James Wyatt - Oath of Vigilance

“I’ll stop you and your plague. I swear it.” Shara rushed at Nu Alin again, feinting a swing from her left shoulder until the moment Nu Alin brought Quarhaun into the path of her sword, then twisting the blade around so it came up under Nu Alin’s unprotected left arm, cutting deep enough to draw a gush of blood as well as a welling of the liquid crystal.

Nu Alin roared in pain, in his own voice once more, though Shara thought she heard the distant laughter of the dragon still echoing around her. He hoisted Quarhaun by the neck and hurled him at Shara, knocking them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Shara sat up and saw Nu Alin running away, into the darkness. “Get off me,” she shouted at Quarhaun, pushing him away and scrambling to her feet.

Too late. The demon was too fast. She saw Roghar emerge from the burning inn, leading Tempest and a train of townsfolk, but Nu Alin was gone, lost in the shadows in the direction of the quays.

Before Shara could get Roghar’s attention, two more of the nightmare demons swept toward her. At the same time, she saw five fiery demons closing in around Roghar and his little ragtag band. A handful of soldiers approached from the other side, clutching swords and spears as they drew near the demons.

“He’s getting away!” she shouted to no one in particular. “Don’t let him get away!”

Suddenly the dragon stood before her, roaring and spreading its jaws to bite or breathe its toxic gas. “Damn you,” she muttered, pushing back her fear and stepping forward to meet the dragon, slicing into its throat. It batted at her with a claw, but she sidestepped its clumsy attack and cut it again. Then it was once more just a shadowy demon with a trail of red liquid dripping from its deep wounds.

She saw Uldane slip out from the group around Roghar and look around the street. He looked at her and shrugged.

He’s trying to stop Nu Alin, bless him, Shara thought. She pointed her sword in the direction Nu Alin had gone, then brought the blade around to cut through the demon’s torso, destroying it.

Quarhaun stood facing the other demon, fear and anger warring on his face. With a roar, he swung his eldritch blade at the demon, but it knocked him aside before his blade could connect. Shara leaped into the opening it left and sliced into its head. It spasmed, raking sharp claws down her arm before it, too, dissolved into nothing.

The wound stung, but she ignored it and raced after Uldane. He probably won’t catch up to Nu Alin, she thought, but what if he does? He can’t take on the demon by himself.

She ran along the town’s outer wall toward the quays, past looming warehouses and smaller businesses catering to the river trade. As she reached the quays, she saw Uldane walking along the riverside. He had a dagger in each hand, and his posture was alert, searching for a sign of Nu Alin.

“Uldane!” she called.

He looked up, saw her, and turned away. A sudden fear gripped Shara. What if Nu Alin took him? Would I be able to tell?

She hurried to catch up with him, keeping her sword ready. As she went, she watched the way the halfling moved, trying to spot any telltale sign that the demon was in control of his body. He seemed a little stiff, but that could be explained by the tension of searching for the demon-or by his anger at her.

What does he have to be so angry about, anyway? she thought. It’s my life.

She replayed her conversation with Uldane in the inn. Is this what Jarren would want for me? It’s a ridiculous question, she decided. If he were alive, he’d want me to be with him, of course. But he’s not, so it no longer matters what he wants.

A voice just like Jarren’s whispered in her mind, and she imagined she could feel his breath in her ear. What do you want?

I want to be happy again, she told the memory of him. Like we were.

And are you? Jarren’s memory or Uldane or the mocking voice of Vestapalk asked her again.

She remembered falling into the river with Uldane, looking up at Jarren a moment before the dragon killed him. She saw the dragon falling into the chasm at her feet, the red crystal flowing into its wounds. She felt her shame and fury as the dragon spoke to her through the demons she’d fought, mocking her, taunting her with her failure.

“I don’t deserve to be happy,” she muttered aloud.

Albanon’s thoughts and feelings were a jumble as he followed Kri through the tumult caused by the demons’ attack on the Silver Unicorn. He found a rhythm in counting his footsteps, a stability in the steady beat of his boots against the cobblestones and packed dirt of the streets and alleys. Slowly, as Kri led him through Hightown, Albanon found a focus, a burning point of fury and hatred at the center of his mind’s storm. Kri had done something to him, something that shattered his mind and sapped his will. All the rest-thoughts of Nu Alin, memories of Shara and Quarhaun, the sudden recollection of Tempest-was fragmentary and uncertain, but he found comfort and stability in staring at Kri’s back and calculating the various ways his spells could tear the old man into tiny pieces.

Their winding path meant nothing to him until suddenly a tall tower came into view, limned with eldritch light in the night. The Glowing Tower, he thought. Moorin’s tower.

Blood. Blood everywhere, sprayed on walls and floor and ceiling in patterns of intricate geometry-angles and curvature danced through his mind, undergirded with formulas he had not noticed before. “It was a work of art, what I did to him,” the demon had said. “A masterpiece.”

Not art, Albanon realized. Mathematics. Magic.

His head spun as he contemplated the mystery that Nu Alin had woven from Moorin’s blood. The fabric of space and time was rent apart and woven back together, differently, subtly, intricately. He stumbled, overcome by a wave of nausea.

“Albanon!” Kri snapped.

Albanon made sure his face was blank before he looked up at the old priest. Kri stopped and searched his eyes as Albanon stared straight ahead.

“Perhaps Albric was right,” Kri said at last. “Your mind was stronger than I gave you credit for. It seems that Moorin was not a total idiot after all.”

A spark of anger flared in some shattered corner of Albanon’s mind, enough to make him realize that Kri was trying to provoke him, testing him.

“Did you see Shara back there, Albanon?” Kri asked. “Did you hear her call out to you?”

Another test. Albanon kept his face a mask and didn’t answer, didn’t even allow his mind to pursue the questions that surfaced in his mind. Who is Shara to me? Should I care about her?

“Come along, Albanon,” the Doomdreamer said, apparently satisfied. “We have work to do.”

Two hundred thirteen, Albanon thought as he started walking again. He had stopped counting steps as he contemplated Nu Alin’s mathematics of blood, and counting again was the only way he could keep his mind away from the madness contained in those formulas.

Two hundred and fifty-six steps-sixteen sixteens, the square of a square of a square-brought him to the threshold of Moorin’s tower. Crossing the threshold brought another wave of memory, the trepidation he felt entering the tower the night of Moorin’s death, seeing that the tower’s wards had been disabled. He pushed the memories away and counted the seventy-seven remaining steps up to the top of the tower.

“Be gone!” Kri shouted when he reached the top of the stairs.

Albanon looked past him and saw a squad of soldiers, staring wide-eyed at Kri.

“The defense of this tower is no longer your concern,” Kri said.

“But Captain Damar-” one of the soldiers began. Albanon recognized only that he should know the name-no further memory would come to mind.