Don Bassingthwaite: The Eye of the Chained God

Vestapalk didn’t stop inhaling, however. If he were a mortal creature, his lungs would have burst. But he was far from mortality. The wisp of mist became thicker as the substance of Churr’s flesh-transformed and empowered by the Voidharrow-began to sift away. Vestapalk stepped back from his former exarch’s body and opened his jaws wider. His drawn breath became a gale, shredding Churr’s remains until they flowed into his maw like liquid. Like the Voidharrow itself.

When the last traces of Churr Ashin’s existence were a few shards of red crystal, Vestapalk closed his mouth and let out a slow exhalation. He lifted his gaze to the demons around him.

They fell silent instantly, their eyes dropping. Vestapalk snorted and slid back into the pool. Noise slowly returned to the Plaguedeep as the demons returned to their chitterings and brawlings, their primitive battles for meaningless supremacy.

A wave of the Voidharrow washed from the pool over the floor of the shaft to pick up the fallen gold skull and carry it to Vestapalk like a piece of wood on the tide. He ignored it, his thoughts turning in another direction. Churr Ashin had shown him something valuable: Albanon, Shara, Kri, and the others who defied him were a distraction.

He’d spoken nothing less than the truth when he told Churr his enemies were doomed. Their end would come whether he took a role in it or not. The idea of letting the Abyssal Plague take them in time didn’t sit well with him, though. It was too easy for those who declared themselves his enemies. He might task another of his exarchs with dealing with them, but they were scattered-and what was to say that they might not try to turn against him as Churr had?

He might take control of another demon, seeing through its eyes, inhabiting its body, and using it to destroy his enemies. But no, Churr had been able to steal the golden skull while his mind flitted between demons. Something worse might happen if his focus was beyond the Plaguedeep for longer. Vestapalk needed something else. Some proxy he could trust that wouldn’t require his constant attention, but that would fill his need to have a hand in the destruction of those who had so thoroughly defied him.

A wild squealing distracted him. Across the pool, a demon had claimed a red and knobby club almost bigger than it was: Churr’s severed arm had survived the destruction of his body. The creature waved the arm around like a trophy, occasionally beating it against the ground for the amusement of the larger demons. Churr’s fingers still grasped and clawed against the indignity as if life yet remained in the limb, much as Vestapalk’s own shed scales writhed when they fell.

An idea sprang fully formed into Vestapalk’s mind. He raked a claw across his belly and plucked away an old loose scale. Voidharrow flowed to replace it, but Vestapalk watched the scale as it twisted for a few moments like a fat, red leech. In the back of his mind, he could feel its struggles as if it were an extension of his body. Of his whole being. He laughed out loud. “Yes,” he said to himself. “An avatar for Vestapalk, to walk the land and strike his blows.” The pseudo-life of the scale was temporary, though. An avatar would require true life, a complete form. He scooped the golden skull out of the Voidharrow and stared into its empty, gleaming sockets. “This one has need of your power.”

The being imprisoned within the skull wailed in terror and despair as Vestapalk opened his mouth once more.

Six days after the attack, Fallcrest still smoldered. By day, thin quills of smoke streaked the sky. By night, red embers crept like worms through blackened beams, leaving more than one of the town’s defenders on edge with memories of the flaming demons that had ignited the devastation.

The destruction could have been worse. When orc hordes had spilled over the Nentir Vale decades before, Fallcrest had been sacked and pillaged, reduced from a thriving city to a frontier town. Its recovery had been slow. Many of its streets still had gaps and tumbled piles of rubble where structures had never been rebuilt-gaps that became natural fire breaks. In a more crowded town or village, entire blocks might have burned in the inferno. In Fallcrest, every third house-or more-had survived the demon-brought flames.

Which wasn’t to say they were all still occupied. Those townspeople whose homes were still inhabitable sought out the safety of numbers. And of the buildings that stood in Fallcrest’s lower town, most were as empty as the ruins around them.

Those in the upper town, where the great bluffs that split Fallcrest formed one side of a strong defensive perimeter, were packed. Crowds spilled out of them and into the streets, finding shelter under tents or in rough shacks built from rubble. The crowds weren’t solely the folk of Fallcrest either. A trickle of refugees from the surrounding areas of the Vale had been arriving since the plague had taken hold, turning into a flood as the demons born of the plague swept across the countryside.

Common wisdom said isolation was the best defense against a plague-but most plagues didn’t bring nightmare creatures searching out new victims to infect and transform, adding to their own numbers in an expanding wave.

“More stones here!” called Roghar. “And more mortar, too!”

Below the growing wall on which the dragonborn stood, townsfolk-turned-laborers leaped to follow the order. Although, Roghar considered on second thought, perhaps “leaped” wasn’t the right word. “Lurched” might be more appropriate, or maybe “struggled.” Six days of combing the ruins, cleaning the streets, and attempting to put a shattered town to rights had left the survivors exhausted. Every face was streaked with sweat and grime. Every step was a dragging shuffle. The euphoria of victory over the invading plague demons had given way to grim reality.

One facet of that reality was the need to shore up Fallcrest’s defenses. The wall around the upper town was in good repair but the attack had showed that the roads up the bluffs from the lower town were a weak point. For decades, Fallcrest had depended on the steep ascent to deter enemies, but the plague demons were like no mortal enemy. Fearless and tireless, the steep road meant nothing to them. Some had even clawed their way up the sheer cliff itself. Fallcrest needed a new wall-an internal wall at the brow of the escarpment-and a new gate to hold the top of the road.

With no special place in the town, no family or home of his own, Roghar had taken on Fallcrest’s need and started working. He’d set aside his sword and armor, commandeered a workforce, and in just a few days, had the rough beginnings of a stout gatehouse in place at the most commonly used road, the stubby wings of a low wall unfurling to either side of it. The other two roads were already sealed off. Fallcrest had provided the material in stout timbers and soot-blackened stones taken from ruined houses or from the old city walls toppled almost a century earlier. If the townsfolk were reluctant to scavenge their broken homes at first, they soon took pride in what rose out of their work and sweat.

They also found pride, Roghar suspected, in the willingness of a paladin of Bahamut-one of the heroes who had fought off the plague demons-to labor alongside them. When workers were tired, it seemed like there were always fresh ones ready to take their places. For his part, Roghar tried to make sure he was always the first at the walls in the morning and the last to leave when the torches guttered low. He was larger than the largest of the townsfolk, an inspiring figure in burnished bronze, the fine scales of his leathery hide shining as he worked.

Of course, it had only been six days. Whether he or the townsfolk could keep up the punishing pace was a question that pulled at the back of Roghar’s mind.