The pain reminded him of just how alive he was. Dark spots danced in front of the green witchlight and Uldane almost slipped back down again. He clenched his teeth together, forced himself to stay on his feet, and took stock of his injuries. Head: throbbing and bleeding like a widow’s sympathy from a gash across his scalp, but his skull felt whole. Side: bleeding as well from a jagged tear that was already clotting up and would probably leave an ugly scar. Leathers: ruined. Shoulder: He tried moving his arm and felt a new flare of agony, but there was no grinding of broken bones. Dislocated. Grimly, Uldane staggered down the last bit of the curved wall to the floor of the chamber, then over to one of the massive columns that supported the tangled stairs and walkways above. Fixing Raid’s loathsome, burned face in his mind, he let all of his rage bubble up to the surface. “Bastard!” he muttered. He trotted back and forth in front of the pillar, working himself up until he was shaking. “Goblin kisser. Traitor. Knuckle-dragging, wind-breaking, bottom-feeding—aahh!” Before he could lose his nerve, he slammed himself hard into the pillar, dislocated shoulder first. The joint snapped back into place with a soft pop and a burst of pain that sent a wave of darkness over Uldane’s eyes. When it cleared, he found himself on his backside with tears in his eyes.

Titles in the new
DUNGEONS & DRAGONS® novel line

The Mark of Nerath
Bill Slavicsek

The Seal of Karga Kul
Alex Irvine

The Temple of Yellow Skulls
Don Bassingthwaite

Oath of Vigilance
Book 2 of The Abyssal Plague
James Wyatt
August 2011

The Last Garrison
Matthew Beard
December 2011

Also by Don Bassingthwaite

THE DRAGON BELOW
The Binding Stone
The Grieving Tree
The Killing Song

THE LEGACY OF DHAKAAN
The Doom of Kings
The Word of Traitors
The Tyranny of Ghosts

Dungeons & Dragons
The Temple of Yellow Skulls
©2011 Wizards of the Coast LLC

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC

DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, D&D, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

Cover art by Wayne Reynolds

Map by Rob Lazzaretti

eISBN: 978-0-7869-5898-6

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v3.1

ORIGIN

THE GATES OF MADNESS by James Wyatt

PRELUDE

THE MARK OF NERATH by Bill Slavicsek

THE TEMPLE OF YELLOW SKULLS by Don Bassingthwaite

OATH OF VIGILANCE by James Wyatt
August 2011

SWORD OF THE GODS by Bruce Cordell
April 2011

SHADOWBANE by Erik Scott de Bie
September 2011

UNDER THE CRIMSON SUN by Keith R. A. DeCandido
June 2011

Contents

Cover

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Map

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

In the shadow of empires, the past echoes in the legends of heroes. Civilizations rise and crumble, leaving few places that have not been touched by their grandeur. Ruin, time, and nature claim what the higher races leave behind, while chaos and darkness fill the void. Each new realm must make its mark anew on the world rather than build on the progress of its predecessors.

Numerous civilized races populate this wondrous and riotous world of Dungeons & Dragons. In the early days, the mightiest among them ruled. Empires based on the power of giants, dragons, and even devils rose, warred, and eventually fell, leaving ruin and a changed world in their wake. Later, kingdoms carved by mortals appeared like the glimmer of stars, only to be swallowed as if by clouds on a black night.

Where civilization failed, traces remain. Ruins dot the world, hidden by an ever-encroaching wilderness that shelters unnamed horrors. Lost knowledge lingers in these places. Ancient magic set in motion by forgotten hands still flows in them. Cities and towns still stand, where inhabitants live, work, and seek shelter from the dangers of the wider world. New communities spring up where the bold have seized territory from rough country, but few common folk ever wander far afield. Trade and travel are the purview of the ambitious, the brave, and the desperate. They are wizards and warriors who carry on traditions that date to ancient times. Still others innovate, or simply learn to fight as necessity dictates, forging a unique path.

Truly special individuals are rare. An extraordinary few master their arts in ways beyond what is required for mere survival or protection. For good or ill, such people rise up to take on more than any mundane person dares. Some even become legends.

These are the stories of those select few …

PROLOGUE

Vestapalk burned.

He burned with rage. He burned with fever, and fever led him into dreams. Deep within his burning mind, he knew he dreamed, but the tighter he tried to grasp that knowledge, the deeper he slid into delirium. His thoughts condensed and faded like wisps of his venomous breath.

Except for two memories that rose in him again and again.

One was of the faces of the lesser creatures that had dared—dared—to stand against mighty Vestapalk. An eladrin wizard and a tiefling warlock. A member of the debased race that claimed to be “dragonborn.” An undead thing that to dragon senses stank of ash and decay. A rat of a halfling.

The face that stood out most clearly in his fevered dreams, though, was the human female who had somehow slipped between his claws time and again. The human female whose sword had torn into Vestapalk’s belly, unleashing a pain like nothing he had ever known.

Vestapalk will kill you all, he promised the visions. Vestapalk will drown you in his poison. Vestapalk will feast on your flesh. Vestapalk will savor the stinging flavor of your tainted meat!

The other memory burned deeper, burned with the savage heat of betrayal. He had been promised power. He had been promised transformation. The signs and omens had been clear. The Herald walked the land with the promise of a new age and the ascendancy of Vestapalk.

The future written in the blood and guts of beasts had guided him to the place of ancient tombs to make the meeting that would raise him above this world. But the Herald had not come. Vestapalk had found only his own end. Death circled like a cowardly scavenger of carrion, waiting for him to falter.

Vestapalk would not suffer its approach easily. In his dream, he raised his head to the shadows of the crevasse that might yet become his grave and roared, “Vestapalk will not be forsaken!”

And in the darkness, the Elemental Eye opened.

The first time the Eye had looked on Vestapalk, he had been young, barely grown into maturity, his green scales still soft. Another dragon had claimed territory that Vestapalk desired. Vestapalk had triumphed, of course, but among the spilled organs of his enemy, he had seen the first hints of a future that was greater than a mere stretch of forest and hills. It had frightened him—before the Eye, even mighty Vestapalk could admit fear—but it had lured him as well. In the years since, he had followed those signs, catching glimpses of the Eye now and again in his dreams, each time thrilled and terrified by the power that it promised.

With the end near, there was no place for fear. Vestapalk howled his rage at the Eye, its dark pupil eternally consuming the fire and lightning, the crackling frost and the thundering earth, that swirled around it. “Where is the Herald?” he screamed. “Where is the new age?” He slashed his talons at the unblinking Elemental Eye, but came no closer to it than a worm might come to the moon. “Where is Vestapalk’s transformation?”

For the first time, the Eye answered him. “It has already begun.”

The voice of the Eye was as ponderous as thunder trapped in a cavern and as fine as the sharp edge of broken glass. It was hollow; it was full of the howls of a thousand lunatics. The voice fell on the dragon like a weight, pressing down Vestapalk between one breath and the next, leaving him no room to roar or scream or even mewl like a hatchling. Yet there was no anger in the Eye’s answer to his challenge, only a display of such vast might that Vestapalk knew instantly that whatever power he had ever hoped to gain paled beside it.

But the power was contained. Imprisoned. And so incredibly distant that Vestapalk could have flown for his entire life, could have soared among the silver clouds of the Astral Sea for the lifetime of a hundred dragons, and never reached it. The long gaze of the Eye was its only touch upon the world, and for now that gaze rested on Vestapalk.

If he could have preened, he would have. He, Vestapalk, was favored beyond all the creatures of this realm—

The weight of the Eye lifted from him. Disdain entered its voice. “There are others.”

Knowledge crept over Vestapalk, as if each word spoken by the Eye carried more information than a lesser voice could convey. The Eye had spoken to others in the past and might speak to others yet in the future. Its gaze swept the world. Vestapalk felt a fleeting awareness of beings, perhaps not so favored as him but still working as the Eye willed, whether they knew it or not. The Herald—a presence on the edge of Vestapalk’s awareness, closer than he might have guessed but like him brought low—was one. And another, too, drawing nearer. One that Vestapalk would meet.

“No,” said the Eye. “One that Vestapalk must meet. The One Who Gathers.”

The dragon felt himself swept up in the Eye’s gaze. The tiny section of the world that lesser creatures called the Nentir Vale whirled beneath him until he was looking down on a place of ancient ruins. For a moment, the Eye simply held him there—then it turned away, its great voice fading to an echo.

Vestapalk fell back into himself with the will of the Eye ringing through him. The vision of the ruins had been little more than a glimpse, but it was clearer than any the Eye had granted him before. Certainty thundered upon Vestapalk. He knew in his bones where he would find those ruins—and what he would find there. Among those ruins, the Gatherer would come to him. Among those ruins, the will of the Eye would be brought forth and a new age born.

Among those ruins, Vestapalk would come into the power that was destined to be his! Roaring with triumph and desire, the dragon spread his wings and launched himself into the air.

Or tried to. However clear his vision might have been, however strong his will, his body remained broken. Vestapalk shrieked as one of his legs collapsed beneath him and the muscles anchoring a wing tore apart. The dragon tried again, though, fighting to rise toward his vision.

He couldn’t. The rocky floor of the crevasse slammed into him. Pain seared his wounds. For the first time, the fever that consumed him eclipsed his rage. He felt a warm trickle as venom and perhaps blood dripped and pooled beneath his jaw.

But underneath the rage and the pain, something stirred—and spoke, not from across a vast distance but seemingly from within him, as if his fever had acquired a voice.

Vestapalk carries the seed. Vestapalk carries the Voidharrow.

“Who are you?” Vestapalk wasn’t certain if he growled the words aloud or merely thought them. Either way, there was no answer, only the burning that was slowly, inevitably consuming him.

Changing him.

New fire woke in the dragon’s belly. The Herald had not come, but the Herald’s purpose had been fulfilled. A transformation had been promised to Vestapalk. Perhaps it had not come as he had expected—but as the Eye had said, it had begun.

The new age had not yet been born, but soon it would be.

The seething anger that had burned in Vestapalk’s throat slid forward, emerging as a dry rasp of laughter.

“M-master?”

A thin hissing voice rose, tentative but concerned, and also, Vestapalk realized, entirely outside of his own mind. He opened an eye and fixed it on the cringing, reptilian form of a kobold wyrmpriest. His wyrmpriest, or so Tiktag had declared himself. Vestapalk’s laugh faded into a long, shuddering breath.

Tiktag stepped forward. “I will watch over you, master. I will care for you. You will be strong again!”

Vestapalk tried to snarl, to prove his strength, but it came out as a wracking cough. He settled back onto the rocky ground. The lord of the new age—watched over by a kobold. The transformation could not come quickly enough. Vestapalk’s eye sagged shut. Fever-sharp dreams of the world that would be his closed over him, whispering one last word into his mind.

Voidharrow.

CHAPTER ONE

Uldane hopped up into a chair and leaned over the table. “Have a look at what I found,” he said. The halfling held out a dagger, a fine weapon long enough that it verged on being a short sword. The steel blade had acquired a fine sheen from long and careful honing, but faint and elegant curves of Elven script inlaid into the metal were still visible close to the hilt. The pommel was elf-work, too, an intricate knot of carved ivory long since yellowed from age and handling.

The sight of it made a mist of ale spew from Albanon’s mouth. As other patrons of the Blue Moon Alehouse looked around at the sound—seldom heard in one of Fallcrest’s better drinking establishments—he threw one of his robe’s broad sleeves over the dagger. “Went down the wrong way,” he said by way of excuse, mopping at his mouth with the other sleeve. When they turned away again, he bent his head closer to Uldane’s. “Tell me you really just ‘found’ this,” he whispered.

“Of course I did.”

“And nobody else had it when you found it?” Albanon asked pointedly.

“Well, I suppose you could say that. It’s not like he was using it, though.” Uldane turned in his seat and pointed across the room. Albanon choked and snatched at his hand, but Uldane just twitched it out of the way. “Easy there,” he said. “Nobody likes a grabby eladrin.”

“I know who it belongs to.” Albanon looked around, allowing the long silver hair that he normally tucked back behind his pointed ears to fall forward over his eyes. Through its screen, he found a heavyset man with wolf-gray hair, a coarse face, and a so-far-unnoticed empty sheath on the belt that was looped over the back of his chair. “That’s Kossley Varn, one of the richest farmers around Fallcrest. He’s rich, influential, and not someone we want to have mad at us.” Trying to keep the dagger hidden, Albanon slid it back to Uldane. “You have to put it back.”

“But I just took it!” The halfling stared at him with big, pleading eyes. “At least tell me what the writing on it says. You can read Elven, right? If it’s on a dagger, it must be something good.”

Albanon had never figured out the vulnerability humans and other races had to the wide-eyed expressions of children and halflings—eladrin eyes were solid orbs of color without whites, irises, or betraying pupils—but faced with Uldane, he could almost understand it. He hardened his heart. “It says ‘Put me back!’ ”

Uldane made a sulking noise of disappointment and slid out of his chair, dagger tucked along the inside of his arm. He paused to look back up at Albanon. “I don’t see why you’re afraid of a farmer,” he said a little too loudly. “After all, you killed a dragon.”

He turned away and marched off into the crowd, leaving Albanon to face the stares of the townsfolk and farmers crowding the alehouse. “He’s … exaggerating,” the eladrin said. “You know halflings.”

Most of the audience turned away—revealing a number of halflings, traders from boats that plied the Nentir River. Albanon winced, but they just turned away, too. Whispers and furtive glances gave away traders, townsfolk, and farmers alike, however. They hadn’t lost interest in him, not by the length of an arrow’s flight on a windy day. He grimaced, picked up his tankard, and tried to lose himself in his ale.

If only they really were just curious at the idea that he’d killed a dragon. Or if only they actually believed it. Albanon had an unpleasant certainty that it was just one more suspicion for the people of Fallcrest to hold against him. Bad enough that he was one of the very few eladrin in Fallcrest or the surrounding area. Even after living in the town for seven years he still felt out of place. Bad enough that as a wizard, even one barely out of his apprenticeship, the dangerous spells at his command set him apart. Bad enough that he’d taken up with adventurers like Uldane. People liked hearing stories of wild exploits and they were eager enough for the help of adventurers when there were dangers to face, but to have them idle around the town was something else. As he’d overheard the baker telling her husband when she thought Albanon had been unable to hear, “Well, they’re just not normal folk, are they?”

All of that was bad enough without the additional suspicion that he’d murdered his master, Moorin of the Glowing Tower. Torn the old wizard apart and left pieces of him scattered around the chamber at the top of his tower, if some of the rumors his sharp ears had caught were to be believed.

The rumors were right about the manner of Moorin’s death—the town’s guards had loose lips—but Albanon certainly hadn’t been the one to do it. His master’s murder had, however, led him directly into the company of the band of adventurers he was now proud to call his friends. The tiefling, Tempest, and the dragonborn, Roghar, had joined him in the pursuit of the true killer, a weird crimson and silver blob of a creature that called itself Nu Alin and was capable of possessing the bodies of others. When Nu Alin had seized control of Tempest, Albanon and Roghar’s efforts to rescue her had brought them to Uldane and his companions, Shara, a warrior, and Erak, an undead servant of the god of death and fate, as well as the young cleric, Falon, and the old dwarf, Darrum.

All three groups had different quests. Albanon and Roghar pursued Nu Alin and Tempest, of course, while Uldane and Shara sought a green dragon, Vestapalk, who had slaughtered friends and family. Falon and Darrum, on the run from undead creatures intent on killing the cleric, were searching for a way to end the attacks. Erak was the lodestone that drew their quests together, showing them how their goals intersected. In the tunnels beneath Thunderspire Mountain, they’d freed Tempest and driven off Nu Alin. Beyond the mountain, among the Old Hills, they’d descended into a vast, ancient necropolis. There, with Erak’s help, Falon and Darrum had fought a powerful undead wizard, a lich by their description, which meant that his defeat was no mean feat. Albanon and the others, meanwhile, had tangled with Vestapalk, ultimately sending the dragon plummeting to his doom in a deep crevasse.

