Don Bassingthwaite: The Eye of the Chained God

If Roghar was fast, he might reach the Market Green at the same time-but alone.

Albanon’s belly tensed. They could catch up to the dragonborn and face the demons at his side. It would mean risking his own demons, though. He took a breath and held up an arm before Uldane and Belen could rush after Roghar.

“Wait,” he said and stepped to the brow of the bluff. Roghar was almost directly below them, a good seventy-five paces straight down. Albanon focused his will. A spell rose in his mind and he seized it, concentrating on keeping it clear and sharp. At the back of his mind, something tugged at his attention, an urge to tinker with the magic. To alter it, just a little bit, and see what happened. He ignored the urge and used his fingers to sketch symbols in the air that only his wizard’s eyes could see.

It took only moments. The instant the last symbol was drawn, he felt arcane energy surge through him, completing the spell. A shimmering doorway, like sunlight flashing on water, flared to life-once again, invisible to everyone but him. Albanon glanced over his shoulder. “Stand exactly where I am and follow me.”

He turned back and stepped off the edge of the bluff into the shimmering air.

His foot came down, however, on the solid, dusty ground of the road only a few paces behind Roghar. Albanon stumbled for a moment but found his feet and started running after the paladin. A slight grunt signaled the arrival of someone else through the portal. It was followed by another grunt, then by Uldane’s laugh of delight at the magical transport. Roghar looked back without slowing down and grinned.

“I knew you’d make it. Those demons don’t stand a chance.” He raised his head and started to sing a deep, throaty battle hymn, the cadence of the song timed to his pounding charge.

“Does he always do that?” asked Belen as they raced after him.

“You get used to it,” said Tempest.

Beyond the green, the fleeing travelers had glimpsed their rescuers. Some pointed and gestured as if in encouragement to the others, some just kept their heads down. None of them stopped running, though near the back of the group, one tall figure in an emerald cloak shortened his stride to offer assistance to a pair of slender, more stooped travelers-someone more capable and heroic helping those who needed it most. Unfortunately, it meant that those three were closest to the pursuing demons.

And the demons were rapidly closing ground. Albanon tried to keep one eye on the creatures and the other on the ground beneath his feet. The road seemed even steeper that it usually did, his balance thrown by the speed of his descent. Except for Uldane, surefooted and agile as ever, all of them slipped and stumbled on bits of loose gravel as they ran, forcing them to slow more than they would have liked. By the time they reached flat ground, the fleeing travelers were sprinting onto the Market Green with the plague demons leaping and snarling almost at their heels.

The demons would reach the travelers before they did.

“Albanon!” Roghar shouted without pausing in his charge. “We need a spell to distract the demons.”

Albanon slowed as Belen and Uldane flew past him, gauging the distance to the far side of the green. In his gut, he knew he was the best choice for such a task: Tempest’s furious magic was destructive but lacked a wizard’s carefully studied range. His racing heart, however, felt like it skipped a beat. The far side of the green was farther than he could safely throw his magic without stretching the forms of the spell almost to breaking.

Is it really? the whisper in his head thought arrogantly. Or are you just holding back?

He bit his tongue and picked up speed again. “I need to be closer-”

“Do it!” Roghar pointed with this sword. “Look!”

Across the green, the tall traveler had given his slower companions a last push to speed them on their way, then turned to face their pursuers. His sword flashed from its sheath and he threw back his cloak-revealing the fine, sharp features of not just another eladrin, but one Albanon knew.

Immeral, the leader of the huntsmen Albanon had summoned from the Feywild to aid him against Kri, settled into a defensive stance, ready to meet the claws of the plague demons.

Albanon stopped so sharply that Tempest, following behind, cursed as she dodged around him. He put her out of his mind, drawing energy out of the air and shaping it into a tiny, brilliant red fleck above his palm. Under the best conditions, he might be able to hurl the spell halfway across the Market Green. Immeral was half again that far, with the nearest demons even farther. Albanon pushed his will out to the limit of the spell. Then, with breath hissing between his teeth, he forced it beyond.

He could feel the ebb and flow of the world’s magic; he could almost see it as half-glimpsed streams of light and shadow. Up close, it was crisp and more easily manipulated. Farther away, where the demons stood out like clumps of mold in old soup, it was hazier. If he concentrated, he could still manipulate it, though. The formula of the spell offered an easy, reliable path, but Albanon could see almost instantly in his mind’s eye how to improve upon it. He gathered more energy into the fleck above his hand. The heat of it sharpened into pain.

Time seemed to slow. He drew back his hand to hurl the spell. Throw it so. Enhance the fleck’s flight thus with additional magic. Hardly thinking, he calculated angles, trajectories, velocities, the volume of space that he could fill with fire if only he dared to draw on such an amount of energy.

The numbers and calculations closed around him like jaws, biting into his mind. Albanon screamed and flung the fleck of molten magic away even as he staggered and dropped to his knees.

The little fleck flew past Tempest, Belen, Uldane, and Roghar. It gathered speed, turning into a streak of flame as it passed the running travelers, then Immeral, to slam into what had once been the Lucky Gnome Taphouse on the edge of the Market Green.

The former tavern exploded in a vast ball of ruddy fire with a roar that made Albanon’s ears ring. The force of the explosion knocked the plague demons aside and filled the air with an angry swarm of charred wooden splinters and scorched chips of stone. The travelers screamed and stumbled. The demons screeched, their pack breaking apart. Immeral, braced for the demons’ charge, swayed with the blast and swung away to protect his face.

When Immeral turned back, Roghar-his scaled chest heaving and his neck frills flaring-stood with his sword and shield at his left side. Belen took up a position on his right, and Uldane crouched behind them, ready to take advantage of any opening.

Distraction accomplished.

“Albanon?” Tempest crouched down beside him, a look of concern on her face.

“I’m fine,” he said with a voice suddenly hoarse. “Go to the others. They need you.”

The explosion might have thrown the demons into confusion, but it hadn’t stopped them. One, a lithe thing with a wide, distorted head and four eyes of gleaming red crystal, paused in the glare of the burning building. Those crystalline eyes darted between the frightened refugees and their determined defenders, then settled on Roghar and the others. A sound like a knife dragged across slate rose from its throat. The other demons turned to follow its gaze. The lead demon began a slow slink toward its new prey.

Tempest didn’t hesitate. She turned and strode across the green, drawing from her belt the short, thick rod that was a warlock’s chief implement. Albanon wished he had his staff, but he’d left it in the tower that morning, not expecting to need it on a mission of handing out food to refugees.

You don’t need it, the arrogant part of him whispered triumphantly. Look what you just did.