James Wyatt - Oath of Vigilance

“Not while that damned dragon is still alive. If I don’t kill him, who’s going to? How many more people is he going to kill?”

A look of terrible pain contorted Uldane’s face, but it passed quickly, as it always did. The halfling seemed immune to grief, sadness, and anger-no negative emotion could hold him for long. “You know,” he said, sitting down next to Shara, “I keep thinking about that day. The fight with the dragon was horrible. But the part I like to remember is the time just before the fight. When we knew we were getting close. I remember you teasing Jarren, making light of the danger. I remember the way he looked at you, the love in his eyes. Borojon chided you two for dawdling on the path, and scolded Cliffside for making so much noise.”

Tears ran down Shara’s face. She had thought of that day countless times, but all she could remember was the horror; the dragon’s jaws clamped on her father’s shoulder; the sickening sound as the dragon literally tore Cliffside apart; the sight of Jarren, her love, looking over the cliff as she and Uldane fell toward the river; the dragon looming over Jarren’s shoulder. Vestapalk might as well have torn out her heart that day, and the only joy she’d felt since had been when she thought the dragon was dead.

But Vestapalk wasn’t dead. And the thought that a swarm of demons might prevent her from killing him was more than she could bear.

“I guess what I’m saying,” Uldane said, “is that maybe you’d feel better if you try to think about the good times that you and Jarren spent together, instead of dwelling so much on the pain of having lost him.”

Shara wiped her eyes. “It’s been so long, Uldane. Sometimes I can barely remember the good times-as though my pain is all I have left of him.”

“Don’t do that, Shara. He was a good man, a good friend. He deserves better memories.”

Shara wrapped a bandage around her knee in silence, trying to dredge up happier thoughts of Jarren.

“I remember the first time I snuck his lucky coin from his pouch,” Uldane said. “He got so mad he could hardly speak, and his face was so red I couldn’t help but laugh!”

Shara smiled. “He got used to it soon enough.”

“I made sure he did.” Uldane’s laughter bubbled out again, high and infectious.

A renewed scrabbling at the door wiped the smiles from their faces. “Let’s get that bookcase to the door now,” Shara said.

The scratching sounds continued this time, as if the demons were determined to dig through, or under, the door. With Uldane’s help, Shara got one of the bookcases-made from hard, heavy wood-in place behind the table, strengthening their barricade. As they started toward the next bookcase, though, the sounds on the other side of the door changed. Yowls of fury or pain started up, then the scratching at the door stopped. The howling grew louder, and Shara heard the ring of steel and a blast of fire.

“Perhaps we’re not going to die here after all,” she said.

“Is it Quarhaun?” Uldane asked brightly.

“I don’t know.” She went to the door and pulled at the bookcase they’d just put in place. “But someone’s fighting out there, and now that I’ve caught my breath I think I’d like to be a part of that.”

“You never put the armor back on your leg.”

“It’s full of tooth holes anyway.” She dragged the table a few feet back, walked around it, and pressed her ear to the door.

A fight was definitely going on. She heard weapons thudding into flesh, the snarls and howls of the demons, and what might have been speech in a language she didn’t understand, full of sibilant sounds and low rumbling vowels. More sounds of erupting fire and a crack of lightning suggested that at least one spellcaster was present at well. “It might be Quarhaun,” she said, half to herself, and she lifted the bar from the door and opened it just enough to peek out.

Quarhaun was there, his black eldritch blade crackling with lightning in his hand. His newfound allies were lizardfolk-tall and burly warriors with reptilian heads and long tails, wielding mostly clubs and maces of bone and stone. Angry orange crests adorned the tops of their heads, and their bodies were covered with fine green scales.

“Shara!” the drow warlock called.

Something like joy surged through her as she flung open the door and waded back into battle.

CHAPTER SIX

Roghar scratched his head. “So whatever we’re dealing with is preying on gnolls as well as humans,” he said.

“Well, it makes sense, in a way,” Travic said.

“How so?”

“I mean, the idea that gnolls had dragged Gaele and Marcan away without leaving signs of a struggle was unlikely. I was trying to come up with a theory that fit, and it becomes easier if we abandon the idea that gnolls were the captors.”

“Perhaps there’s some kind of mind control at work,” Roghar said. “Someone enchanting them, luring them away.”

“That opens a whole world of unpleasant possibilities. The best is that it’s some rogue enchanter, more or less a common criminal with magic at his disposal.”

“While the worst is … a lot worse.”

Travic nodded. “A vampire or succubus, maybe even a mind flayer.”

Roghar glanced at Tempest, who had turned away to look out at the ruins again. “Or some kind of possessor,” he whispered to Travic.

The priest’s eyes widened and shot to Tempest as well. Roghar had told him about Tempest’s experience with the possessor demon, and warned him that it was a painful memory for her. “Should we turn back?” Travic said, keeping his voice low. “I can find other help-”

Roghar shook his head. “It’ll be all right.”

“What will?” Tempest asked, turning back to face them. “What are you two whispering about?”

Roghar stammered, trying to find a plausible and gentle lie. While he struggled, Travic stepped forward and put a hand on Tempest’s shoulder.

“I’m just concerned for you,” the priest said. “I don’t want to put you into a situation that’s going to bring up too many difficult memories.”

Roghar rolled his eyes. Honesty was always Travic’s preferred approach, even if it was insensitive or vaguely insulting. But he was a kind man in general, which usually allowed him to speak the truth without hurting feelings.

“You think Nu Alin is involved in this? Here?”

“We have no idea,” Roghar said. “We were just discussing the possibilities. The demon that possessed you, or something like it, is at the outer edge of those possibilities.”

“It’s far more likely an enchanter, maybe a vampire,” Travic added.

“A comforting thought,” Tempest said, the hint of a smile touching her lips. “You know you’ve found success as an adventurer when a vampire is one of your better possibilities.”

Roghar guffawed as a sense of relief washed through him. Such glimpses of Tempest’s wry humor were rare since her possession, and he missed them terribly.

Travic looked toward the morning sun. “Well, if a vampire is what we’re after, we’ve chosen the right time of day,” he said. “Shall we explore farther into the ruins?”

Tempest nodded, still almost smiling, and Roghar’s heart felt light as he lifted his sword to rest on his shoulder and stepped onto the crumbling street that led deeper into the ruins of Nera.

The road that Roghar had chosen more or less at random led quickly to the lip of a crater, one of a few places in the ruined city where the earth had opened up and swallowed the streets and buildings. The largest such crater marked the site of the imperial palace, but several smaller ones were arrayed around it. He sighed and chose a different path that would take him around that obstacle, but Tempest put a hand on his arm to stop him.