And Uldane had been exaggerating: Albanon hadn’t killed the dragon. Shara had been the one to deliver the death blow. He had just helped. It had been exhilarating, though, an exhilaration that had lasted the entire journey back to Fallcrest—where he and Roghar were promptly thrown into the dungeons of the town’s keep for Moorin’s murder. They’d shivered in the dank darkness for nearly a week before their new friends had managed to persuade the Lord Warden of Fallcrest of the truth of the matter.

But the damage had been done. It was easier for the people of Fallcrest to cast suspicion on a disgraced apprentice and an unfamiliar dragonborn than it was to believe in a shapeless body-stealing blob of liquid crystal. Their whispers and glances had followed Albanon since the moment he was set free.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Albanon looked deep into his ale and sighed. Only a week after his release from the town dungeons, his companions had started drifting away.

Erak had never made it back from the necropolis beneath the Old Hills. The revenant had seemingly vanished and all of them assumed that the god he’d served had granted him a return to the peace of the grave. Falon and Darrum had been the next to leave, departing Fallcrest for the northern lake town of Nenlast, where Falon said he had to take care of “family business”—the young cleric, they’d all discovered, was actually the last heir to the fallen Empire of Nerath. He had declined offers of assistance, however, insisting that it really was just a family matter and promising to return when it was concluded.

Roghar and Tempest had left a few days later. Albanon could no more blame them than he could Falon and Darrum. At first, Tempest had seemed to recover fully after serving as unwilling host for more than a week to the foul Nu Alin. But then the nightmares had started, memories of the thing that had taken control of her body. Nu Alin’s alien thoughts haunted her. “It was a person once, I think,” the tiefling had said one night. “It thought of itself as a man—or at least, male. But that must have been a long time ago. It was old.” She’d swallowed hard. “It is old. We didn’t kill it, did we? I feel like it’s coming for me. It’s going to come back and take me again. I’m sorry, I just can’t stay here. I need to put some distance between me and it before I can even think about finding peace.”

She’d cried, and Albanon couldn’t help but think that it was the first time he’d ever seen a devil-blooded tiefling do that. Roghar, her closest friend, had folded her in strong arms. The next morning, they’d boarded one of the riverboats and headed downstream for the distant city of Nera, ancient capital of the fallen empire of Nerath. Tempest had waved from the deck, already relieved at putting distance between her and whatever remained of Nu Alin.

And that had just left Albanon, Uldane, and Shara in Fallcrest.

But not for much longer, if they could help it. Albanon risked a glance up and was relieved to find that the patrons of the Blue Moon had finally turned away from him—for the moment, at least. He sat up straighter and brushed back his hair. Two weeks had passed since Tempest and Roghar’s departure. Shara and Uldane were growing restless. Used to life on the road as adventurers and swords for hire, they were starting to find Fallcrest claustrophobic.

And after another two weeks of glances and whispers, he had to admit that he was, too. Before Moorin’s death, he’d sometimes contemplated a life of adventure, but even now the battle with Vestapalk seemed almost like a dream. Something that had happened to someone else. It had taken those weeks for him to realize that it was time to look beyond Fallcrest. The town would still be his home. The tower that had belonged to Moorin—and now belonged to him, it seemed—could still serve as a base. After what he had experienced, though, he was no longer, as the baker had said, normal folk.

All they needed was a focus, a destination, and that’s where Shara was right now: following up leads in an attempt to locate something suitable to their skills. The warrior-woman was hardly much older than Albanon himself, but she had a certainty and experience that he couldn’t have matched. She had assumed leadership of their group even before the others had left. When she returned, she’d have a quest in hand, and then … then they would make preparations to put Fallcrest behind them.

The idea raised Albanon’s spirits. Soon they’d be leaving the normal folk to their normal lives and heading out in search of adventure, the stuff of bards’ tales. A smile spread itself across his face. He drained his tankard of ale and slammed it down on the table with a decisive, triumphant thump.

“You! Eladrin!”

Albanon looked up and flinched. Kossley Varn stood over him, one meaty hand gripping the ivory-handled dagger, the other clamped firmly onto Uldane’s shoulder.

The alehouse went silent. Albanon started to stand, but Kossley shoved his coarse face into the eladrin’s, forcing him back down. “This halfling,” he growled, “says you wanted him to give me this dagger.” He slammed the blade into the tabletop just past Albanon’s shoulder. To Albanon’s relief, he left it there, quivering metal flashing in the lantern light. “Is that true?”

Thoughts of adventure, fame, and fortune vanished from Albanon’s mind. The hero who had faced down a dragon disappeared, leaving only Moorin’s apprentice to fumble for words. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say—”

Kossley thrust his face close again, close enough for Albanon to smell onions and ale on his breath. “And just how did you manage to come by my dagger?”

Albanon shot a glance at Uldane. The halfling was grinning, enjoying this little confrontation. Of course he would. He’d already done his best to weasel out of it. Albanon clenched his teeth and said through them, “You don’t have the whole story, Master Varn.”

“Don’t I?” the farmer said. He turned Uldane loose and leaned down with his hands on either side of Albanon. “Tell it to me then. What game are you playing? Were you hoping to get a reward out of me? Something for finding my ‘lost’ dagger?” The spells that he had worked for so long to master rose in Albanon’s mind. Spells to burn, to hurl arcane energy, to call down bone-chilling cold. Any one of them could have driven Kossley Varn back in a heartbeat and left him hurting as well. Moorin’s lessons had been about more than manipulating magic, though. They’d been about controlling it—and himself. Albanon sat back and drew a slow breath. Revealing Uldane’s theft of the dagger wouldn’t do them any good. He needed to talk his way out of this on his own.

“I had no intention of asking for a reward,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “I simply recognized the dagger and knew that you’d want it back.”

“Oh, and how did you happen to recognize it? Been sizing me up as an easy mark, have you? I know your type, boy.”

Albanon sat forward again, anger rising again. “I recognized your dagger because you show it off every chance you get, you foul-tempered—”

“Is there a problem here?”

Kossley stood straight and turned to face … Shara.

For a moment, his mouth hung open. Albanon had seen that reaction before from men confronting Shara for the first time. With thick red hair, a pretty face, and a subtly muscled, curvaceous body that was emphasized rather than hidden by her light armor, she was a stunning sight. She wasn’t afraid to take advantage of her appearance, either. Hands on her hips, she held Kossley in a strong, proud gaze, challenging him to challenge her.

Unfortunately, Kossley Varn was ornery enough to try it. The slackness left his mouth. “Stay out of this,” he said. He turned back to Albanon.

Shara put a hand on his shoulder and dragged him back around to her. Kossley’s mouth fell open for a second time. Shara’s muscles might have been subtle but her strength was very real. So was her resolve, as hard and sharp as the greatsword strapped across her back.

“These are my friends,” she said. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Kossley opened and closed his mouth several times, and his eyes darted around the room as if sizing up his options for dealing with this redheaded force of nature. A number of the other patrons of the Blue Moon were starting to look away and, leaning over the bar, the alehouse’s owner was having urgent words with a dwarf Albanon knew to be a sergeant of the Fallcrest guards. Kossley licked his lips, and Albanon could guess at the thoughts running through his head. He might have been rich and powerful but at that moment, he was the one shouting accusations and threatening a peaceful—if recently imprisoned—man for the slightly dubious crime of trying to return a lost dagger.

Albanon held back a smile as Kossley Varn gathered himself up and shrugged off Shara’s hand. “There’s no trouble,” he said. “Just a misunderstanding.” The farmer reached past Albanon, jerked his dagger out of the tabletop, and stomped back to his own table.

Sound returned to the crowd, though not quite in time to muffle the loud sigh of relief from the Blue Moon’s owner at a fight averted. Only Uldane seemed disappointed. “Nothing ever happens around here!” he said in complaint.

Shara’s hand caught him by the same shoulder Kossley had held and steered him to a chair. “Nothing that you don’t start,” she said. Uldane made a noise of protest, but Shara just glared at him. “I don’t want to hear it.” She turned her gaze to Albanon. “You kept your head. I’m glad I’ve got one person I can count on.”

“Thanks.” Albanon looked at the scar the dagger had left in the table and winced. “I think the sooner we’re out of Fallcrest for a while, the better. What did you find out?”

Shara sighed and took one of the other chairs. “We’re not leaving yet.”

“What?” Uldane yelped. He bumped his head against the tabletop. “No. No. No.”

Shara grabbed the back of his collar. “Calm down. It’s just temporary. Something’s going to turn up.”

Eventually, Albanon knew, something would turn up. It had to. Fallcrest stood at the center of the Nentir Vale, the largest town in the region. Under Shara’s brave expression, however, he could see the disappointment that haunted her face. She’d assumed leadership of their group, but she wasn’t filling the role. He’d learned enough of her background to discover that her father, killed by Vestapalk, had himself been an adventurer of some renown. He’d trained Shara. One of the others killed by Vestapalk had been a man named Jarren, a fighter of some skill. He’d also been Shara’s love.

She had a lot to live up to—in her own mind, at least.

“What did you find out?” Albanon asked. He knew a thing or two about trying to live up to expectations. The question would give Shara something to think about, a chance to remember what she had accomplished rather than what she hadn’t.

She shrugged and sat back. “Nothing new. Things are quiet just now,” she said. “There were bandit attacks not long ago east of Fallcrest, but they’ve gone to ground. There are goblins in the forest to the south, but they’re busy fighting the Woodsinger elves. The lizardfolk that hunt the Witchlight Fens are quiet. Even the kobolds in Kobold Hall over in the Cloak Wood are keeping their heads down.”

“Maybe they heard about what we did to Vestapalk,” said Uldane, looking up from his folded arms. “Maybe they’re afraid of us.”

“Wishful thinking,” Albanon pointed out.

“Killing a dragon has to count for something!”

“It does,” said a new voice.

They all looked up at the stranger who stood, a respectful sword’s length, back from the table. A big man, he stood at least as tall as Shara and maybe as tall as Roghar, with shoulders almost as wide as the dragonborn’s. His hair was dense and shaggy, touched with just a little gray at the temples. More gray like ashes stood out in the heavy stubble on his face. His eyes, sharp and focused, were gray as well, giving him the unnerving stare of the pale-eyed. Twin axes were slung over his hips, and although he wore no armor, he carried himself in a way that said he knew how to wear it. As he stepped closer to the table, Albanon caught the distinct odor of tar and muddy water that clung to him. The smells of a riverboat—one must have just arrived in town. The stranger met his curious gaze and held it for a moment, but his eyes moved on to Shara.

“Among those with the strength to test themselves,” he said, voice growling low in his chest, “fighting and besting a dragon will always be worthy of respect.”

“We didn’t do it alone,” said Shara. “We had the help of friends.”

“So I’ve been led to understand. One of the water rats on my boat coming upriver considered himself a bard, but he seemed more of a gossip. I’m happy to see he wasn’t just making it all up.” He smiled, showing startlingly white teeth. “Assuming you are, in fact, Shara, daughter of the ranger Borojon.”

Shara’s expression flickered at her father’s name, but her eyes narrowed as well. “If I am,” she said, “then you know my name but I don’t know yours.”

The stranger pulled out the fourth chair at the table and sat down without waiting for an invitation. “Raid,” he said. “Hakken Raid.”

His familiarity in joining them surprised Albanon for a moment, but there was something in Raid’s manner that soothed the irritation like salve on a burn. The broad smile, the piercing pale eyes, the confident voice—Hakken Raid, Albanon guessed, was a natural leader, born to take command. Not that Shara hadn’t been trying her best, but Raid was easy, almost casual about it.

“What brings you to Fallcrest, Hakken?” Albanon asked, only to be nearly drowned out by Uldane’s eager questions.

“Where are you from? Where were you before this? I bet they’re not the same place—you don’t look like you stay somewhere for long. Do you fight with both your axes at the same time or is one for throwing—?”

Shara reached around and stifled the halfling.

Raid chuckled, a soft, rich sound. “The gods gave us two hands, so I fight with both. They gave us two legs, so that we can walk away from places we don’t like or that don’t like us. I am a wanderer, from everywhere and nowhere. The place where I was born means as little to me as the place where I will die. And the reason I’ve come to Fallcrest”—he looked to Albanon—“remains my secret for now. But let’s just say that it’s something a group willing to take on a dragon might be able to help me with.”

Surprise and elation tingled along Albanon’s spine. “Legs to walk away from places that don’t like us. By the moon of the Feywild, I like the song you sing, Hakken.”

“Call me Raid,” the big man said. “I knew I’d find a kindred spirit here.”

Uldane’s squeals of excitement were audible even from behind Shara’s hand. He spluttered and forced her hand away. “He wants us to go adventuring with him.”

“I figured that out,” said Shara. She looked at Raid. To Albanon’s surprise, she didn’t seem to share in their joy at this unexpected opportunity. “So you knew my father?” she asked.

“Knew of him,” Raid said. “Stories of his adventures had spread beyond the Nentir Vale. He wasn’t my only choice to approach, but I was definitely considering making the journey north to Winterhaven to look for him. At least until the crew of the riverboat told me he was dead. Discovering that his daughter and her companions carried on his work in Fallcrest was an unexpected opportunity, so here I am.” He spread out hands scarred by battle and still dirty from his journey.

“Why here?” said Shara.

Raid paused with his hands wide. “What?”

“Why come all the way here on your own? Why not find your help wherever you were?”

Her voice was blunt to the point of being rude. Albanon raised his eyebrows. “Shara, is that any—?”

“It’s a fair question,” said Raid before he could finish. He folded his hands and met Shara’s gaze. “There wasn’t anyone suitable where I was. Nobody I wanted to pay to travel with me, at any rate. And anyway, I want locals. People who know the region.”

“We know the region!” Uldane stood up on his chair and stretched out a hand to Raid. “I’m Uldane. That’s Albanon. Where you’re going—is it dangerous? Because we live for danger.”

Albanon wasn’t so sure he would have gone that far, but he was willing to let the halfling’s enthusiasm take over for the moment. Excitement brewed like a storm in his chest. This was the opportunity they’d been trying to find for two weeks!

Shara pushed down Uldane’s hand. “Easy,” she said. She didn’t take her eyes off Raid. “I think I’d like to know a little more before jumping into danger with you, Hakken.”

The big man’s smile faltered just a little. “Call me Raid,” he said again. “And as I told you, my reason for coming to Fallcrest is a secret I’d rather keep to myself. I’m willing to discuss conditions, but you’ll have to take my word that it will be worth your time.”

“I wasn’t asking about your business in Fallcrest.” Shara sat back. “I want to know about you. You’re a wanderer. You’ve heard stories of my father. Where have you been? Would I have heard stories of you?”

“Not likely.”

“Then tell me some.”

Raid’s eyes narrowed as he studied the red-haired warrior. The storm in Albanon’s chest turned into a tickle. He started to open his mouth to say something, but Shara gave him a glance so hard he closed his teeth on his words. For once, even Uldane was silent.

Raid lifted his head. “Ask me what I am,” he said, “and I’ll tell you that I’m a hunter. That’s how I started. Name a creature and chances are I’ve tracked it. I’ve probably even killed it. With that kind of wandering, I think it was only natural I’d turn to an adventuring life. I practically fell into it. Between hunting and adventuring, I’ve probably been everywhere. The Dragon Coast and the Two Rivers Gulf. The ruins of Bael Turath. The cities of the south and the lands of the far west. Jungles, deserts, mountains. I had companions.” His gaze swept the table. “Until they were killed. Sole survivor, that’s me. After that, I left off adventuring—until now. One last adventure. One last mystery that I’ve spent years unraveling. It all comes down to this.”

