Don Bassingthwaite - The Eye of the Chained God

He put his hands on the palms of the statue. “Chained God,” he said. “I thank you.”

The voice that answered him was a faint echo of what it had been in the dark place. Destroy Vestapalk. Destroy the Voidharrow.

Kri bent his head. “How?”

You have the key. One comes who will help you turn it.

“How will I know him?”

There was no answer. Kri looked up into the cowl of the statue, but found it had been carved without a face. A blank oval of stone looked back at him. Kri removed his hands from those of the statue and went to explore his new surroundings.

They left Fallcrest the next morning. A week of Albanon dragging his feet had given the rest of them more than enough time to prepare for their eventual journey. Supplies were scarce in the crowded town, but horses were surprisingly easy to come by. Tempest suspected that many of the refugees who had brought them into Fallcrest found them to be more of a burden than an asset. Immeral, the most experienced among them in dealing with horses, very nearly had his pick of what was on offer.

“Some good mounts,” he said as he checked the tack of his chosen steed, “but the people here drive a hard bargain considering they may never have the chance to ride these animals again.”

“I don’t imagine they were thinking about riding them,” said Tempest. She put her foot in the stirrup and swung a leg over the back of her horse. “Food shortages haven’t really set in yet. In another week, maybe two, you would have paid a lot more.”

“That’s barbaric,” said Belen.

“Not as barbaric as starving to death.” Tempest shook the reins and urged her horse along the road.

They crossed the Nentir River above the falls and descended the steep switchbacks of the Trade Road down the bluff on the other side. All of them were alert. There might not have been plague demons in the lower town for some time-until the day before, at least-but the defenders of Fallcrest had all but abandoned the western shore of the river. The morning sun cast long shadows across the road and made pits of darkness in the hollows of the bluffs. The road was an ideal place for an ambush. They covered each other as they made their way down, but there was no hint of waiting demons.

Their morning’s ride passed in near silence. The sight of empty farms along the road, crops left to rot in the fields, drove the urge to talk out of them. Tempest studied each one they passed. She couldn’t help herself. It was like watching a public execution, only without the carnival atmosphere. Unlike Fallcrest’s lower town, few farm buildings had been destroyed. Some showed broken windows or doors, but in many the door simply swung loose on its hinges. If she looked closely, she sometimes saw bloody smears, but there were no bloated corpses in the farmyards, no bones in the long grass. The Abyssal Plague didn’t kill. Neither did the plague demons, at least not always. They wounded, they maimed, but more often than not, they left their victims alive to become demons themselves.

Sometimes, it seemed to Tempest, the creatures would rather have killed but were restrained from it as if by some greater power eager to see the plague spread. She knew the name of that power: Vestapalk.

They stayed on the road. The feeling that Albanon followed drew him somewhat west of north, not quite in the direction of the village of Winterhaven, but close enough that it seemed sensible to make that their destination. Winterhaven had been Uldane’s home before he-and Shara-had come south to Fallcrest, and he knew the area well. Sticking to the road meant faster travel and better visibility than cutting across country. By early afternoon they had passed beyond the farms. The trees of the Cloak Wood shadowed the road ahead of them. At another time they might have been in danger of an attack by the kobolds that made the forest their home, but Tempest would have been surprised if they’d seen one of the little creatures. If the demons hadn’t infected the kobolds, the kobolds were almost certainly hiding.

Still, Splendid, who had been curled across Albanon’s shoulder with one eye open like a wary cat, shook out her wings and leaped into the sky. She flew a little ways, then began to glide in wide circles, scouting the way ahead and the countryside around.

Tempest nudged her horse up so she rode alongside Albanon. “I suppose we’re lucky we haven’t encountered any flying plague demons yet,” she said.

“Yet,” echoed Albanon. “Every time we face them, we seem to find something new. Demons of the Abyss appear in every shape and size. Why not demons of the plague as well? Kri thought there was a connection between them. Legends say that Tharizdun created the Abyss-and demons-by placing a seed of corruption in the depths of the Elemental Chaos. We know he had a hand in creating the Voidharrow and that it turns living beings into demons. It’s probably only a matter of time before a victim of the plague grows wings.”

“That’s pessimistic.”

“We don’t have much to be optimistic about, do we? We’re trying to stop Vestapalk by following a gut feeling inspired by the god of madness and destruction.”

There didn’t seem to be much she could say to that. They rode a little further in silence, then Tempest asked him, “What was it like?”

The eladrin snorted softly. “Almost being turned into a plague demon by Vestapalk or being in thrall to Tharizdun?”

“Tharizdun.”

He looked at her. “What was it like being possessed by Nu Alin?”

The question was harsh. Probably harsher than it was meant to be-Tempest saw a flash of shame in Albanon’s eyes-but she didn’t give him a chance to apologize. When her friends had first freed her from the demon’s grip, she’d felt horrified by her experience. Now the memory of it just made her angry. “It made me feel violated. Unclean. I’m never going to let anyone or anything make me feel like that again.” She bared her teeth. “It was like being a puppet. I could feel him inside me, wrapped around my muscles and my bones. He sank right into my mind. I was a prisoner inside my own body, aware of everything but helpless.”

Albanon’s face twisted. “Then you’re lucky.” He turned away from her and stared straight ahead. “When Tharizdun has you, it doesn’t feel like you’re trapped. It feels like you’re perfectly sane and it’s the world that’s gone mad. I wasn’t even aware I was in his thrall. If Kri had exerted more power, I might not have been able to break free. I think I could only do it because we encountered you as we made our way through Fallcrest.”

His words brought a peculiar tightness to her chest. “Me?” she said.

Albanon flushed, red patches bright against his pale cheeks. “All of you, I mean,” he said quickly. Tempest didn’t believe him for a second. The tightness turned into a pleasant warmth and the lingering harshness in Albanon’s manner disappeared as he scrambled for words to cover his embarrassment. “Shara, Uldane. Roghar, I think. I’ll tell you this: if a follower of Tharizdun ever opens his mouth and screams at you, cover your ears. It’s like-”

“-someone pulled the ground out from under you?” Tempest finished for him. The wizard’s discomfort was charming, but drawing it out would have felt like teasing a puppy. It was kinder to play along with his effort to change the subject. “I’ve felt it. Roghar and I confronted a priest of the Chained God in Nerath and she tried the same thing.” She gave Albanon a smile. “I wonder how that scream would work against a plague demon.”

He hesitated for an instant, then returned the smile. “Maybe that’s what we’re going north to find out.” He wrinkled his nose. “Can you picture us screaming at Vestapalk?”