We couldn’t find you, so we put you on the second watch with Tempest and Immeral.” He turned around.
The halfling looked miserable. He also looked dusty, as if he’d just crawled out of some long neglected hiding hole. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Albanon, do you think I was right to tell Shara she betrayed Jarren by taking up with Quarhaun?”
It seemed like it was going to be a night for hard questions. Albanon leaned on his staff and thought before he answered. “How exactly is Shara betraying Jarren?”
“She can do better than Quarhaun!”
Albanon gave Uldane a level look. “That doesn’t sound like betraying Jarren. What’s wrong with Quarhaun?”
“He’s arrogant. He’s rude. He uses people.” Uldane began pacing back and forth on the narrow walkway. “He doesn’t give a muskrat’s whisker about anyone!”
“Except Shara.”
The halfling glared at him. “Quarhaun’s a typical drow,” he said. “You’ve never heard his stories about growing up in the Underdark, have you? Lies, treachery, assassination—it’s enough to scare the smallclothes off you, and he acts like it’s all normal.”
“Shara sees something in him, though.”
Uldane’s expression twisted and he spat on the stones at Albanon’s feet. “You sound like Thair.” He turned toward the stairs down from the wall. Albanon grabbed his shoulder.
“Wait,” he said, holding tight as Uldane tried to shrug him off. “How would you describe Immeral?”
Uldane raised an eyebrow, looking puzzled at the turn in questioning. “Brave. Loyal. Respectful.”
“Not to his face,” s
aid Albanon. He turned Uldane loose. “What if you were talking about him behind his back.”
“I wouldn’t—” This time Albanon raised an eyebrow. Uldane shrugged. “Formal,” he said. “Stiff. Cold. Distant.”
“So a typical eladrin.”
“Yes,” Uldane agreed, then winced as he remembered who he was talking to. “You’re not like that.”
“I know,” Albanon said, “but it took some time living away from the Feywild before I was comfortable with it. Maybe Quarhaun needs time away from the Underdark with people he knows he can trust.”
Uldane made a face. He fidgeted where he stood, walked back and forth a couple of times—then stepped up to the parapet and punched it. Albanon turned to look at him in surprise. The halfling’s face deepened into a scowl and he shook a hand with blood oozing from split knuckles. “I still don’t like him,” he said harshly.
“I don’t think you have to,” said Albanon, but he froze even as the words left his mouth.
Out in the dark countryside, something flashed in the moonlight. He moved to the parapet and leaned out, peering into the night.
“What?” said Uldane, turning to stand alongside him. “Do you see something?”
“Maybe.” The shifting clouds gave the illusion of movement to every shadow. The pale moonlight erased color at a distance, but the flash had seemed distinctly and disturbingly crystalline. He stared at the place he had seen it. Or thought he had seen it. When the flash came again, he realized it was much closer than he’d believed. A plague demon, one of the big four-armed kind, stood half-hidden beside the trunk of a tree only a little more than a bowshot beyond the wall. Fear made a sour taste in his mouth. He cursed under his breath and searched for more.
“What do you see?” asked Uldane.
The Eye of the Chained God Page 8