Uldane looked like he might burst if he had to hold his curiosity in much longer. Questions buzzed in Albanon’s head, too, but Shara and Raid still held control of the table between them. Shara’s expression hadn’t changed. “You’re avoiding the question,” she said.

Raid drew a hard breath. “Maybe I don’t feel the need to open up to people I only know by reputation.”

“But you want us to do the same.” Shara tilted her head. “One question. Answer it square. Are you after treasure, secrets, or revenge?”

He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Treasure.”

“How much treasure?” Uldane asked. The words came out in an eager gasp. They brought a smile back to Raid’s face.

“Enough to get you out of Fallcrest and anywhere you want to go,” he said. “Enough to live like a noble when you get there.” He looked around at them again, then his eyes settled on Shara. “What do you say?”

She looked back at him. “No,” she said.

The storm inside Albanon dropped straight into his gut. He stared at Shara. So did Uldane, a little whine creeping up out of his throat. Shara, however, had her eyes solely on Raid.

The man with the twin axes sat perfectly still for a moment before repeating, “No?”

“No. We’re not the ones you want. Go try the Lucky Gnome Taphouse. It’s right off the Market Green.”

A dark look of anger flashed across Raid’s face. Before Albanon could say anything, he was on his feet. “I’m not used to having my offers denied,” he said.

“You didn’t offer us anything,” said Shara. “Consider it a frank assessment.”

Raid’s jaw tightened. “Then I thank you for your honesty. May your gods keep you.”

He turned and stalked off, sliding with angry grace through the crowd of patrons. Shara let out a long breath. Albanon rounded on her. “What are you doing?” he yelped. “That was what we wanted, wasn’t it?”

Eyes still on the crowd where Raid had disappeared, Shara shook her head. “No,” she said, “it wasn’t. I don’t think I’d go around the corner with Hakken Raid.”

“Are you insane?” demanded Uldane. “This was perfect!”

Shara’s lips pressed tight and a flush crept into her cheeks. “There was something about him I didn’t like,” she said. “He wouldn’t tell us where he wanted us to go.”

“You hardly gave him a chance to,” said Albanon.

“He traveled alone.”

Uldane slumped down his chair and crossed his arms. “Right now I can see why he’d want to.”

Shara looked between them. “Were you two that taken in? How much have you had to drink?”

“Not that much,” Albanon said hotly. “Maybe he didn’t want to tell a bunch of strangers all of his secrets straight out. What’s wrong with that? Why shouldn’t we have taken a chance with him?”

“For one thing, what would you have done if you’d agreed to help him, then didn’t like what he told you? Would you have walked away? Maybe keeping your word doesn’t matter that much to you, but it does to me.”

Her words stung. Albanon felt his cheeks flush. “I keep my word!” he protested, but Shara didn’t stop.

“He didn’t give us one piece of information of any significance. He dodged all of my questions, even when I gave him opportunities to answer openly. So he’s been a hunter and an adventurer. So he’s been to a lot of different places. He didn’t give us any specifics.”

“He said that he’d come to Fallcrest looking for treasure,” Uldane pointed out.

“And that’s all he said.” Shara looked straight at the halfling. “You should know that question, Uldane. It was one of my father’s favorites. Anyone who wanted to hire us, he’d ask that question. The answer doesn’t matter so much as what comes after it. Raid didn’t say anything about the treasure or why he wanted to find it—he just told us how rich it would make us.”

“Uldane asked how much treasure,” said Albanon. “Raid was just answering him!”

“What about how he reacted when I turned him down? He took it like a personal insult, as if I’d laughed in his face.”

“He came all this way looking for us and you said no. I’d be disappointed, too.”

“Would you be angry like he was?”

“Probably.” Albanon felt more than a little angry already.

“Trust me,” Shara said. “We’re better off staying right here.”

Albanon inhaled slowly and tried to call up the discipline that had kept him calm with Kossley Varn’s face shouting in his face. This time, however, it eluded him. A hot sense of disappointment burned in his belly. The feeling of isolation and displacement he’d managed to overcome only a short time before came crashing back over him. He looked back up at Shara.

“I don’t think we are,” he told her. “I think we need to get out of Fallcrest, but there’s nothing else to do unless we want to strike out on our own. You’ve just scared off our best chance at an ally.”

Shara scowled. “I don’t trust him,” she said curtly.

“Well, I liked him,” muttered Uldane. “I think Borojon would have felt the same. So would Jarren.”

Shara sucked air through her teeth and whirled on him. “You don’t know what my father or Jarren would have felt,” she said harshly. “You like everybody!”

Uldane flinched as if she’d struck him, but Shara had already turned to glare at Albanon. “And what do you know? You think being a wizard’s apprentice then falling in with a bunch of adventurers by chance makes you a good judge of anything? I know what I’m doing.” Shara thumped her chest. “My father taught me more than just how to swing a sword. He taught me what to look for when I’m choosing my allies.”

The declaration was too much. Albanon’s face burned hot. “I wish he’d taught me, then,” he said, “because I’ve clearly made a mistake in choosing mine.”

He stood up, his chair scraping across the floor. Shara finally winced in recognition of her harsh words, but it was too late. “Albanon, no—that’s not what I meant.”

“Really? I wouldn’t know. I’m not a good judge.” He turned away from her and from Uldane, curled down in his chair and watching them in sullen silence.

“Stop acting like a child!”

Albanon stiffened and looked back at her. A wide swath of the alehouse had gone quiet again, listening in on their argument. Shara’s face was taut and hard. Albanon raised his chin.

“Don’t bother coming back to the tower tonight,” he said. “I’m raising the wards behind me when I go in.”

He walked out through the staring crowd with his head held high and his heart beating like a running dog.

A steep bluff cut through the middle of Fallcrest, dividing the upper town from the lower and creating the high cascade in the Nentir River that gave the town its name. The Blue Moon was in the lower town; the tower that had been Moorin’s was in the upper. Many times over the years of his apprenticeship, Albanon had used the climb up the crooked road along the bluff’s face as an opportunity to sober up after an evening at the alehouse.

Sometimes sobriety and second thoughts came whether he wanted them or not. By the time he was halfway up the bluff, his anger was already ebbing.

By the time he’d reached the top, regret was a gnawing hollow in his gut.

Albanon paused at the brow of the bluff and leaned against the well-worn rail that had been set there long ago for just that purpose. Fallcrest spread out below him, a few windows still lit here and there by late-night candles, but most of the town’s buildings were dark and quiet shapes under the moonlight. The Nentir River made a shining ribbon that rolled past the town wall and on into the shadowed countryside beyond.

There were adventures to be had out there—did it matter if the Lord Warden assigned them a task or Hakken Raid had some crazy secret plan? He and Shara and Uldane were a team. They’d find something for themselves. They’d beaten Vestapalk together. And maybe Shara was right. What did he really know of judging people? He’d gone straight from his father’s estate in the Feywild to Moorin’s tower. And in the wake of his master’s murder, he’d joined forces with Tempest, Roghar, and the others almost by accident. Shara had experience, even if she didn’t have tact. She knew what she was doing. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so eager to listen to Raid.

He screwed up his face, though, wrinkling his nose at his own weakness. Just because Shara was right didn’t mean he had to let her insult him. Let her spend the night somewhere else. Maybe even outside. It wasn’t going to hurt her. They could apologize to each other in the morning. Albanon turned away from the sight of the lower town. Farther along the brow of the bluff, the reflected brilliance of moonlight on white stone showed how the Glowing Tower had come by its name. Albanon tried to put Shara out of his mind as he walked, but it was hard not to dream of the morning; Shara, damp with dew and sleep-deprived, stinking of some cowshed where she’d taken shelter. It was almost a pity that the night was cloudless. A light shower of rain to add to the warrior-woman’s discomfort would have—

Albanon’s hand was on the handle of the tower’s door before he noticed something was wrong. He turned sharply and squinted into the moonshadows, searching for the subtle traces of magic. There were none.

But there should have been. Moorin had woven arcane wards around the tower long ago. Albanon took care to speak the ritual words that raised them whenever he went out.

The last time he’d come home and found the wards unexpectedly dispelled had been the night Moorin had been killed.

He hesitated before pushing the door open silently. Whatever had brought down the wards was probably inside. Only one suspect came to his mind: Moorin’s killer, the creature Nu Alin. Granted, they’d beaten it—him, if Tempest was to be believed—back deep in the tunnels of Thunderspire Mountain, but what if he had lived and managed to make his way back to Fallcrest?

On the other hand, what if there was no one in the tower? What if he had simply forgotten to raise the wards tonight? Or what if they’d only lasted so long without Moorin’s influence to maintain them? He hadn’t considered that possibility before. Either way, if he raised an alarm that turned out to be for nothing, his already damaged reputation would be completely shattered. He’d be laughed out of town.

Just a quick look, he promised himself. Just a quick look to be sure there really is someone. Then I’ll go get help.

He stepped inside.

CHAPTER TWO

The barking speech of gnolls assaulted Nu Alin’s ears. The only time the savage creatures closed their hyena-like muzzles was when they were stalking prey—and there was little enough of that to keep them happy. Yips, yaps, and growls accompanied every action. Coupled with matching cackles from the actual hyenas that the gnolls kept as pets, the din made Nu Alin want to puncture his host’s eardrums for silence. The only thing worse was the stink that rolled off both gnolls and hyenas to saturate the den they’d claimed in the labyrinth beneath Thunderspire Mountain.

No, Nu Alin knew that wasn’t true. There was something worse than the noise and the stink. Until he recovered his strength and found a new host, he was a gnoll.

When I am free, he promised those around him silently, I will return and slaughter you all.

“Rooga!” called Gerar. “Bring meat!”

But he wasn’t free yet. Do it, he prompted his host.

And as if it was his own thought, Rooga rose from a crouch, snatched the leg of a dwarf out of the fire, and carried it through the den to where the tribe’s leader sprawled. Eyes and jealous whines followed him. Servitude among the gnolls was a strange thing, Nu Alin had discovered. The weaker served the stronger because they were forced to, yet being singled out to serve the strongest gnoll in the den was a mark of status.

He should have been able to tear Gerar limb from limb while wearing the body of a gnoll pup. Instead it had taken him a month—as near as he could reckon in the underground labyrinth—to force his foul host up the hierarchy of the tribe. If only he had his full strength.…

The tiefling, Tempest, had been a strong host. Her efforts to resist his control had been sweet to him. But interference, an error, had left Tempest trapped under fallen stone and Nu Alin’s hold on her weak. When her companions—that dragonborn, that eladrin, those others—had caught up to them, she’d been able to beg for release. To his shock, her friends had given it to her. A sword had pierced her chest.

For all of the power that the Voidharrow had granted to him centuries before, Nu Alin depended on a living host to sustain his own life. He’d left the tiefling’s dying body in an attempt to seize a new host only to discover that he’d been tricked. While one of Tempest’s companions healed her, the others assaulted his flowing form. They’d discovered a weakness, and Nu Alin had been faced with a harsh decision: fight and die or flee and seek out a new, less-resisting host.

He’d fled. He was the Herald, exarch of the Voidharrow. It called to him, a summons he could not deny, and he’d been so close to recovering it when Tempest had become trapped. He had to live to recover it, but to live he needed a new host. Unfortunately, he discovered, the dark tunnels of the labyrinth were like a desert. There was life there but little of it and isolated in oases. A new host was not so easy to find.

Nu Alin didn’t know how long or far he’d wandered, his already damaged liquid shape slowly losing cohesiveness. The Voidharrow itself was the only thing that had saved him, exploding across his consciousness like a sudden dawn. Somehow it had been freed from its prison!

Even as he’d felt the surge of the Voidharrow ebb back, that knowledge had given him the strength to go just a little further. With the last of his energy, he’d found the lone gnoll guard. Rooga had seemed strong and fit, an ideal host. Nu Alin hadn’t hesitated for an instant.

Only after he was safely within Rooga’s body had he realized how weak he’d grown. His host’s body should have been a tool for him to use, but it was all he could do to prod Rooga into action. Until he recovered his strength, his host was his prison, barely even aware of the presence lurking within. And Rooga was a particularly pathetic prison—lowest among the low, the gnoll had stood guard alone in the dangerous labyrinth because he’d been given no choice in the matter. Nu Alin would have abandoned him in favor of a new host if he’d had the strength.

But he didn’t. The distant call of the Voidharrow was a constant mockery.

Fortunately, unlike the gnolls, strength was not all he had to rely on while he recovered.

“I bring meat,” Rooga said, presenting the dwarf leg to Gerar. From behind his host’s eyes, Nu Alin watched the big gnoll grab it from him and tear into the bloody flesh. Such a horrid feast might have disturbed a lesser being, but Nu Alin consumed bodies in his own way. Rooga was fortunate that he was weak. The rigors that Nu Alin typically forced on his host bodies wore them out quickly. Rooga was still intact. Mostly. The flesh around his eyes was cracking and Nu Alin’s substance was peeking through. Among the gnolls, with their penchant for scarring and decorating their bodies, the change had gone unnoticed.

Nu Alin would need to move to a new form soon, though. His strength had almost returned. A few more days and he would be ready. He’d considered taking Gerar’s body. The gnoll was strong and agile. His body would be a good host. But he was still a gnoll, and the thought of dwelling in such a creature longer than he had to was nauseating. There were other creatures in Thunderspire Labyrinth, though.

Gerar looked at Rooga over his meat, black eyes flashing, then lifted his gory muzzle. “I like what you told me,” he said. “Treasure would make Maldrick Scarmaker happy.”

Answer, Nu Alin urged, and Rooga practically vomited in his eagerness to please Gerar. “If Maldrick is happy, Gerar will be happy, too. The ruins of Zaamdul hold what Maldrick craves!”

At one time, the voice of the Elder Elemental Eye had spoken to Nu Alin in his dreams, providing him with guidance and instruction. Now Nu Alin did the same to Rooga, though he let the gnoll believe the ideas were his own. Nu Alin had listened to the barking that assaulted him. Gerar’s band wasn’t the only pack of gnolls in the labyrinth, nor was it the most powerful. Even a strong leader like Gerar knew when to bend his neck.

Maldrick Scarmaker, favored of the gnolls’ demon lord, Yeenoghu, sought artifacts of the ancient minotaur city that Thunderspire Labyrinth had once been. Rumor among Gerar’s gnolls told of stores of such artifacts in an old underground palace not too far from their den. That none of the gnolls had considered the possibility of raiding those ruins to please Maldrick and advance themselves was another sign of their stupidity.

And perhaps their general cowardice. Gerar chewed another bite of dwarf flesh, then added, “The ruins of Zaamdul are haunted by demons and undead. Minotaurs go there looking for the treasure of their ancestors, too.”

Nu Alin was ready for him. He’d prepared Rooga for this. “So we avoid the demons and the undead, and find a minotaur,” the gnoll said in a wheedling whine. “One minotaur against Gerar’s pack. What treasure he has gathered from the ruins will be ours for the taking.”

Gerar’s eyes drifted half shut as the simple argument sank slowly into his feeble mind. Nu Alin watched him closely. He had left simple wealth behind long, long ago. Gold, ancient secrets—what did he care about those? The treasure he sought was a minotaur’s body. A body more powerful than any gnoll. A body that would allow him to escape Thunderspire and continue his journey in pursuit of the Voidharrow. He couldn’t simply march Rooga up to a minotaur and pass from one body to the next, though. Even his feeble host would have balked at that.

