Don Bassingthwaite - The Eye of the Chained God

“And that was shattered, too,” said Albanon. He turned the stone between his thumb and forefinger. “A fragment of a fragment of a fragment.”

“That has known the touch of both the Chained God and the Voidharrow. In Sherinna’s tower, I think Tharizdun called to me through it.” Kri smiled. “Well done, Albanon. We have our catalyst.” He reached for the stone.

Albanon closed his fist around it. “No,” he said. “It stays with me.”

For an instant, Kri’s face twisted into a mask of fury, like a child throwing a tantrum. Then it was past as the priest forced himself to remain calm. “You don’t trust me?” he asked. “After what we’ve just accomplished? I’m not going to try anything. I still need your help to work the magic.”

“And if you find a way around that?” Albanon put the stone back into his pouch. “You said Tharizdun told you one would come who would help turn the key. I’m keeping this until that key has been turned and the Voidharrow has been destroyed.”

Kri’s expression turned cold. “As you will. The words of Tharizdun are fulfilled.” He raised his face to the shadows of the ceiling. “Chained God! Patient One! We are ready. Deliver us from this place!”

Albanon felt a little bit sick. “That’s it?” he asked. “That’s your plan for getting us out of here-”

From the darkened stairs, rolling up from the depths of the cloister, came an echoing boom. Albanon spun around to stare. “What was that?”

“Deliverance,” said Kri. He picked up the crystal lantern and headed for the stairs.

The boom came again, the sound of something heavy striking stone. Albanon ran after Kri. The lights he’d conjured in the chamber winked out as he left them behind. He caught the priest on the stairs just as the boom rolled up for a third time. “If I was anywhere else, I’d say that someone was trying to knock down a really big door.”

“It might be.”

“You said there was no way in or out!”

“I said I didn’t think the dwarves came in and out, but they must have gotten in at some point. A door is the simplest explanation.” Kri shook his head. “You have to use your wits sometimes.”

Albanon resisted the urge to strike the old man from behind. “So there is a door!”

Kri shrugged. “I assume there is. I didn’t look for one. Tharizdun told me you would be coming. Why would I leave?”

A scream of frustration built in Albanon’s throat-then died as he considered Kri’s words. “Either that actually makes sense,” he said, “or I’m going as mad as you.”

“One doesn’t rule out the other,” said Kri.

The booming continued in a regular pounding rhythm as they descended the stairs. Albanon saw doorways opening into other chambers and passages-the cloister must have been vast once. Even as the sound guided them farther and farther down, Albanon felt no urge to go exploring in the madness-tainted place.

The deeper they went, the louder the echoes became. They filled the stairs with a roar of sound. Albanon could feel them in his belly. Even pressing his hands over his ears barely muffled them. The sound was so mind-numbingly loud that it took several turns of the stairs before he realized it had changed. He grabbed Kri’s shoulder.

“We’ve gone past!” he shouted. “It’s coming from above us now.”

The priest nodded and they turned around. It took trial and error before they found that the sound came rolling out of one of the side passages. Kri led the way into a long, high room lined with the moldering remains of barrels. A humble storeroom, except that one of the featureless walls trembled visibly with each impact. Albanon watched grit cascade down the wall as old mortar was pounded into dust. Loosened stones sagged, revealing the shape of a pair of arched stone doors behind. Hope and the anticipation of escape rose in Albanon.

Then the booming rhythm ceased. The only sound was the faint hiss of falling dust.

“They stopped,” said Albanon. He lowered his hands from his ears and waited for the sound to start again.

It didn’t.

“No!” Albanon ran to the wall and slammed his fists against it. “No, we’re here! Tempest? Shara? Anybody?” There was no sign of a response. He turned back to Kri. “Why would they stop?”

Cariss had sustained the worst injuries of any of them-deep gouges where the peryton’s talons had gripped her-but once other Tigerclaw warriors had caught her drifting body and brought her back to the clearing, even she wasn’t willing to wait longer than it took to have her wounds cleaned and bandaged. “Albanon saved me,” she said. “Do I honor his actions by hesitating when he is in danger?” She even took charge of the wizard’s staff from Uldane.

In less time than it had taken to battle the perytons, they set out across the valley for the scorch-marked cliffs. The Tigerclaws led the way, bounding through the forest with the grace and speed of animals. Shara, almost as at home in the wilds as the barbarians, and Uldane, very nearly as fast, followed close behind. Quarhaun, Tempest, and Belen came after, moving as quickly as they could.

Roghar brought up the rear, the shield and heavy armor that had saved his life on many occasions encumbering him as he ran. In a short dash, he might have kept up with one of the others. Sprinting in armor was part of his training routine, but one only intended to get him quickly around a battlefield. Over longer distance, he would only exhaust himself.

When Tempest and Belen slowed to keep pace with him, he just waved for them to keep going. “I’ll get there,” he shouted. “The trail’s impossible to miss.”

“You shouldn’t be walking alone,” Tempest called back.

“We just killed the largest predators in the valley. What’s going to bother me?” He banged a gauntleted fist against his breastplate for emphasis.

Tempest and Belen exchanged a glance, then the tiefling shrugged and they carried on. Just ahead, Quarhaun paused to give Roghar a long, thoughtful look. Roghar curled his lips and glared back until the drow had gone on with the two women.

He dropped to his knees in a soft clashing of metal. Alone! Truly alone for the first time in two days. Letting the shield slide from his arm, he pulled off his right gauntlet-and almost sobbed.

The abrasion inflicted by Vestagix’s tail had grown into an oozing wound. His scales were shriveling and falling out, leaving the raw flesh beneath exposed. The veins almost seemed to be rising to the surface. Red and pulsing, they snaked out from the wound to push aside healthy scales. Roghar could feel the infection, too. From the tips of his fingers almost to his elbow, his arm burned with a slow, aching heat.

And was it is his imagination or had his left arm started to burn as well? He didn’t dare take his other gauntlet off to look.

Roghar clamped his hand around his arm just below the wound and squeezed as if he could cut off the flow of tainted blood. “Holy Bahamut, Righteous Dragon,” he prayed just as he had morning and night since Winterhaven, “I beg you to heal this wound!”

The sluggish stirring of divine energy was the same. It answered his call, a new warmth caressing his skin, but he knew in his heart that it wasn’t the same as it had once been. When he opened his eyes, the oozing wound had dried and scabbed a little, but it was still there. His arm still burned.

Bleakness settled over him like a heavy cloak. He’d tried to hold it back for several days, but what difference had it made? The Abyssal Plague had him in its grip. Prayer would not drive it away, only hold it back. And it was only getting worse. The night before, stumbling and exhausted in the forest, he’d briefly felt… something… inside him, like a nightmare intruding on his waking mind.