James Wyatt - Oath of Vigilance

Immeral laughed, the clear, musical sound of the fey’s wild delight. Just like the smells on this side of the Moon Door, that laugh stirred up Albanon’s memories of home, of feasts in secluded glades and races along woodland trails.

“Why did you come to the tower?” Albanon asked.

“As soon as you left the Palace of Thorns, your father turned his attention to the Whitethorn Spire. He had paid it little heed for decades, and it had almost faded from his consciousness entirely. When he cast his gaze this way again, he discovered that the tower was breached-something was here that shouldn’t be. Well, we saw what that was.”

“And he sent you here, to …?”

“To protect you, yes.”

“And we thought you were chasing us.”

Immeral laughed again, but without mockery. “Oh, my friend,” he said through his laughter, “if we had been chasing you, you would not have reached the tower.”

“Although your command of the thorns was impressive,” another one of the hunters added.

“Indeed,” Immeral said. “You gave us a worthy chase-better than we’ve had in years.” The smile faded from his face. “Of course, that left us all more tired once we arrived than we might have been. Probably cost us a couple of hounds.”

“I know I’m lucky to be alive,” another hunter-the one Kri had healed-said. He nodded to the priest. “Thank you.”

“Without your help in that battle, Albanon and I would be dead for certain,” Kri said. “We owe you our gratitude and our lives.”

“You are the son of my lord and master,” Immeral said to Albanon. “You need only to ask my help, and I will give it. Whatever the circumstances.”

“Thank you.”

Albanon sat back and looked up at Sherinna’s tower. Splendid, the last legacy of his apprenticeship with Moorin, was perched atop the arch over the open door. Everything else around him was a part of his life that was new and at the same time old. Kri, his new mentor, was passing on to him a tradition that came from his own grandmother, whose tower this had been. His father’s huntmaster had just promised Albanon his aid, and the very brambles of the Plain of Thorns acknowledged his noble birthright.

This is who I am, he thought. A prince of the Feywild, heir to the legacy of the Order of Vigilance. His eyes found Splendid again. Not some bumbling apprentice. Not anymore.

And not ever again.

Is it the dragon?” Shara whispered.

“I can’t tell,” Uldane replied. “It’s dark down there, and … foggy?”

Shara’s vision cleared enough to show her what the halfling was talking about. Eddies of mist billowed up the stairs from the chamber at the bottom. She took Quarhaun’s hand and got to her feet, as slowly and quietly as she could manage.

“Should I take a look around down there?” Uldane asked.

“No. Whatever it is, it knows we’re here. You’re not going to sneak past it. The first one down is going to be the first one attacked. And that’s going to be me.”

“We should send some lizardfolk warriors down first,” Quarhaun said. “Get a sense of what we’re up against. Force the dragon to reveal itself, if it is him.”

Shara looked for any hint of humor in the drow’s face and saw none. “What?” she asked.

“They’re expendable, Shara. You’re not.”

“I don’t send anyone into danger I’m not willing to face myself.”

“Officers with that attitude rarely live long enough to get promoted.”

“I’m not an officer, Quarhaun. I’m an adventurer. I’m not here because some baron or general sent me here to achieve some military objective.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m here because that dragon killed almost everyone in the world that ever meant anything to me. And after I killed him once, he didn’t have the decency to stay dead, which means I get the pleasure of killing him again. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get to kill him a third time-once for Borojon, once for Cliffside, and once for Jarren.”

“And so you’re going to walk boldly into what’s probably a death trap, not even knowing if whatever is down there is the dragon or not. You can’t kill the dragon if you’re dead.”

“I have no intention of dying. Tell the warriors to come down with me, if you want. We’ll face it together, whatever it is.” With one hand on the wall to make sure she didn’t slip again, she started down the stairs into the darkness and the mist.

Damned dragon probably heard every word of that, she thought. She smiled to herself. Good.

Quarhaun hissed instructions to the lizardfolk, and Uldane trailed behind her with a fresh sunrod. The sound of water dripping on stone and plinking into pools echoed up the stairway. Mist billowed around her feet as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and she peered ahead into a large, open chamber.

Water poured down slime-covered walls as the swamp worked slowly to absorb the ancient building. As it splashed to the ground it rose in fine droplets of mist that draped the floor of the room and rose in eddying clouds above it. Streamers of moss hung from jutting stones in the worn walls, waving in the water coursing over them. A gurgling sound came from somewhere near the center of the room, suggesting that the water was draining out before it could fill the room entirely.

Shara didn’t see the dragon. It was hard to imagine the mist cloaking something that large, but not inconceivable-and there were corners of the room she couldn’t see without stepping fully into the archway. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the lizardfolk warriors arrayed behind her, clubs and maces held at the ready, shields ready to block, and their eyes fixed on her.

Maybe Quarhaun was right, she thought. Maybe I am an officer.

One of the lizardfolk nodded its head at her in a gesture she interpreted as respect. She returned the gesture, then met each one’s eyes in turn, excitement building in her chest.

No, she thought, they follow me because I’m willing to lead them into battle. I’ve earned their respect.

Eager for a fight, she turned back to the archway and took the last few steps that opened the entire chamber to her view. A large, sleek figure moved in the mist to her right, incredibly fast, snaking toward her to attack.

It wasn’t the dragon. In its basic outline, it was identical to the demons they’d been fighting-vaguely pantherlike, with low forequarters but longer hind legs, a flattened head and torso that suggested the head of a cobra. This one was covered in red crystal protrusions that glittered in the light of Uldane’s sunrod, jutting from its back, its hips, and the joints of its legs and forming horns and spikes around its eyes and mouth. And it was enormous, towering over her as it pounced, even its low-slung head far enough off the ground to let her pass underneath without ducking her head.

It slammed into her before she had time to do more than turn to face it, knocking her off her feet and sending her splashing into a puddle. Shara’s ears rang as her helmet clanged against the stone floor again, and her shoulder burned where the demon’s claws had raked her. Then the demon darted away, vanishing into the billowing mist.

The lizardfolk warriors gave a gurgling shout and charged into the chamber, fanning out as they passed through the archway, clattering their clubs and maces against their shields as if they were flushing game out from the reeds of the swamp. Uldane appeared in the archway next; he tossed the sunrod into the room and then slunk into the mist and shadows.

“This is no time for a nap, Shara,” Quarhaun called as he stepped into the arch.

Shara stood up, scowling. “Listen, demon,” she announced to the room. “I’ve spent enough time flat on my back in the last hour. No more.”