But as part of a pack in the frenzy of battle …

Finally the bloody muzzle curled into a toothy grin. Gerar drew back his arm and hurled the half-devoured leg across the den. “We will hunt in Zaamdul!” he howled, and the voices of the other gnolls rose in barking excitement. Rooga bared his teeth and folded back his ears, joining in his pack leader’s exaltation.

For once, the din was almost sweet, even to Nu Alin.

CHAPTER THREE

Albanon surveyed the sitting room of the Glowing Tower from the doorstep. The moon’s glow fell through the open door, providing more than enough light for his eladrin eyes. Nothing moved. He listened and heard nothing, but the thick stone of the walls dampened sound at the best of times. There was one sound that he should have heard, though. He considered the wisdom of calling out for a moment, then whispered, “Splendid?”

There was no response from the little pseudodragon that had been something between Moorin’s pet and his companion and who now considered herself Albanon’s guardian and moral guide. Splendid didn’t like taverns. When Albanon or the others stepped out to the Blue Moon, she was inevitably there to greet them with barbed comments on their return. That she hadn’t already made an appearance was a bad sign, but Albanon didn’t dare call out any louder.

The pseudodragon could hide as effectively as any rogue, though. She might still be all right. Leaving the door open behind him, Albanon crossed the room as quietly as he could and glanced briefly into the kitchen, then put his head cautiously into the tower’s central stairwell.

He was just in time to see light wink out in the door to the library that occupied the second floor. His stomach flipped and he ducked back, struggling to keep his breathing soft. Someone was definitely in the tower—and it seemed they knew he was here, too.

Or did they? There was no further sound from above. Whoever was up there, Albanon guessed, they were waiting, just like him. If he left now, he could summon help, but the intruder would have the opportunity to get away.

For once, he wished Uldane was there to slip up the stairs and peek into the library. No Uldane, though. No Shara to occupy the intruder while he held back to cast spells, either. But he had to know who the intruder was. Cursing the decision to leave his staff leaning in the corner of his bedchamber while he went out, he gathered his robes close and stepped cautiously on to the stairs. They were stone and wouldn’t give him away with creaking, but he still paused briefly on every step, listening carefully. There was still nothing. As he approached the library door, he flattened himself against the wall and waited once again. A slow count to ten, then to twenty. Then he stuck his head around the corner and peered into the library.

“Kerath-Ald!”

Albanon didn’t recognize the word that the figure standing before book-filled shelves shouted—he just ducked as a ray of brilliant light blasted overhead. The intensity of it seared an afterimage into his vision. When he looked again, splotches of radiance danced before his eyes. The figure in the library was just another bright blur, one that seemed to grow even brighter as it moved toward him swinging a long-hafted morningstar. The weapon left a glowing streak with each whistling passage.

He blinked rapidly, trying in vain to clear his vision, and thrust himself back to his feet. A new sense of anger rose alongside his fear. This was his home! After Moorin had died here, Albanon wasn’t going to let himself be driven out. Spells rose in his mind like sprites clamoring for attention. He chose one and spat the arcane words at the bright shape. A misty blue pellet seemed to condense out of the air and streak toward the intruder. The morningstar altered its trajectory as if to swat it away, but the instant the pellet struck the weapon it burst. A cloud glittering with frost exploded around the shining figure. Albanon could feel the chill of the magic from across the room.

The figure didn’t even pause in its advance. Albanon blinked again. The shining figure resolved itself into a man dressed in traveling gear. The wizard’s eyes were still too dazzled to make out further details, but he could see brighter streaks crawling through the light—symbols of protection dancing across the man’s garb. He was shielded from cold. Albanon cursed and tried to think of another spell that would stop him without damaging the precious books of the library.

The man raised his voice again. “Step forth!”

The words resonated with the power of command. Albanon tried to resist but couldn’t. He stumbled forward as if drawn by some unseen force. Blinking and shaking his head, he tried to recover his wits as the shining man raised his morningstar. He wasn’t going to let it end like this! Clenching his teeth, he focused his will and stabbed a hand at the intruder.

A silvery bolt leaped across the short distance between the two men and punched into the intruder’s stomach. The other man stumbled back with a grunt, the morningstar dropping down short of Albanon. He wasn’t finished, though. His head came up and Albanon saw that the light in his face was more than just an afterimage. His visage was truly glowing. The man’s gaze met Albanon’s and flared with a terrible brilliance.

The intensity of it stabbed into Albanon’s eyes and the library vanished in a haze of white light. Albanon cried out and stumbled back. He scrubbed at his eyes with one hand, but the light wouldn’t fade. Baring his teeth, he lashed out in the direction of the intruder. Bare hands wouldn’t stop the morningstar, but he wanted at least to hurt the man who was about to kill him.

His punches found nothing but air—but neither was there the sickening shock of the morningstar’s impact. Albanon froze.

“He has spirit,” said the intruder.

A delicate snort answered the comment. “He’s stubborn,” said a voice like a kettle coming to the boil, “and too pigheaded to know when he’s outmatched. I told you he’d attack with cold first. I wish all the people who think of eladrin as elegant could meet this one.”

Albanon twisted in the direction of the second voice. “Splendid?”

Leathery wings rustled as the pseudodragon launched herself into the air, then landed with a quiet thump on some new perch. “Apprentice,” she said by way of greeting. “You reek of ale. Did you fall into the barrel?”

Normally he would have exchanged insults with the haughty little creature or tried to appeal to her oversized vanity. Not this time. “What’s going on?” He spun back to where he thought the intruder was. “Who are you?”

“Demanding,” sighed Splendid.

“Reasonable questions,” the intruder said, much closer than Albanon had expected. He flinched and stumbled. A hand caught his arm and steadied him. “Here. Close your eyes and hold still.” The hand left his arm. “I said, close your eyes.”

The other man’s voice had a curious clipped accent, but it was firm, even a little imperious. Albanon hesitated.

“If you don’t close them,” said the intruder, “you’ll get my thumbs in them.”

Albanon shut his eyes. A moment later, he felt the pressure of thumbs against his eyelids. “All-Knowing Mistress, lift the veil from his sight,” the intruder murmured.

A prayer, Albanon realized as the blinding glow behind his eyelids faded into darkness. The thumbs lifted away and he opened his eyes.

He nearly flinched again as he got his first look at the opponent who had so thoroughly bested him. The intruder was human, which made no difference, but he was also old. Close-cropped white hair made a pale, bristling cap above a dark-tanned face as deeply lined as a piece of crumpled parchment. His frame seemed thin beneath his traveling clothes, but Albanon remembered the ease with which he had swung the morningstar—there had to be wiry muscles on those old bones.

A narrow crimson stole hung over his shoulders, dangling almost to his waist. Stitched in gold thread on each end was the symbol of a stylized eye with a vertical line beneath. The same symbol formed the golden pendant around his neck.

“Ioun,” he said. “You’re a cleric of the God of Knowledge.”

“My light shines in Her name.” The intruder touched a finger to his forehead in a ritual gesture. “Kri Redshal,” he said, and added as if it explained everything, “I’m an old friend of Moorin’s. I know you from his letters, Albanon.”

Albanon’s eyebrows rose and he waited for something more—an apology, perhaps—but none was forthcoming. Kri retrieved his morningstar from where it leaned against the library’s big desk. “We need to talk,” was all he said before heading back down the stairs.

Albanon looked to Splendid, also perched on the desk. The pseudodragon just shook out her wings. “It’s true,” she said. “I’ve met him before. A fine man. All these years later and he remembered my fondness for honeybark.”

“But what’s he doing here? What does he want?”

Kri’s voice came up the stairs. “Albanon!”

“Perhaps he’s looking for an apprentice,” said Splendid. She thrust herself into the air, flapped her wings twice, then glided for the stairs. “You could certainly use another master.”

Cursing under his breath, Albanon followed her.

“I’ve known Moorin for close to thirty years,” said Kri. His face tightened briefly and he corrected himself. “I knew Moorin for close to thirty years, though we hadn’t seen each other in person for a good number of those. I was supposed to come visit him here in Fallcrest several months ago. I was, unfortunately, delayed. I heard about his death only a couple of days ago on the boat coming to Fallcrest. I regret his loss.”

“We’ll take you to his grave in the morning,” Splendid told him. “Pitiful thing that it is. Hardly worthy of a wizard of Moorin’s stature.” She threw Albanon a disparaging glance.

He flushed. “I was in the dungeon of Moonstone Keep under suspicion of his murder when they buried him. I didn’t exactly have much influence on the matter.”

Splendid’s expression made it clear that she considered that his fault as well. He ground his teeth together and gulped at his cup of wine.

They’d seated themselves—or rather Kri had seated himself, leaving Albanon to run around in search of wine and whatever food he could scrounge in the pantry to serve his guest—in the chairs around the fireplace in the sitting room of the tower. Kri had at least gotten a roaring fire going and its cheerful light made the cleric seem less … Albanon had to search for a word. Harsh? Mysterious? Dire?

“If you arrived on the river tonight,” he said to fill the silence, “were you on the same boat as a man named Hakken Raid?”

“I might have been,” said Kri. “I kept to myself. I’d seen enough of other travelers well before I boarded that boat. The end of a long journey will do that to you. It’s the same reason I chose to enter the tower rather than wait for your return. Moorin had entrusted me with the key to his wards.”

“And when I did return, you chose to attack me why?”

The first smile he had seen from Kri creased the old man’s face. “To test you, of course. What better time would there be to catch you off guard?”

Albanon could only stare at him. Kri chuckled, a dry sound like bare branches in the wind, and sat back in his chair. “You were never in any real danger. Not unless you did something stupid. The way Splendid described you was different than how Moorin had. I wanted to know which Albanon I was dealing with. I’m pleased that Moorin’s description was more accurate.”

Albanon switched his gaze to Splendid. The pseudodragon was busy grooming herself like a scaly cat, apparently ignoring everything else in the room. Albanon knew better: Splendid seldom missed anything. Indeed, as if she could sense his anger, she looked and blinked at him indifferently. Albanon scowled at her and turned back to Kri. “How far have you traveled?” he asked.

“I make my home in Abermare.”

That explained the cleric’s accent, but Kri didn’t volunteer any other information. Albanon had read about Abermare, far to the south of the Nentir Vale. “The Sweet City, they call it,” he said hopefully.

“I could call Nera the city of emperors, but that wouldn’t bring back the imperial line,” said Kri. He sat forward. “Splendid told me something of the circumstances surrounding Moorin’s death.”

Old pain twisted Albanon’s gut. “Do you need me to tell you more?”

“Why would he need that?” Splendid tossed back her head. “I’ve told him everything. I was there, if you’ll recall.”

“Pseudodragons are loyal beyond death,” Kri said. The fingers of his free hand dipped into a pouch on his belt and extracted a strip of what looked like gnarled, glittering leather. Albanon might have mistaken it for some kind of jerky, but Splendid’s enthusiastic response when Kri flipped it in her direction made him guess it was the honeybark she’d mentioned. As the little creature attacked the strip, Kri added, “But their perception tends to be one-sided. I’m not entirely interested in Moorin’s death so much as the events surrounding it. Splendid said an artifact belonging to him was stolen?”

“A talisman of dead glass, yes,” said Albanon. “A crystal of black kelonite in a gold pendant. But it wasn’t stolen by Moorin’s killer—there were two intruders in the tower that night.”

Kri waved the information away. “Was anything else taken?” Albanon blinked at the question and Kri sat even further forward. “Was anything else taken?” he repeated.

“I don’t … I don’t think so. I’m not sure.”

“You need to be sure!” Kri said, slapping his hand against the arm of his chair. Wine splashed out of his cup. Albanon flinched back and Splendid looked up from worrying her honeybark. Kri took a slow breath, calming himself.

“You should know,” he said after a long moment, “that the reason I knew Moorin, the reason I was coming to Fallcrest, in fact, is because we both belonged to the ancient Order of Vigilance.”

“The ‘Order of Vigilance?’ “Albanon asked doubtfully. “What are you vigilant against?”

“The name came before we did,” said Kri, “but what we call ourselves isn’t important. What is important is that the Order gave something very valuable into Moorin’s keeping many years ago. I need to make certain that it’s safe.”

“Not the dead glass talisman?”

“Fortunately not.” Kri held out his forefingers, indicating an object about half a hand span long. “A glass vial capped in gold at either end and partially filled with a silvery red liquid that catches the light like fluid crystal.”

Albanon’s breath caught in his throat. He recognized the description of the vial—but also of the strange liquid. A connection between the captured liquid and something he had seen on his adventure with Shara, Uldane, and the others. A similarity he had half seen before but hadn’t fully grasped and that his mind, strangely, didn’t want to focus on now. “I know the vial,” he said. “I’ve seen it.”

Kri looked at him sharply, eyes glittering. “And …?” he prompted

The old cleric was perceptive. Unease at the thought that had flooded his head made Albanon shiver. “And it’s upstairs,” he said, rising. “Let’s go get it.” He deliberately put his back to Kri as he headed for the stairs.

When he’d first seen the strange ooze that was Nu Alin’s form bubbling from beneath the broken skin of a possessed body, Albanon had thought it looked familiar. Crimson shot through with streaks of bloody silver, a flowing molten crystal. Exactly like the substance in Moorin’s gold-sealed vial.

The third floor of the tower had been Moorin’s private sanctum. Through the years of his apprenticeship, Albanon had seldom entered it alone and never lightly. Even with Moorin’s death, going there made him uncomfortable, and not just because it had been the scene of his master’s grisly end. The high chamber held magical secrets and items of power that Moorin had forbidden him to touch without his permission and supervision. As much as Albanon considered himself a full wizard, in the darkest, most doubting part of his soul, he still had suspicions of his abilities. Confronted with the secrets Moorin had wielded, he still felt like an apprentice.

And Moorin had been murdered in the room.

Albanon opened the door at the top of the stairs and stepped through. A murmured word brought light to the polished crystal that hung in the center of the ceiling, then he moved aside so Kri could enter.

The cleric hesitated before entering. “You didn’t make much of an effort to clean up.”

Albanon’s ears burned all the way to their pointed tips. Moorin’s blood still spattered the room, a sign of the savagery with which he’d been torn apart. “I didn’t know where to start,” he confessed. If the Fallcrest guards hadn’t removed the pieces of Moorin’s body, the dismembered wizard might still have been scattered across the floor.

At least the chamber smelled fresh. The numerous windows that pierced the walls held no glass—magic kept vermin, birds, and inclement weather out. All the better, Moorin had said, to facilitate his studies of the night sky with the various spyglasses that stood on tripods by the windows and to air out the chamber when an alchemical experiment at one of the stone-topped tables in the center of the room went awry.

Albanon had left everything more or less the way it had been on the night he’d found Moorin. Books and scrolls, arcane devices and the strange trophies of long years in the pursuit of knowledge waited on shelves along the walls as if the mighty wizard might still return. Albanon paced from shelf to shelf, trying to remember exactly where he’d seen the vial Kri had described. He remembered it well, because Moorin had once caught him carelessly reaching for it. A spell from his master had nearly thrown him across the room.

“Don’t touch that,” he’d warned Albanon as the eladrin dragged himself up off the floor. “Not now, not ever.”

“If it’s so dangerous, why leave it lying around?”

“Because I like to keep an eye on it,” Moorin had said, then gestured around the chamber. “Besides, there’s no one here who would touch it—present company excepted. This is the safest room in the tower.”

If Moorin had been a seer, maybe he would have foreseen how wrong those words were.

