James Wyatt - Oath of Vigilance

“Bahamut was with me,” Roghar said. “Proud and fierce.”

“For all his talk of nobility and justice, the Platinum Dragon is a warrior god at heart,” Travic said.

Roghar stepped to Tempest’s side. She recoiled, staring at him with wide eyes, then recognition seemed to sink in to her fevered mind. Her body relaxed, and she let her head drop onto Roghar’s shoulder.

“Easy, Tempest,” he murmured. “You’re safe now.”

Tempest threw her arms around Roghar’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Hesitantly, gently, he enfolded her in his embrace.

As Roghar held Tempest, Travic managed to roll himself up to his knees. Roghar heard the comforting lilt of his prayers to Erathis and the warmth of divine presence around them all.

Erathis holds me, Roghar thought, and I hold you.

Finally, Tempest eased her hold on him and drew away, looking anywhere but into his eyes. Roghar felt strong and whole, and Tempest seemed stronger as well.

“What was it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Tempest said, still avoiding his gaze. “You know I hate being crowded like that, and Travic’s no good at holding a line.” Finally her eyes met his, and he saw a hint of the anguish she’d been feeling. “I felt trapped.”

“Just like when Nu Alin was controlling your body.”

Tempest looked away and pulled free of his hands. “Are we giving chase?” she asked.

“Are you up to it?” Travic said.

“Of course. Only, let’s make sure we don’t pass any enemies who can attack us from behind this time.”

“Good plan,” Roghar said. “But Travic?”

“Yes?”

“Are you up to this?” Roghar put a hand on Travic’s shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

“Marcan was among them, wasn’t he?”

Travic sighed, and some of the strength his prayers had lent him seemed to drain out of his body. “Yes, he was.”

“Do you think something was controlling his mind?”

Travic turned and paced a few steps down the hall, stopping beside the decapitated statue. “I think something changed his mind. Obviously not for the better. But I don’t think it’s a spell that can be broken.”

“Are you prepared to kill him?”

“If it comes to that, then …” Grief washed over Travic’s face. “If there’s no alternative, then yes.”

“All right. We’re dealing with humans, so if it’s possible, we try to knock them out and bring them to the watch. Agreed?” Roghar watched Tempest carefully as he awaited her response.

“Of course,” Travic said.

Tempest nodded, then frowned. “On what charge?”

“What?” Roghar said.

“We bring them to the watch on what charge? Do we know they’re guilty of anything?”

“They attacked us.”

“The gnoll and the statue did. What the humans were doing would be easy to paint as self-defense. We’re barging into their home. Of course they’re fighting back.”

“We’re barging into the temple where they’re worshiping Asmodeus,” Roghar said.

“Or Tiamat,” Travic added.

“Or some other evil god or demon lord.”

“We assume,” Tempest said.

“Right. But I think it’s highly unlikely we’re going to round that corner and find that these ragged humans and their gnoll friend set up an animated statue to protect their little secret temple of Bahamut. Not to mention the whispers.”

“Fine,” Tempest said. “Assuming we round the corner and find a temple to some sinister power, I’ll try not to kill them unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’m just trying to make sure we’re doing the right thing.”

Roghar sighed and scratched his jaw. “Look, Tempest,” he said. “I know it’s not always easy to know what’s right and what’s wrong. And I know we’re walking in a great gray area where the lines are even less clear than usual. But it means a lot to me that you’re even trying to sort it out.”

She smiled faintly. “So what’s the plan?”

“Well, I don’t expect they’ve gone far, unless they’ve fled out a back entrance. More likely, they’re putting up their defense in their shrine or temple, or whatever is around that corner.”

Tempest nodded. “So we charge around the corner-you first, naturally-and unleash everything we have. Trying not to kill them, of course.”

“A little more caution is probably warranted,” Travic said. “They’ve had several minutes to prepare their defenses. They might have activated traps. At the least, they’ve taken up the most advantageous positions they can find.”

“Right,” Roghar said. “But we don’t have a lot of tactical flexibility. There’s only three of us, and there’s only one way we can approach, as far as we know.”

He ran through other possibilities in his mind. Searching for another entrance could give their quarry a chance to escape, and it would mean navigating the whispering crater again. And he had no real reason to suspect that another entrance even existed, except that it would be tactically convenient.

Alas, he thought, reality rarely conforms to convenience.

“So I charge around the corner,” he said, “cautiously. You two watch out for traps, and you help me flush out any cultists that are hidden behind cover.”

“Is that what they are?” Tempest said. “Cultists?”

“That’s my working assumption at this point,” Roghar said, scowling at her.

“I suppose it helps to put a name on them. I mean, besides Marcan.”

“Please stop it,” Travic said. “This is hard enough for me already.”

“Is it?” Tempest asked. “Can killing people ever be hard enough?”

Travic drew himself up, anger boiling in his eyes. “I will not listen to lectures on morality from a warlock who bargains with infernal powers!”

Tempest’s eyes smoldered with fire as she glared at the priest. “Does the mouth that speaks it make the truth any less true?”

“I know the precarious path I walk,” Travic said. “I grapple with these questions every night, when sleep eludes me. And now, because they seem to have entered your mind for the first time, I have to face them again? What I need now is resolve and certainty. Leave the doubts until darkness.” What had started as an angry rant ended as a plea, and Roghar gaped at the priest, his heart aching for his friend.

“I see,” Tempest said at last. “From now on I will keep my questions to myself, and see whether I am able to sleep after we’ve done what must be done.”

Roghar reached a hand for Tempest’s shoulder, but she pulled away.

“Let’s do it, then,” Roghar said. He closed his eyes, reaching for the sense of fierce victory that had filled him just a few moments before, grasping for any reassurance from Bahamut that his cause was just and his way true. A faint tingle brushed at the base of his skull and faded.

That will have to be assurance enough, he thought.

Without another word, he walked to the corner of the hall. Holding his shield up, he peered around the corner into what was indeed a small shrine. A simple wooden table stood as an altar, draped with a deep purple cloth embroidered with a jagged spiral in gold thread. A human skull adorned the altar, surrounded by five small cups. One of the cups held a greasy flame that licked up over the rim. Three long banners, similar to the altar cloth, hung on the walls of the chamber, each one sporting a golden spiral that reminded Roghar of a baleful eye staring out into the room. Behind the altar, a column of light filled a small alcove in the wall.

The cultists-it was a fair appellation, he decided-huddled behind the altar. Roghar almost laughed out loud. The cultists hadn’t enjoyed many more tactical options than had he and his friends, trying to defend themselves in this small, bare chamber. They didn’t have defensible positions to take, cover to hide behind, or, apparently, traps to set. So they had spent the last several minutes clumped behind their priest at the altar, clutching their weapons in trembling hands, waiting for the deadly assault they knew was coming. He almost felt sorry for them.