Don Bassingthwaite - The Eye of the Chained God

The death of the first two demons must have gotten through to the third somehow. Its crystal eyes blinked. It let go of Cariss’s head and grabbed her shoulders, trying to turn the shifter’s moaning body between it and Belen like a shield. But it was too slow. Belen twisted around and thrust her sword through its side. The nightmare demon gave a high, keening cry and pushed Cariss away to reach for Belen.

She ducked the grasping hands and ripped her sword sideways out of the demon’s belly. Cut nearly in half, it let out one more cry, then toppled backward and over the broken edge of the passage. Belen let her sword fall and grabbed Cariss before the staggering shifter could plunge after it. Still half in a panic, Cariss tried to push her away, but Belen held on.

“Easy,” she said. “It’s over. It’s over.”

Cariss sucked in great gulps of air, breathing hard. “Thank you,” she gasped between breaths. “Thank you. I will tell Turbull that you are worthy!”

Belen frowned. “What?”

Cariss stiffened a little and pulled away. “I shouldn’t have-” she began, then she scowled. “You are Riven,” she said bluntly.

Real fear raced through Belen and she opened her mouth to deny it, but Cariss shook her head. “Don’t shame me with lies. Turbull saw it. No outsider embraces Tigerclaw traditions the way you embrace them. Turbull believes you are a generation Riven from the tribe, maybe two.”

“My mother,” Belen said tentatively. “She taught me.”

“Turbull saw the way you fought alongside us in the valley. He told me to watch you on this journey and if you proved yourself worthy, he would invite you to join the Thornpad clan.”

After the terror of the nightmare demon attacks, the suggestion was like being drenched with cold water. For a moment, Belen didn’t know what to say or how to react-all she knew was that there was a new warmth growing inside her, something that might even erase the scars Nu Alin had left. “Cariss, I never thought something like that would be possible.”

“Turbull is not like any other clan leader,” said Cariss. “He believes you could bring new ideas to the Thornpads without sacrificing tradition. He sees ahead-sometimes even further ahead than Chief Scargash.” She grasped Belen’s forearm above the wrist. Belen recognized a Tigerclaw oath grip and returned it. That brought a smile from Cariss.

“If I don’t escape this place,” the shifter said, “go to Turbull and tell him what I told you.”

“If I don’t escape,” said Belen, “tell Turbull I would have accepted.”

“I hope you realize there’s a good chance none of us will escape,” said Quarhaun harshly. The drow was back on his feet, his face a little drawn, but otherwise recovered. He had his sword in his hand and used the tip of it to flip Belen’s sword back to her.

She caught the weapon but kept it out and ready to use as she looked around, assessed their situation, and found it most… unexpected.

Their triumph over the nightmare demons seemed to have gone completely unnoticed, at least by Vestapalk. A few of the nearest plague demons watched them and shifted restlessly, but all of the dragon’s attention was on the battle still being waged on the lower portion of the broken passage. Magical energy of all kinds flashed as Albanon, Tempest, and Kri traded spells for flaming strikes by the fire demons. A few burned-out husks of demons lay on the ground, but they were the only casualties. Except for scorches on Tempest’s robes and a burned patch in Albanon’s long silver hair, their friends seemed to be holding their own.

The battle on the middle portion seemed to have turned in their favor as well. In spite of his mad rush against the brute demons, Roghar still lived. He and Shara fought back to back, while Uldane danced around the perimeter of the fight, stabbing and crippling the big crystal-armored demons wherever he could. In fact, there were only three of the demons left standing, and even as Belen watched, another went down with its head cleft in two by Shara’s greatsword.

“I don’t understand,” said Cariss with surprise in her voice. “We’re winning. Why isn’t Vestapalk doing more?”

Belen frowned and looked at the passage behind them. One of their sunrods lay just inside its the mouth. Nothing stirred within the shadows as far down the passage as she could see. No more nightmare demons. No more demons of any kind. Yet with all the demons of the Plaguedeep under his control, Vestapalk could have destroyed their entire group easily. “What’s he waiting for?” she asked. “He could smother us and be done!”

“He’s playing with us,” Cariss growled.

Quarhaun muttered a quiet curse. “He’s wearing us down! You heard what he told Kri. He says he knows our secrets, and that we came to destroy the Voidharrow. Look at how he’s watching Albanon and Kri-if he knows how they destroyed Vestausan and Vestausir, he knows they’re the real threat.”

“But why wear us down? Why pick at us with small bands of demons?”

“Probably for the same reason Shara wants to kill him personally,” said the drow. “Pride. Vengeance. He wants to destroy us himself, but we’ve also defeated his creatures every time we’ve encountered them. He wants us tired, not fresh.”

“There’s no honor in an uneven fight,” said Cariss.

“Honor?” Quarhaun laughed. “No drow matriarch would try to destroy a rival House without making sure it was first weakened from within. I think Vestapalk wants to make sure this is a fight he can win. That’s why he split us up.”

Belen stared down at the rest of her friends. “So when Albanon and Kri defeat the fire demons, Vestapalk will attack?”

“I would if I were him.”

Cariss bared her teeth. “Then what can we do?”

Belen’s stomach tightened. “We still have rope, don’t we? Maybe Vestapalk wants us split up, but I don’t. First we get down and join Shara, Roghar, and Uldane, then we do what we planned to all along: we give Albanon and Kri time to work their magic.”

The stink of burned hair filled Albanon’s nostrils. Given the many possible stenches of battle, it wasn’t the most awful smell, but it made him want to cough with every drawn breath and every shouted spell. Worse, it came over him in a fresh wave each time he turned his head-and with every fresh wave came the thought that he hadn’t had short hair since he was a child.

It was a completely inappropriate thought for the middle of a life or death battle. Albanon might have suspected he was going mad if he didn’t already know what that felt like.

He flicked his hand and hurled a silvery bolt of force at one of the remaining fire demons. The demon shifted slightly and the bolt tore through its shoulder. It barely left a trace on the flames, just a dark spot that lingered briefly and vanished entirely a moment later. Albanon cursed and brought his staff up to block a fiery arm as it slapped at him. The tendril tip wrapped around the staff, then dissipated, leaving another charred black ring among the many already scarring the stout wood. The demon raised its arm for yet another lashing blow.

Tempest’s voice rose in a scream and a twisting ribbon of darkness rushed past Albanon to strike the demon under its upraised arm. Where it struck, flames withered and were extinguished. It seemed to Albanon almost as if they were sucked back along the stream of darkness. The demon stumbled and dropped to one knee, then its fire winked out altogether. All that remained was a crumbling husk of ash with a sooty crystal, now dark, at its heart. Albanon spared a glance over his shoulder at Tempest. She smiled at him.

“Four down,” she said tightly. “Four to go.”