Albanon stopped in front of a set of shelves bearing a collection of skulls—including that of a young black dragon Moorin claimed to have killed with nothing more than a wand and a rusty dagger—some rune-carved divination bones, a mummified kobold paw, and an eldritch compass Moorin had never taught him the use of. The vial had been on these shelves, he was certain of it. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he’d noticed it. He’d been retrieving one of the skulls. One up high … He pushed himself up on his toes and opened his eyes.

The shelf he looked upon was empty save for a large smudged clear space in the dust. “Swords of the feyknights!” he said under his breath.

“Move.” Kri bumped him out of the way with a deftness and strength that belied his age. One hand gripped the holy symbol around his neck while the other hovered over the shelf, fingers spread wide. His face went hard. “It was here.”

“How—”

“I can feel the taint that it leaves behind.” He looked at Albanon. “Who could have taken it? Splendid mentioned your companions. She didn’t trust them, especially a halfling that was among them.”

“Uldane?” Albanon scowled. “No, he wouldn’t have taken anything from in here, I’m sure of it. He respects the dead, if nothing else. None of the others would have taken anything, either.” He looked around the room. While it had still been wet and sticky, the blood had been disturbed by a multitude of boot prints. His. Roghar’s. Tempest’s. His eyes narrowed as he realized who else had been in the room.

“The Fallcrest guards were here,” he said. “They collected Moorin’s body. But they would have been under supervision.”

“Even watch commanders can have moments of weakness,” said Kri.

“It was Sergeant Murgeddin. I know him. I trust him. He came and told me about Moorin’s burial while I was in the town’s dungeon—” He cursed again as an idea came to him. “Nimozaran!”

“Who?”

“Another wizard. Nimozaran the Green—the High Septarch of Fallcrest, he calls himself. He was always jealous of Moorin. He helped with the investigation.” Albanon screwed up his face in anger. “He was the one who told the Lord Warden that I’d killed Moorin. He wanted to keep me imprisoned. I’m sure if he’d had the chance he would have plundered the Glowing Tower like a tomb robber. He’s a cowardly excuse for a spellcaster.”

As soon as he’d said it, though, he knew Nimozaran couldn’t have stolen the vial. The self-proclaimed High Septarch was too much of a coward. He’d gone out of his way to avoid Moorin when he was alive, and his best attempt at making a play for the Glowing Tower had been to have Albanon put in the town’s dungeon. He wouldn’t have had the nerve to actually steal from the tower, Albanon was sure of it.

But someone else had been willing to steal from the tower. Albanon looked back at the shelf.

The clear space in the dust wasn’t one large smudge but two smaller ones close together.

“The dead glass talisman was right beside it on the shelf,” he said slowly.

Kri uttered a profanity Albanon had never heard from a cleric before and turned on him. “What exactly happened here? You said the thief who stole the talisman wasn’t Moorin’s killer.”

Albanon swallowed and nodded. “The thief was a death knight, one of the undead. As far as we were able to figure out, he stole the dead glass talisman so his master, a lich, could use it in a ritual. Moorin’s killer was something altogether different. He called himself Nu Alin—”

“Nu Alin?” Kri looked as if Albanon had slapped him. “You’re certain that was the name?”

“He possessed one of my friends.”

“A shapeless thing, like quicksilver mixed with blood?”

“Exactly. Like the liquid in the vial,” said Albanon. “Yes, that was Nu Alin.”

Kri’s face tightened. “Albric the Accursed,” he said grimly, and Albanon had the sense that the cleric was talking more to himself than he was to him. “By the Book of Insight, the histories are right.”

His age seemed to fall over him, and for a moment, he was just another elderly human, so frail and unsteady that Albanon reached out to offer him support. Kri slapped his hands away. “What became of Nu Alin?” he demanded.

“How do you know about him?”

“I’ve served the god of knowledge for a long time,” said Kri. “I know a great deal about many things. Answer my questions and you might learn, too. What became of Nu Alin?”

Albanon blinked in surprise at the biting response. “We drove him out of my friend’s body, then forced him to flee.”

“The holy light of the gods?” Kri asked. Albanon nodded. The cleric grunted with grudging approval. “Well done. But Nu Alin is an old creature and hard to kill—he won’t have fled far. And what was the connection between this death knight and Nu Alin?”

“There wasn’t one that we were able to see. The death knight came to the tower first and took the dead glass, then Nu Alin came after, killed Moorin, and went in pursuit of the death knight.” Albanon had to force himself not to glance at the spot on the floor where the bloodstains were thickest. “We went after him—or at least after the body he was wearing at the time. When we finally encountered him, he kept talking about following the one who took … something from the tower.” He searched his memory for the word the creature had used. “It was a strange term, something I’d never heard before.”

“The Voidharrow,” said Kri. His voice was flat and hard.

Albanon raised his head. “That’s it!” The eladrin couldn’t help shivering when he recalled the way Nu Alin had talked about it. “He seemed obsessed with it.”

Kri’s face darkened. “He would be. It’s the liquid sealed inside the vial.” He started pacing, walking from shelves to table and back again. “The Voidharrow … calls to the weak minded. If it was kept next to the pendant this death knight came to steal, yes, he could easily have been drawn into taking the vial as well. Damn Moorin for an arrogant idiot!”

Albanon twitched and looked around for Splendid. As startling as it was for him to hear someone speak harshly of Moorin, the idea would have been blasphemy to the loyal pseudodragon. There was no sign of her, though. She must have still been occupied with her honeybark. “Moorin believed that it was safe,” he said.

“Well, obviously it wasn’t. I take it your battle with Nu Alin took place before he could find the death knight—where’s the undead now?”

“Gone,” Albanon confessed. “Fled after his master was defeated.”

“What?”

Kri’s voice was like thunder in the room. If he’d looked frail a moment before, he didn’t now. He towered in his wrath, and Albanon was glad that he had left his morningstar down in the sitting room. Still, glints of radiant light flashed in the cleric’s eyes and seemed to shine through his wrinkled skin as he raged. “You let him get away?”

“We didn’t know what the Voidharrow was or that the death knight even had the vial!” said Albanon. “Look, I didn’t even know that it had been stolen until just now.”

“And Moorin should be hauled back from the Raven Queen’s realm and made to answer for not properly teaching you. Ah!” Kri beat his fists against the sides of his head and turned away.

Albanon tried to remember the last time they’d seen the death knight. Falon and Darrum had seen him flee into the shadows after the defeat of his lich-master, but before that he had stood with Albanon and the others fighting Vestapalk, the dragon. Between them, he and Shara had dealt the blows that had sent Vestapalk plummeting to his doom. The death knight had even saved Shara from sharing the dragon’s fate.…

Shara.

“Shara might know more!” he said. Kri looked up and Albanon added, “One of my companions. I cast spells from a distance but she fought beside him when we battled a dragon.”

“A dragon?” Kri gave him a look of near disbelief. “This just gets better and better. Where is this Shara now?”

“I—” Albanon felt a flush of blood warm his face. “I don’t actually know. We had an argument tonight. I’m sure she’ll turn up in the morning, though.”

Kri went very still and stared at him with cold eyes. “You should hope so,” he said grimly, “because more rides on recovering that vial than you can possibly imagine.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Lucky Gnome Taphouse stank of sweat, river water, urine, and sour ale. Raid wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the first three were components of the fourth. He drank the ale anyway. He’d had worse.

The Blue Moon where he’d tried to recruit Borojon’s daughter and her friends had been cleaner, quieter, less fragrant—all-around a more respectable establishment. Raid actually liked the Lucky Gnome better. Taverns that were too homey left him feeling uncomfortable. If there wasn’t vomit in the corners, if you weren’t in danger of taking a dagger in the kidney for breathing wrong, it wasn’t a proper tavern.

The dwarves Raid had forced out of the narrow booth along the wall still hovered nearby, fingering knives as they drank. Raid made sure the axes on his belt and the scars of combat on his arms were visible. Either would be intimidating. Together they were more than enough to encourage the surly dwarves to keep their distance.

Raid had a lingering hope that they’d try something anyway. The Lucky Gnome looked like it had seen more than a couple of good brawls in its day.

Business before pleasure. Raid focused his attention back on the two men sitting across the booth from him. They murmured between themselves, voices low with long familiarity. Raid sipped his ale and gave them time to make their decision. He’d made his pitch. If they chose not to accept his offer, he’d find others. There were a few already lurking on the fringes of his attention. He’d spoken with the bartender when he entered. The man had pointed him to the pair that sat across the table from him, but word of what he wanted would have circulated. Intrepid souls, two or three, of varying skills and independent spirit. He hadn’t specified anything about upstanding character—for one because the Lucky Gnome just wasn’t the right place to look for it.

For another because the character of his companions didn’t matter any more than the color of their hair.

He lifted his ale to sip again just as the men looked up. “We’ll do it,” said the smaller of the two. Hollowed eyes in an unshaven face glittered in the dim light of the tavern. “Terms as discussed.”

Raid raised the worn mug to them. “An equal share of treasure recovered, save for our goal, of which you’ll receive a half to divide between you. And five hundred gold or the equivalent paid to each of you on our return to Fallcrest whether we reach our goal or not. We leave tomorrow; you provide your own gear, supplies, and mounts.”

“And your word that this mysterious destination of yours isn’t a death trap.”

“My word,” said Raid. He held out his mug. “The word of Hakken Raid.”

The hollow-eyed man rapped his mug against Raid’s. “Done says Tragent Kell.”

“Done says Dohr Stormsknife.” A third mug knocked against the other two. The hand that gripped it was heavy and thick, attached to an arm and body to match. Tragent Kell was human but Dohr Stormsknife had orc blood in his veins. The big half-orc and the thin human were an unexpected pair—all the more so because Dohr was the spellcaster and Tragent the swordsman.

But as long as steel was sharp and spells quick, it didn’t matter to Raid who wielded which. He tossed back his drink and slammed the empty mug down on the table. Tragent and Dohr’s mugs came down beside it, sealing the deal. Dohr’s mouth split in a smile above his tusks, and he waved for the serving wench.

“Another round!” he shouted, then turned his smile on Raid. “We’re partners now,” he said. “Time to tell us where we’re going.”

Raid smiled, too. “They say that long ago,” he said, dropping his voice to a murmur that forced Tragent and Dohr to hunch forward, “before the Nentir Vale bore that name, before Bael Turath and Arkhosia destroyed each other in war, a prince of the rakshasa built a shrine not far from where we now sit.” He looked at his new partners. “You know what rakshasas are?”

“Evil spirits given flesh,” said Tragent. “Cruel monsters with the bodies of men and the heads of great cats. Deceivers and masters of illusion.”

Raid nodded. “But illusion isn’t the only magic rakshasas have mastered. This prince studied the arts of summoning and binding. Through his rituals, he summoned angels and devils from the Astral Sea, elementals from the maelstrom of the Elemental Chaos, but most notably demons from the churning nightmare of the Abyss. He found in demons his greatest challenge and eventually turned his skills exclusively to mastering their power … and adding it to his own.” He paused, savoring the rapt attention in Dohr’s and Tragent’s faces. “Legend says that his greatest triumph was the defeat of twelve powerful demons—or thirteen or seventeen or twenty-one or twenty-three, the numbers vary. However many there were, the rakshasa prince stripped them of their vital essences, binding the mighty beings to an eternity of servitude imprisoned within skulls dipped in pure, soft gold—”

“Oh,” said a bright voice at his elbow. “You’re talking about the treasure of the Temple of Yellow Skulls, right?”

The three men reacted as one, heads jerking around, hands going to weapons. A wicked dagger flashed in Tragent’s fingers. Lightning snapped and cracked in Dohr’s palm. There was no room for Raid to draw an axe, but he kept a thin stiletto sheathed on his forearm for just such an occasion. The blade hissed like a serpent as Raid struck blind, guided only by reflex.

The stiletto should have sliced the interloper’s throat. Instead it skimmed above the head of the halfling who had slipped into the seat beside Raid, prompting him to duck and yelp in dismay. “Watch it! You could hurt somebody doing that!”

His voice was familiar. Raid blinked, fighting back the haze that came with rushing blood, and actually looked at the halfling. His eyes narrowed as Dohr growled, “This is a private conversation, friend.”

“Oh, sorry.” The halfling turned to look at the tavern patrons who had paused to watch the spectacle. “Hey, mind your mugs, you goblin kissers! We’re trying to get a little privacy here!”

Dohr looked ready to roar. The lightning in his palm sent flickering tendrils up his arm, illuminating his snarling face. Raid held up a hand.

“Easy,” he said. He put away his stiletto and studied the visitor to their table. “Uldane, isn’t it?”

The halfling looked pleased at being remembered. “I was coming this way and thought I’d stop by to see if you found the help you were looking for.”

Across the table, Tragent slowly lowered his dagger and nudged Dohr. The half-orc closed his fist, snuffing the lightning. Raid nodded approval, but kept his eyes on Uldane. “Where are your friends?” he asked.

A flicker of discontent passed across Uldane’s face. “Around,” he said. “Gone their own ways.” His expression brightened. “But what about the Temple of Yellow Skulls? Is that what you needed help for? Are you really going to look for the treasure? They say a lot of people have tried but they haven’t found anything.”

From the corner of his eye, Raid caught Dohr and Tragent exchanging a glance. He clenched his teeth. He’d have to crush their doubt before it grew. “A lot of people aren’t me,” he said boldly. “How do you know about the temple and the treasure?”

Uldane shrugged. “I’ve been around. I’ve heard stories. They say the ruins lie to the west of Fallcrest—”

Raid twitched a finger for silence as the serving wench came up to the table with three fresh mugs of ale. He watched her set down the mugs—she didn’t once glance at Uldane. As she straightened and turned away, he said. “There’s a fourth person at the table.”

The wench looked down as if noticing the halfling for the first time. “You want another ale?”

“No, he’ll have mine.” Raid slid his mug to the halfling, then jerked his head, ordering her away. The wench rolled her eyes and went. Slowly. Too slowly for a server in a busy taphouse. Just slowly enough for someone trying to listen in to what she had no business hearing.

She would bear watching. Raid turned back to his companions to find Dohr glaring at Uldane as the halfling struggled with a mug nearly as big as his face. Tragent leaned across the table. “I’ve heard of this Uldane,” he growled quietly to Raid. “He’s supposed to be good. Very good.”

“And?” Raid asked, keeping his expression neutral. He could guess how Tragent’s thoughts were running. Uldane offered their little company stealth and a rogue’s light touch. His appearance presented an opportunity for Raid—and a threat to Tragent and Dohr.

“And it doesn’t matter how good he is,” said the swordsman. “We don’t want to split our half of the treasure three ways instead of two.” At his side, Dohr grunted agreement.

“I’d rather think of it,” Raid said bluntly, “as a better chance of having any treasure to split at all. What do you say to that?”

Tragent’s face tightened briefly, then eased into a calculating expression as the benefit of having Uldane around sank in. It didn’t take long. He shared a glance with Dohr, then said, “We still want our five hundred gold each. We’re not sharing that.”

“Fair enough.” Raid turned back to the halfling and raised his voice once more. “Uldane, what I said to you and your friends still holds. Tragent and Dohr here have pledged to join me. You already know more than you should. If you want to learn more …”

Uldane set his mug down with a thump and a belch. “I’m in.”

Even Raid blinked in surprise. “Do you want to hear the terms?”

“Whatever they agreed to is good enough for me.” Uldane grinned. “I want to get out of Fallcrest for a few days.”

“Then we leave tomorrow,” said Raid with a matching smile. He gestured for the others to lean close. They did. “What Uldane says is right. Rumors of the golden skulls, be they magical or not, have lured generations of treasure seekers to the ruins of the temple. Those that have returned have come back empty-handed. But we won’t.” He tapped the side of his head. “I know the secret to finding the skulls.”

“Which you’re not going to tell us,” said Tragent. Raid nodded and the swordsman grunted. “Of course. Answer this, then: How did you come by this knowledge?”

Raid brushed the gray hair at his temples. “Like Uldane, I’ve been around,” he said. “I’ve probably seen more of this world than all three of you put together.”

“Tragent and I have seen a lot,” Dohr said. “Enough to know when someone is ducking a question.” Dark eyes fixed on Raid. “We may have pledged ourselves to you, Raid, but don’t try to play us. Where does this secret of yours come from—and more importantly, can we trust it?”

A familiar tightness clenched Raid’s belly. He tried to push it back. “Can you trust it? I put myself at the same risk as you. Where does it come from—?” The tightness came again, turned into a choking knot rising up his throat.

The memories came with it. Raid shifted his eyes, looking beyond Dohr. “Far away from the Nentir Vale,” he said, “there is a place where all kinds of evil things make their home. What ends in the Temple of Yellow Skulls began in a temple of another sort. Half a dozen of us went in—confident, strong, experienced. I was the only one to return.”

The others went still as he continued. “We fought our way through the place, taking on trolls and giants and the spirits of elemental primordials. But something was stalking us, too, and it struck in the moments when we thought we were safe. One by one, my companions died until there were only two of us left: me and a holy warrior of Bahamut, Calamis. And eventually I realized that even though she appeared to be at my side, Calamis was gone, too. When she turned on me, I was ready for her.”

“We fought”—Raid mimed the crash of his axes against a bright sword raised to fend them off—“and I bested her. Or rather, I bested the creature that had taken her form. A rakshasa had picked up our trail through the temple. It had been picking my companions off one at a time. Calamis was its final victim. Even wounded, it still thought it could taunt me. A rakshasa’s spirit can only be permanently destroyed by a blessed weapon driven into the heart. What it didn’t know was that Calamis knew how to defeat its kind. She’d blessed a dagger herself and given it me.”

He drew a ragged breath. “I am not proud of what I did next. The rakshasa was in my power and I was angry. The creature tried to buy its freedom with ancient secrets. I had no interest in bargaining, but it pleaded and spilled its secrets anyway. It was a long time before my fury and grief were spent and I finally used Calamis’s dagger on her killer.”

Raid looked back at the spellbound trio who sat listening to him. “I’m no paragon of virtue to let a treasure slip between my fingers,” he said. “The only paragons I’ve ever known died in that evil temple. But I’m no fool, either. I’ve spent years researching what the rakshasa told me. As far as I can tell, what it babbled to me was the truth. The skulls wait for the one strong enough and smart enough to claim them. I intend to be that one.” He smiled. “With your help.”

Dohr and Tragent glanced at each other, then Tragent nodded. “That’s a fair answer. You’re risking yourself by going. We’ll stand by you.”

It was the answer he’d expected. Raid turned to Uldane. “And you?”

The halfling looked thoughtful as he sipped his ale. “If the rakshasa surprised you and took out your companions one at a time, how did your warrior friend know to give you a blessed dagger before she died?”

Raid felt his pulse throb in the vein above his right eye. He kept his face and voice neutral, though. “We didn’t know it was a rakshasa stalking us, but we suspected. She made one for herself, too, but the creature took her before she could use it.

“Pfft,” said Uldane. “That was careless of her.”

He took another swallow of ale.

Raid waited a moment longer before he asked tightly, “Does that answer your question?”

“What? Oh, sorry, I was just thinking out loud.” Uldane looked up and smiled. “In fact, here’s to the venture.” He raised his mug. “Here’s to us and the Yellow—”

Raid hissed like a cracking whip and Uldane caught himself. “Sorry. Just to us, then!”

“Here, here!” said Dohr, rapping his mug against Uldane’s. Tragent raised his as well. Raid put a smile on his face and spread empty hands.

“It looks like I’ll need another after all,” he said. He looked for the serving wench. “Ho!” he roared. “Another round here—and make it four mugs this time!”

The moon had set by the time they left the Lucky Gnome, companions before they’d even started their adventure. Tragent and Dohr went staggering off for wherever they laid their heads. Raid turned in the direction of the inn where he’d taken a room, then paused.

Uldane stood in the road outside the taphouse, looking uncertain. “The argument you had with your friends is causing you trouble?” Raid asked.

“I didn’t say we had an argument,” said Uldane. “And I’m fine. I’m just deciding if I want to go home yet or not.”

The halfling was wobbling slightly on his feet. Raid held back a smile. “Go home,” he said. “Or at least go somewhere to sleep. I want to be on the road by noon and I assume you’ll need some time to gather your gear.”

“I travel light.” Uldane slapped the dagger sheath at his belt, did a double take at finding it empty, then made a show of producing the missing weapon apparently from one ear. He juggled it from hand to hand before bowing with a flourish. Raid clapped his hands slowly.

“Go home,” he said again, and turned away.

Uldane called after him. “I’m sorry you lost your companions.”

Raid stiffened and stopped. Maybe Uldane took that as some sort of invitation because he added, “I know what that’s like. Three of my friends were killed by a dragon. Shara and I were the only survivors. Until it was dead, revenge was all she could think about.”

“Thank you.” Raid forced his body to relax, then looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about it, though. It happened a long time ago.”

“If you ever do—”

“Good night, Uldane.” He started walking again, listening carefully in case Uldane decided to follow him after all. There was nothing, and when he looked back, he could see Uldane’s short figure weaving away in the other direction. Raid turned and walked a little further, making his way with a confident, unwavering stride. He hadn’t consumed nearly as much ale as Dohr or Tragent or even Uldane. He smiled to himself. Maybe Borojon’s daughter had turned him down, but now he had a team that was better than her and her rusty sword. She could beg to join his party of adventurers and he would delight in saying “No.”

No, Hakken!

Memories of another woman’s pleading came to him. Raid shivered at their touch. He’d held them back while he’d told Uldane, Tragent, and Dohr the story they’d needed to hear. A story so carefully prepared he sometimes believed it himself.

Raid’s axes swung together and shattered the sword raised to fend them off. Calamis flung up a metal-cased arm to ward off the spray of fragments. Raid swung again before she could recover. One axe creased the shining silvery metal of her breastplate. The other bit deep into her arm, driving scraps of leather and broken rings of mail deep into flesh before the edge scraped against bone. Calamis gasped and fell back, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “No, Hakken! Remember who you are! Remember who I am!”

He held the axes low and high, poised for a killing strike. “I know who you are,” he snarled. “I know what you are. No one rejects me.”

“Hakken, you’re a fine companion, but I have made vows. I told you that.”

“Just like you told the others what I said. Did you enjoy hearing them laugh at me? It’s your fault they’re dead.”

“My fault?” Calamis’s fear-wide eyes turned hard and narrow. “You. You killed them.” She clenched her teeth. “It’s this place—this temple of evil. You have to fight it. Take my hand, Hakken. The grace of Bahamut will give you strength.”

The low axe skimmed out and sheared away half her hand. She screamed and snatched the maimed limb back. Raid dropped the axe. It rang on the stone floor. He raised the remaining axe.

Fear flashed in Calamis’s eyes. Her face grew as pale as her armor and she shrank back further. Her screaming and pleading went on for a long time. How long Raid wasn’t certain because at some point it was no longer her voice he heard but something … else. Something that whispered through the paladin’s tortured screams.

“You seek power, Raid. You seek respect.”

His breath felt hot as it flowed over his lips. “No one will reject me. I will not be denied.” He made Calamis shriek again.

The whispering voice seemed pleased. “You are my true disciple. You will be my instrument. Through your actions, my temple will rise again. Swing, Raid. Finish her and see your destiny!”

Calamis’s eyes went wide again as he swung the axe one last time—and Raid saw another Eye swirling in their depths. And in her final scream, he heard the secrets that the Elemental Eye had to tell, secrets of ancient power locked away in golden skulls.…

Raid shuddered with pleasure at the memory of that first brush of the Elemental Eye’s majesty. There had been others since—many others as he’d unraveled the task that the Eye laid out before him—but none were ever so satisfying as that first time. But he was so close now. The power of the golden skulls would restore the temple of the Elemental Eye.

And perhaps more. He was no fool. His quest for answers had uncovered more than the secret of the Temple of Yellow Skulls. He knew the Eye for what it was. He knew the voice that had spoken to him so many years ago. He knew to whom it belonged and he knew His many names. The Elder Elemental Eye. The One Who Waits. The Patient One. The Eater of Worlds. The Undoer. The Chained God.

Tharizdun.

When the Chained God was freed, no one would ever deny Raid again.

Raid was close now. So close. He looked up to the sky above Fallcrest, up where he knew the Eye watched over him, and smiled a hunter’s smile. Then he turned back to the Lucky Gnome. There was a serving wench who needed a talking to about the hazards of eavesdropping.

CHAPTER FIVE

Morning came. Shara didn’t.

Albanon waited in the sitting room, then, as the sun climbed higher on the stone doorstep of the Glowing Tower. Kri appeared from a bedroom, grumbled at him, helped himself to more of the stores in the tower’s kitchen, and retreated to the library. Splendid flitted between Albanon’s shoulder and the library, blithe as a sprite in the morning light.

“I don’t blame her for staying away,” the pseudodragon said. “You weren’t kind to her.”

“Yesterday you called her an enormous oaf with the grace and hygiene of a cow.”

“Have you been inside her room?”

Albanon flushed. “No.”

“Then take my word. I was entirely justified,” She rattled her wings. “You, on the other hand …”

“I’ll apologize when I see her,” he promised.

“Excellent.” Splendid leaped into the air, wings beating hard as she climbed. “I’m going to see Kri again. I’ll come back if you need help with your apology.”

“No, I think I can manage it,” Albanon said quickly. Splendid gave a snort of disbelief, climbed a little higher, and disappeared through a window. Albanon sighed and leaned his head back against the wall.

Kri had kept him awake late into the night, making him tell the tale of the encounters with Nu Alin and Vestapalk over and over again. When the cleric had finally allowed him to stop, he’d stumbled to his bed and slipped deep into the trance that served eladrin in place of sleep. In his dreams, the dragon’s green scales melted into Nu Alin’s flowing crimson-streaked quicksilver while Kri’s voice echoed like a god’s, ranting and cursing Moorin’s lack of preparation. Albanon lifted his head from the wall and asked himself—again—why he was helping Kri. The old man was demanding, arrogant, infuriating … much like Moorin had been, he supposed. Only without his old master’s ultimate interest in the education of a worthy apprentice.

But Kri was a connection, however unlikely, to Moorin. The idea that both men belonged to, or had belonged to, an enigmatic order intrigued him. Why had Moorin never spoken of the Order of Vigilance, especially when, as Kri said, he should have been training Albanon in its ways? Had he not felt his apprentice was ready, or had he simply not gotten the chance to take that next step? Albanon wanted to believe it was the latter.

Helping Kri find the vial containing the Voidharrow was like carrying on Moorin’s legacy. Shara and Uldane had gained their revenge against Vestapalk with the dragon’s death, but all he’d managed to do was drive Nu Alin into hiding. Good for Tempest, whose body the creature had possessed, but what would that have meant to Moorin? And to discover that the vial of the Voidharrow his master had been tasked with possessing had also been stolen under Moorin’s watch was intolerable. Albanon felt the pull of necessity. The need to do something ached in his heart.

Not to mention, whispered a little part of him, that this might be the way out of Fallcrest that you’ve been looking for.

He tried to stifle that inner voice. What he would do, he’d do because Moorin’s memory demanded it. “This is for you, master,” he muttered. “I’ll make sure people remember your name.”

“A noble sentiment,” said Kri from the doorway beside him, “if we’re successful.”

Albanon yelped and sprang up, bashing his shoulder into the door frame in the process. As he hopped in pain and rubbed at the bruise, Kri stepped outside. “Almost noon,” he said. “Where’s your friend, Shara?”

“Probably still asleep somewhere,” said Splendid.

The pseudodragon had draped herself across the cleric’s shoulders. A hint of jealousy stirred in Albanon. Since Moorin’s death, he’d been the one Splendid had attached herself to—and the one she heckled and belittled constantly. Why was he jealous? He stood straight and looked at Kri, not Splendid. “Shara will be here.”

“I’m sure she will—if I wait for one of you stubborn children to loosen your pride and be the first to give in. We don’t have time for that. Where do you think Shara is?”

Albanon stared at him. “She could be anywhere.”

“This is Fallcrest, not Nera. Use your head. Think. I’m sure Moorin taught you that, at least.”

“He was an indifferent student,” Splendid chimed in. Albanon scowled at her, then looked back to Kri. The old man had a point. Fallcrest wasn’t that big, and if Shara was going to be too stubborn to come back to the tower, they’d have to go to her. And there weren’t that many places she was likely to stay the night.

“I have an idea,” he said.

On the north side of the Blue Moon Alehouse, the Moonwash Stream ran in a gurgling flow as it rushed to join with the Nentir River. A handful of other buildings lay downstream of the Blue Moon, and at the last and largest of these, a narrow race diverted water from the Moonwash to drive a groaning wheel. The slow and steady sound of a massive forge hammer falling in time to the wheel’s rotation, accompanied by the rhythmic counterpoint of smaller hammers, rolled over Albanon as he, Kri, and Splendid approached. A young dwarf emerging from the smithy paused as he saw them. Albanon met his eyes and they shared a short glance before the dwarf nodded once and disappeared inside. The eladrin let out a little sigh. “Yes, she’s here.”

“Good,” said Kri. “Well deduced.”

The words of praise—small though they might be—brought an unexpected burst of pride in Albanon. Shara had made a few friends in Fallcrest during her time in the town. She might have gone to almost any of them for a place to spend the night, but there was only one he could remember being in the Blue Moon the evening before: Teldorthan Ironhews, Fallcrest’s master weaponsmith.

The rhythm of hammers skipped a beat. Albanon listened carefully and thought he could make out the sound of arguing voices, one dwarf and male, the other human, female, and none too happy. The feeling of pride withered inside him. A moment later, Shara stepped outside. She wore a heavy leather apron and held a hammer with a white-knuckle grip that suggested the barely restrained urge to use it on Albanon. He swallowed. “Well?” muttered Kri. “Go! Meet her halfway.”

Teldorthan appeared in the door behind Shara, bright eyes watching. If Shara did use the hammer on him, Albanon thought, at least there would be someone to pull her off his broken body. Swallowing again, he crossed the yard. “Shara,” he said by way of greeting.

“Albanon.” Her answer was frosty. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

“I came—” he began, but the words came out weak. Hesitant. Albanon closed his mouth around them. This is your fault, he reminded himself. Face up to it!

He straightened his back and held his head high. “I came to apologize for what I said last night. You have more experience in judging people than I do. And if I said something that insulted the memory of your father, I’m sorry.”

Shara snorted. “So you brought an audience with you. Good choice.” She jerked her head toward Kri. “Who is this?”

Albanon winced and looked back to Kri. The old cleric just shook his head and kept his lips pressed tight together; one hand rested lightly on Splendid’s muzzle to keep her from interrupting. Albanon swung back to Shara. “His name is Kri,” he said. “He’s an old friend of Moorin’s and he’s come looking for our help.”

Shara’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’re apologizing because you want something from me, is that it?”

“No!” said Albanon, then winced again. “I mean, yes, we need you, but I wanted to apologize anyway. I was stupid. I should have listened to you instead of just whining because I was disappointed. I’m sorry.”

“And about telling me not to come back to the tower?”

Albanon put a hand over his heart. “Absolutely.”

“Humph.” Shara looked him up and down, then gave her hammer a twirl. “You’re lucky Teldorthan gave me a place to sleep last night and hot iron to beat my frustrations out on this morning.” She pointed the hammer at him. “You’re going to listen to me, right?”

“Right.” Relief spread through Albanon like the rising sun. He gave Shara a tentative smile and nearly staggered when she smiled back. “Come with us and I’ll tell you why Kri is here. There are some questions we think you might be able to answer.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Me?” she asked.

“You,” said Kri. “But not here—no offense, master smith.”

Teldorthan waved the apology away. “None taken.” He looked to Shara. “You’re welcome back any time, lass. You work harder than my apprentices when you’re angry.”

Shara laughed and turned to pass the hammer back to him. “Payment for taking me in.” She twisted her head to look over her shoulder at Albanon as she undid the thongs of the leather apron. “I’m surprised Uldane didn’t come with you to watch the excitement.”

Albanon blinked. With Kri’s insistence on talking to Shara, he’d scarcely thought about the halfling. “I thought he’d be with you.”

“He left the Blue Moon before I did last night,” said Shara. “I assumed he’d gone back to the tower and you’d let him in.” She shrugged and pulled off the apron. “I think our argument might have upset him. He might act carefree, but I know him. He doesn’t like to have friends fight. He’ll be around somewhere, I guess.”

“Ah, about that,” said Teldorthan, juggling Shara’s hammer while he reached into a pocket stitched onto his own apron. “One of the apprentices found this stuck in the door this morning. I didn’t want to give it to you until you’d calmed down.”

He produced a scrap of paper and handed it to her. Shara glanced at it—and Albanon saw her face turn deep red and her smile twist into a grimace. She crumpled the paper in her fist, then, almost as an afterthought, flicked it at Albanon. He caught the paper and spread it out.

Shara,

I know you’re staying here tonight. I’ve met some people and decided to go off with them to do some exploring. When you and Albanon talk again, tell him I dropped by the tower around dawn and borrowed some supplies from the pantry. I didn’t want to wake him up. He forgot to set the wards again.

By the way, I think you were wrong about Hakken Raid. I like him. Back in a few days!

Uldane

Albanon looked up. “I didn’t know anything about this!”

Shara was breathing heavily through her nose, nostrils flaring with each breath. Her hands twitched into fists. “The little weasel,” she said. “Of all the …” She closed her eyes, took one last deep breath, and tension—most it, at least—went out of her body.

“He can take care of himself,” she said with an unnatural calm. “If he wants to go off on his own, that’s his choice.”

“It’s possible you were wrong about Raid after all,” said Albanon cautiously.

She shot him a sharp glance, then looked back at Teldorthan. “You were right. I didn’t need to see this when I was angry.”

The dwarf gave a short laugh. “I like you, Shara, but I’m not stupid.” He turned and went back into the smithy, bellowing as he walked. “Back to work, you eavesdropping rascals! Only idle hammers make no noise!”

Uldane led his pony off the flat-bottomed ferry and on to the dock, then looked back across the river to Fallcrest. It seemed to Raid that he looked almost wistful. He urged his own mount—a great black stallion he’d broken with his own will and sweat—over to the halfling. “Your friends will be fine without you,” he said.

Uldane blinked and smiled. “That was a lucky guess at what I was thinking.”

“Hardly a guess. You can lie without giving anything away, but when you’re not paying attention your face is an open book.” Raid leaned across his saddle horn, the thick, scarred leather of his armor creaking with the movement. “I don’t see you missing this sad little outpost of a town, but I think your friends would be another matter.

“I’ve adventured with Shara for so long that it feels strange to be going anywhere without her,” Uldane confessed. He looked back to Fallcrest once again. “Maybe we could find her and convince her to come along—”

Pressure flashed behind Raid’s eyes, but he just shook his head. “We’re on the road now, Uldane. I don’t want to turn back and lose the day.”

“And I don’t want to divide the loot any further!” shouted Dohr. The half-orc and Tragent were already on the road beyond the ferry dock, their horses prancing and eager. “Let’s go.”

Raid reached out and patted Uldane’s shoulder. “She’ll be fine without you for a few days, won’t she? Is she going anywhere?” The halfling shook his head and Raid added, “Think of it this way: You’ll have stories to tell that she won’t have experienced herself.”

Uldane’s eyes lit up. “That’s true. And maybe some interesting treasure to show her, too!”

“I imagine we’ll find things no one has seen before,” Raid said solemnly, “or at least not for a very long time. Are you ready to go now?”

“You bet.” Uldane clicked his tongue to his mount and the pony trotted off the dock. Dohr whooped and slapped the reins against his horse. The horse broke into a gallop. Uldane laughed and urged his horse to greater speed as well.

Then, as if the beginning of their journey to the Temple of Yellow Skulls was some kind of race, Uldane, Dohr, and Tragent were all thundering down the road, hooting and calling to each other. Raid smiled and looked back at Fallcrest himself.

In his mind, it was already a smoking ruin through which he strode, feared and adored, under the gaze of the Chained God’s Eye.

He nudged his horse. The beast obeyed instantly, charging after the others. Raid leaned low over its neck, low enough that he could see its eye rolling in terror of him. “Faster,” he said and the rhythm of its hoof beats increased. The pleasure of its obedience washed through him, and by the time he caught up to—and passed—his hirelings, Raid was smiling again.

The Blue Moon was busy with townsfolk taking their midday meal and tankard, but Albanon found a table for himself, Shara, and Kri in a relatively quiet corner. The cleric looked around them with narrowed eyes. “We should go back to the tower. What we have to discuss shouldn’t be heard in public.”

Shara grunted. “Swinging a hammer all morning works up an appetite. I need something to eat. Just keep your voice down.”

Kri’s eyebrows rose at the response. Albanon’s stomach clenched at the thought of what the old man might do, but Shara just locked eyes with him and, after a moment, the harsh set of Kri’s mouth softened and he nodded. “Respect my wish for discretion and we can stay.”

“Good.” Shara signaled the serving maid.

Albanon looked from Kri to Shara and back again. “What just happened?”

Kri glanced at him, face already hardening once more. “She has spirit. I approve.”

“I fought you before I knew you were an old man. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“You wouldn’t have fought me if you’d seen that I was old?”

Albanon’s mouth opened and closed as he looked for an answer that wouldn’t make him sound like a coward. Shara leaned forward, chin on her hands. “I want to hear the story behind this.”

“Oh, you’ll like it,” said Splendid from around Kri’s neck. “Go on, apprentice—tell her.”

“Maybe Kri would rather—” Albanon began, but the old cleric just lifted an eyebrow and cocked his head back at him. Albanon grimaced and launched into the story of what had happened when he’d returned to the tower. He tried to keep it as short as possible, but Splendid would have none of it. Her interjections, Kri’s dry comments, and Shara’s laughter stretched the tale out until the serving maid appeared with platters of cold meat, cheese, bread, and pickled vegetables.

The moment that the food was on the table and the serving maid was out of earshot, however, Kri reclaimed the story. As Splendid crept down off his shoulder to inspect the food, he lowered his voice and hustled the narrative on to the point where they’d realized that the vial containing the Voidharrow could have been stolen by the death knight. “Albanon thinks that because you fought alongside the death knight, you may have been in a position to see if he had the vial,” he said. “Think. It was about half a hand span long and gold on both ends. The last time I saw it, there was a light chain attached at one end. Maybe the death knight wore it around his neck.”

Shara took a bit of bread and cheese and chewed without saying anything. Albanon couldn’t quite place the expression on her face. A little bit angry. A little bit thoughtful. A little bit … afraid? He sat forward. “Shara, what do you know?”

She swallowed, her mouth twitching. “You have to imagine that final battle with Vestapalk,” she said. “Our pursuit of Nu Alin and then the stolen dead glass amulet had led us to an ancient underground necropolis. When we confronted Vestapalk, he had the death knight in his grip, ready to crush him, with the rest of us helpless to avoid a blast of his poisonous breath. The whole cavern was shaking from whatever ritual the death knight’s lich master was performing with the amulet. There must have been an even lower cavern beneath us, though, because in all the shaking the ground under Vestapalk collapsed. Of course, he had wings, so it was no danger for him, but that moment as he tried to get airborne, it left him vulnerable. The death knight had already wounded him but I had the opportunity to deal the death blow. I took it.”

Albanon remembered the moment well: Shara standing on the edge of the crumbling ground, then gathering herself and leaping for Vestapalk’s exposed belly. Her sword had flashed in the dim light of the necropolis as she whipped it around in a mighty strike. Vestapalk had tried to block the blow with the death knight’s body, but he’d failed. Shara’s sword had skimmed just past the unwilling shield and ripped a long, deep gash in the dragon’s belly. Vestapalk had gone down in a spray of blood, wings collapsing, body plummeting into the newly opened chasm. Shara would have plunged after him except that the death knight, leaping from the falling dragon’s loosened grasp, had caught her in his leap and carried them both to solid ground.

“You killed Vestapalk,” the eladrin said. “You saved the death knight, then he saved you.”

“Yes and no,” said Shara. “Yes, the death knight and I saved each other. But I don’t think it was just my blow that killed Vestapalk. When Vestapalk tried to use the death knight as a shield, I only just missed hitting him. It was so close that I sliced through his belt pouch.”

She held her hands perpendicular to each other, and slid the fingers of the right past the palm of the left—then paused and looked at Kri and Albanon. “I saw your vial. It was in his pouch. The chain caught on my sword and pulled it free.”

“It fell?” Kri asked, his voice thin.

Shara hesitated, then shook her head. “My blow broke it against Vestapalk’s scales.”

Kri had looked aged and frail when Albanon had first uttered Nu Alin’s name. Word that the vial had been shattered left him seeming as pale and brittle as a sheet of overworked parchment. His entire body sagged. The color drained from him. Silence fell over their table, made all the more shocking by the happy noise around them.

Without another word, Kri rose.

Shara seized his wrist. “I don’t think I killed Vestapalk. I might have inflicted the wound, but it was whatever was in that vial—the Voidharrow, if that’s what it was called—that finished him off. I only caught a glimpse of it, but it didn’t just splash into his wound—it ran into it like water running down a funnel. It pushed its way into him. That’s when he screamed. That’s when he fell out of the air.”

Kri looked at her for a moment, then wrenched his wrist from her grasp and walked out of the alehouse. Albanon stared at Shara. “How come you didn’t tell any of us about this before?”

“I wasn’t sure what I saw. I didn’t know that vial came from Moorin’s tower. The stuff in it killed Vestapalk—that’s all that matters.”

A chill passed over Albanon. “I don’t think it is. Splendid, watch the table.” He went after the cleric. Splendid muttered in confusion behind him while Shara called to the serving maid and assured her that they would be back to pay for their meal.

He found Kri outside, face raised to the sky. His eyes were closed and one hand gripped the holy symbol of Ioun that he wore around his neck. Albanon paused, uncertain of whether he should interrupt the cleric while he was praying. Shara emerged from the Blue Moon a moment later and stopped beside him.

“What do we do?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” said Albanon.

“We go back to the spot where you last saw this Vestapalk.” Kri let go of his holy symbol and looked at them. His eyes were hard and determined. “I need to see his body.”

“Why?” asked Shara. “He’s dead.”

Kri’s mouth tightened. “Is he? Did you see his corpse?”

“He must be,” said Albanon. “I saw him fall. I saw the way he fell.”

“And Shara saw the Voidharrow flow into his body,” Kri said.

“I saw it kill him,” Shara pointed out. “No one screams like Vestapalk did unless he’s dying.”

Kri opened his mouth to speak, looked around, and seemed to think better of it. He drew both Albanon and Shara off the street and into the shadow of the Blue Moon’s walls. “There are things more painful than death,” he said somberly. He looked at Albanon. “I told you that the creature, Nu Alin, was once a man named Albric. The Voidharrow made him what he is.”

The chill returned to Albanon. “Vestapalk could have been turned into something like Nu Alin?”

“Only Ioun sees all. The rest of us must discover the truth for ourselves. This necropolis where you confronted Vestapalk—where is it? How far away?”

“It’s in the Old Hills north of Thunderspire Mountain, about four days journey east of Fallcrest,” said Shara. The warrior looked shaken. “Vestapalk could still be alive?”

Fear and anger fought each other in her voice. Albanon could guess why. The way he felt about Nu Alin was the way she felt about Vestapalk. The dragon had slaughtered her father and her friends. She’d thought her vengeance against the monster was done. To discover that it might not be, that Vestapalk might still be alive, must have been like a knife twisting inside her. He reached out for her. “Shara—”

She jerked away from his hand. “We need Uldane. If Vestapalk is still alive, he needs to know. He needs to be a part of this.”

“There’s no time,” Kri said. His words were cold. “It’s been a month since the Voidharrow was released. We need to find out what’s become of it without delay.”

Shara glared at him. “But Uldane—”

“Uldane travels without you. You need to travel without him.” Kri looked at both of them. “Make what arrangements you have to while I find a mount. We leave Fallcrest immediately.”

“Immediately?” Albanon said. “Today? It won’t be daylight for much longer by the time we’re on the road.”

“Then we travel in the dark and let Ioun guide our steps,” said Kri. He paused, his expression softening briefly. “I understand your tredpidation, Shara. I pray that Vestapalk is dead.”

“And if he isn’t?” asked Albanon.

Shara squeezed her hands into fists. “Then we kill him all over again.”

CHAPTER SIX

Low whistles and chirps heralded the hunters’ return, echoing down from the heights of the chasm. Members of the tribe lifted their heads to listen, then responded with their own chirping chorus. Here in their nest—newly established though it might be—there was no need for stealth. They were under the protection of the Great One just as he was under theirs. Though he slept, his majesty protected his loyal tribe. No predators would approach knowing that the dragon was there!

Within the rocky crevice he had claimed as his own, Tiktag woke to the sound of the hunters’ welcome. He twitched aside the hanging flap of rough leather that served as a door and listened intently to the calls—the night’s hunting had been good—then snatched up his staff and scurried out to meet the hunters.

His sudden appearance drew a yip of surprise from Sistree. His apprentice threw himself onto his scaly belly before Tiktag. “The Great One remains quiet, wyrmpriest!”

Tiktag rewarded him with a poke from the butt of his staff. Not too hard—Sistree was useful and fairly reliable. If he remembered his place, he might live to become a wyrmpriest in his own right. Tiktag had picked him out from among the other kobolds, declared that he bore the signs of a servant of the Great One, and put him to work watching over Vestapalk when Tiktag’s own weariness overcame him.

“Prepare,” he instructed him. Sistree rose to his feet and darted away into the shadows. Tiktag continued on through the litter of the nest to the base of the chasm walls, where the clutch-guardians and hatchlings swarmed in excitement. They gave way before him, falling silent before the priest who had led them out of fear and into the protection of the Great One. Tiktag raised his head, shaking it so that the feathers and cast-off scales that decorated the bony plates of his skull headdress rustled. The nearest clutch-guardians cooed softly and reached out to stroke the ornaments reverently. One even caught Tiktag’s tail and dragged claws along its length, scratching at loosened and dulled scales. Tiktag allowed them a moment, then swatted them all away and looked up the height of the chasm wall.

Far overhead, beyond the top of the chasm and up in the ceiling of the cavern above, the broken gap that opened to the outside world was glowing pink with the coming dawn. That distant glow made silhouettes of the hunters, a full dozen of the fastest and most cunning of the tribe’s adults, as they climbed down the ropes that had been laid against the ragged stone face.

A hump distorted the back of each hunter. Tiktag caught the smell of fresh, bloody meat. Saliva ran inside his mouth, but he swallowed. At his side, a hatchling whimpered and shifted, reaching up with tiny arms. Tiktag knocked it back with his staff. “The master eats first!” he snapped. The hatchling mewled and ducked behind a clutch-guardian, but she pushed it away, too.

One by one, the hunters dropped to the floor of the chasm. Each came and knelt before Tiktag, unstrapping the burden they carried on their back and holding out enormous chunks of dark red flesh. The day had brought a deer into the hunters’ traps. The tribe whistled their admiration. Steeped in poison—a substitute for the taint of Vestapalk’s own poisonous breath—it would provide tempting sustenance for their draconic master.

The whistles fell silent, however, as the last hunter leaped from the ropes—and did not approach Tiktag. The wyrmpriest’s twitching nostrils told him that her bundle contained the tender and delectable organs of the deer. But the hunter didn’t move. Her eyes swept the waiting tribe. Tiktag saw a few of the other kobolds twitch as they met her gaze.

He banged his staff on the ground then shook it at her. “Knaknak! Present your offering for the Great One!”

The hunter raised her snout defiantly. “No.”

With a collective hiss, the tribe pulled away from her blasphemy. Some kobolds didn’t pull away quite as quickly. Knaknak seemed to draw strength from this hesitant show of support. She faced Tiktag. “The tribe is hungry.”

“The Great One honors you by accepting your worship!”

“He eats the food we gather,” said Knaknak. “Where is the honor in that? What else has he done for us?”

“He protects the tribe with his presence.”

Knaknak pointed up. “There is a cavern full of tombs between us and the surface. If anything knew we were here, fear of the sleeping undead would frighten them off more than a wounded dragon. We haven’t even seen Vestapalk since you convinced us to follow you here a moon’s passage ago!”

The tribe hissed again at the hunter’s flagrant use of the dragon’s name, but Tiktag’s tail stiffened.

It hadn’t taken him long after he’d given Vestapalk his oath of protection to realize that one kobold wouldn’t be able to nurse a dragon back to health. The task of protecting and providing food for his master as he lay broken and vulnerable at the bottom of the chasm would challenge an entire tribe of kobolds. Tiktag had such a tribe at his command—halfway across the Nentir Vale in the hills of the Gardbury Downs. But fortunately his people thrived in scattered niches across the land, making their way in the shadow of greater creatures. Praying that Vestapalk would be all right for a day or two on his own, Tiktag had drawn up his courage and climbed back up the wall of the chasm. He’d ventured among the ancient tombs of the cavern above and found a narrow passage back to the surface.

From there, it didn’t take long for him to find a tribe of kobolds in need of inspiration and guidance and to convince them that their future lay in serving Vestapalk. The first thing he’d had the tribe do was work together to move Vestapalk’s unconscious body to a fully enclosed cave that split off from the chasm. Then he’d set the hunters to searching for food while the clutch-guardians watched over the nest and he and Sistree watched over the entrance to Vestapalk’s resting place.

And one hunter—one hunter—dared to question the wisdom of his plan? Tiktag snarled and thrust his staff at Knaknak once more.

This time he focused his will and all of the awe he felt for his master through it. Devotion and rage and hatred boiled through the staff and, for an instant, a seething ball of bright green energy took shape at its end.

Then the ball spat from the staff to Knaknak. It changed as it moved, from compact and swirling to something that wasn’t quite liquid and wasn’t quite gas. It splattered across Knaknak. Where it touched, steaming fumes rose up. The hunter’s eyes bulged. She wheezed and staggered—then collapsed. Her body jerked feebly as she succumbed to the poison. Tiktag turned on the rest of the tribe and raised his staff high.

“We serve the Great One! Never forget that.” Wide eyes stared at him and only him. No one spared another glance for Knaknak. Triumph warmed Tiktag. He swept his staff over the other hunters, still kneeling. “The trough is waiting. Take the meat there and I will take it before our master. We perform a sacred duty by caring for him. He protects us now, and when he regains his full might, he will reward the faithful and punish the reluctant—”

“Tiktag! Tiktag!” Sistree came charging from the back of the tribe, bashing clutch-guardians and hatchlings aside in his haste. He slid to a stop before Tiktag and threw himself on the ground. His whole body shook with every breath. “The Great One is awake!”

Tiktag froze. Every member of the tribe froze, eyes wide and tails curving downward.

Then, yipping and screeching, every one of the hunters sprinted along the chasm with their bloody offerings held high. The clutch-guardians and the hatchlings streamed after them. Cursing and laying about him with his staff, Tiktag tried to keep up. “Place the food in the trough!” he shouted. “I will take it before our master! Only the servants of the Great One may look upon him!”

He threw a glance at Sistree, running beside him. “No one else saw, did they?” he demanded and Sistree shook his head. Tiktag whistled with relief. “What exactly did you see?”

“I heard movement,” Sistree wheezed. “I kneeled down and put just my head into the Great One’s cave as you told me. He was uncoiling his tail and stretching his wings. His head was up and he was looking around.” The other kobold looked around, then grabbed Tiktag’s arm and pulled him close. “There was something else, though,” he murmured urgently. “When we dragged him to his resting place, he was green, yes? A green dragon?”

Tiktag’s skinny gut clenched, but he nodded. Sistree just looked confused. “But now his scales are red!”

Terror gnawed at Tiktag. He pushed it aside. “The Great One moves to a new stage of his life!” he said with false excitement. “He is like a tree with leaves that change color before winter.”

Sistree’s eyes opened wide. “Leaves die in winter! The Great One is dying?”

Tiktag cursed silently and cuffed Sistree. “It means he’s getting stronger. Just don’t say anything to the others. Control them while I talk to the Great One.”

The fear of Vestapalk that he had worked to instill in the tribe—along with his eerily well-timed pronouncement of rewards and punishments, no doubt—had kept the hunters at the feeding trough with the others crowded around them. Red meat filled the trough; the tribe looked at Tiktag expectantly. On other occasions, Tiktag would have pronounced a blessing in his master’s name, cast his poisonous magic upon the meat, then dragged the trough on its rough wheels into the other cave. He hesitated and considered bringing the meat in case Vestapalk had woken too hungry to distinguish his priest from his dinner.

A long sigh from the unseen dragon made his decision for him. Putting his back to the tribe, Tiktag hurried around the corner and into the cave.

Sistree was right. Vestapalk was awake—and the green dragon had turned red. Not in the manner of the fire breathers among dragons, but each green scale was now outlined by angry crimson. It was as if flesh hot with infection peeked through from beneath the scales—except that with every motion, the stuff glowed briefly where Vestapalk’s muscles shifted and bent, like embers when a fire was stirred up. Tiktag stopped just inside the cave, just out of sight of the tribe, and stared.

Vestapalk hadn’t noticed his entrance. He was too busy staring at his legs, his chest, his flanks and wings, as if seeing them for the first time. Maybe, Tiktag thought, he was.

When the wyrmpriest had first climbed into the chasm in search of his fallen master, he’d found Vestapalk broken and injured. The dragon’s powerful limbs had been bent, his graceful neck twisted, one wing left in tatters, a terrible gash cut deep into his belly. As horrible as the injuries to Vestapalk’s body were, though, there had been something else that had disturbed Tiktag more.

Where his master’s blood showed in wounds and smears across his green scales, the red liquid shimmered with streaks of silver. It glowed, as Tiktag had once seen a ruby held before a candle glow. As he had watched over Vestapalk on that first awful night, he’d seen that glowing red spread, appearing first around the dragon’s eyes and across his snout before making its way between the scales along the length of his body like some spreading disease.

Tiktag had stared in horror, terrified of what might be happening to his master, until exhaustion had driven him into sleep.

When he’d woken to Vestapalk’s thin, dry laughter, the glow was gone. Vestapalk’s wounds were crusted scabs. As he swore his oath to watch over his wounded master, Tiktag could almost—almost—believe he had imagined it all. But he knew he hadn’t. Sometimes when he watched over Vestapalk, he thought he could see a faint silvery-red light in the tiny trickle of venom that leaked between the dragon’s jaws.

More than anything else, that was the reason he kept Vestapalk’s new tribe away from their master except for when they’d moved his unconscious body into the cave. How would the others react if the glowing red stuff revealed itself again? Dragons had no flaws. They were perfect beings.

And here were Tiktag’s fears come to pass.

The red taint wasn’t the only change, Tiktag realized as he stared. Vestapalk had grown thin, as if fever had eaten away at his body. His torso and limbs were thin, skin shrunk tight to corded muscles. His belly was wasting away in the manner of a starving animal. Even his tail seemed narrower. Yet somehow the dragon had still grown. He had been big before, but now he was even larger. If he reared back, his head might brush the roof of the cave. He had been majestic. Now he was awe-inspiring. And more than a little frightening.

Vestapalk still had not noticed him. Tiktag swallowed and stepped forward. He could feel the heat that rolled off him. The fever hadn’t passed yet, not entirely. “Master,” he said.

There was no reaction. Vestapalk continued staring at himself, running talons along limbs that had healed while he slept and over belly scales marked only by a dark line where the deepest wound had been. For the first time, Tiktag noticed strange blisters bigger than his fist forming along the joints of Vestapalk’s limbs. He swallowed and called again. “Master!”

Nothing.

He moved closer, crouching low to show proper reverence. “Master, you are beneath the cavern of tombs where you fought the death knight and the human female who came to his aid. You were wounded—you slept for a whole cycle of the moon while your body healed.” Tiktag paused, hoping Vestapalk might answer, but still the dragon seemed to see nothing but his reddened body. “I found a new tribe to serve you,” the kobold continued. “We dragged you here to this place of safety, all of us working together. The hunters of the tribe have brought you meat. I made sure you had food. I fed you myself.”

That had been a harrowing experience. Vestapalk might have been asleep, but waving a piece of bloody, poison-soaked meat past his nose had provoked a response. The first time Tiktag had tried feeding his master by hand he had almost lost an arm as Vestapalk’s massive tongue had licked out of its own accord to take the offered meat. After that, he’d used a long, sharp stick to skewer and present the gobbets of flesh.

Still nothing. Maybe he should have brought the trough of meat. “Master?” said Tiktag again, then louder. “Master! Master!” He drew a breath and screeched, “Vestapalk!”

The dragon turned. Tiktag’s legs trembled. He would have dropped to the rocky ground except that Vestapalk’s gaze seemed to pin him up. It felt as if his master’s red-rimmed eyes saw right through him.

“Tiktag,” said Vestapalk. “Loyal servant.”

The trembling in the wyrmpriest’s legs spread through his body. Vestapalk’s voice had changed with his appearance. Every word that he spoke was strangely doubled, as if spoken by not one but two voices. One was Vestapalk’s familiar, commanding roar. The other was strange but compelling, unworldly yet powerful, like mining picks striking a vein of quartz that refused to shatter. The play between the two voices rang in Tiktag’s ears and struck unease into his gut. Surely this was what the voice of a god—or if not a god, then a godling, still growing into his power—sounded like.

And Tiktag finally grasped the meaning of the changes that had taken place in his master. “The transformation. Oh master, is this the transformation promised to you by the Eye? But you said we were to find the Herald and we failed.”

“The Herald failed. Vestapalk did not.” The dragon held out talons for Tiktag to see. The red stuff had spread into them, too. What had been yellowed and opaque was now silvery red and translucent. “Vestapalk feels it in his blood. It is the source of the transformation. It burns—and this is only the beginning. It will transform Vestapalk and Vestapalk will transform the world.”

“How?” Tiktag asked. “When? Did it come on you while you slept? I guarded you, master, I swear it—”

Vestapalk’s eyes flared and he lunged, snapping massive teeth in front of Tiktag’s muzzle. “If Vestapalk believed you tried to prevent this, wyrmpriest, he would destroy you in an instant!” But his snout curved into a sneer. “Not that you could have. It is the will of the Eye. It is Vestapalk’s fate.” The dragon pulled back. “It was Vestapalk’s very enemies who made this possible! The death knight. The human woman. Their wounding of Vestapalk brought the source of his transformation to him. If Vestapalk encounters them again, he will show them what their anger did before he pulls their intestines from their bodies. Vestapalk knew the woman, too. He recognized her scent. And the scent of a halfling. They had attacked him before.”

“The woman’s name is Shara, master. I heard her companions call to her. The halfling is Uldane.” Tiktag rolled the name on his tongue. “He wounded me, master. If we encounter them again, may his death be mine?”

“If Vestapalk doesn’t kill him first, his death will be yours.” Vestapalk raised his head high and stared down his snout at Tiktag. “Your concern for Vestapalk’s well-being was misplaced, but your loyalty is noticed.”

Pride flooded Tiktag’s small body. He rose to his feet. “Will you eat, master? There is meat. Fresh meat gathered by your new tribe.”

Vestapalk’s features crinkled with amusement. “This tribe?” he asked and flicked his head. Tiktag twisted around to look behind him.

The tribe filled the entrance to the cavern. Sistree, the hunters, the clutch-guardians, the hatchlings—all knelt and stared at Vestapalk in rapt, silent adoration. Tiktag whirled on Sistree. “I told you to keep them out!”

“You said to keep them under control. They wanted to see the dragon.” Sistree’s eyes didn’t move from Vestapalk. “He is magnificent!”

Tiktag raced back to throw himself before Vestapalk’s claws. “Master, they are fools. I told them not to disturb us. Do you want the meat? I will have them fetch it. I will send the hunters out for more—”

“No.” The dragon rose onto all four legs and paced back and forth in the cave. “No. Vestapalk has been here long enough. The Eye showed him where he must be next. The Voidharrow is within Vestapalk, but his power is not complete.”

“Voidharrow, master?” Tiktag rolled the strange word on his tongue.

Vestapalk glared at him, then suddenly spat at Tiktag’s feet. The kobold jumped back, staring at a blob of liquid red crystal as it bubbled and seethed on the rock.

“The source of change, wyrmpriest. The source of Vestapalk’s new power. But Vestapalk needs more than just the Voidharrow. He must seek out the One Who Gathers.” His gaze turned distant and Tiktag knew that his master was speaking as much to himself as he was to his servant. “A month lying wounded? Is Vestapalk too late? Has the Gatherer waited and gone? No. The Eye sees all. This follows the will of the Eye. The Gatherer will be there.”

“Where, master?” Tiktag asked, raising himself up again. “Where will this Gatherer be?”

Vestapalk looked at him and blinked, then focused as if seeing him for the first time. “Away from here,” he said. “Come, Tiktag. Prepare.” He turned toward the cave entrance and the chasm beyond.

The tribe started to shift and murmur as the dragon came closer—and most of the murmuring was fear and dismay that their new master should already want to leave them. Tiktag felt a burst of alarm, not so much for the tribe he had stolen and used but for Vestapalk. “Away? Fly? Master, you can’t. You’ve just woken. You need to rest and eat. The meat—”

Vestapalk cut him off again. “Meat is not what Vestapalk needs. The Voidharrow sustains him, but he must also sustain the Voidharrow.”

He loomed over the tribe. A few hunters finally rose to their feet. A hatchling cried out and was slapped into silence by its clutch-guardian. Sistree stared up at the dragon with wide eyes.

“You will serve,” said Vestapalk. His mouth opened and Tiktag watched the silver-red stuff drip like venom from the dragon’s mighty jaws as he drew breath.…

CHAPTER SEVEN

I don’t like this,” murmured Gerar.

Nu Alin prodded his host to reply. “The pack of Gerar is strong,” Rooga whined. “There is nothing to fear.” His host eased a paw over the top of the low wall that they—and half of the pack of gnolls, silent for once—crouched behind, and pointed a gnarled finger across the broken plaza before them. “See the treasure chest.”

“There are still three minotaurs,” Gerar growled. “There was only supposed to be one.”

One or three, soon I will be rid of this stinking body, Nu Alin thought—and Rooga snarled in reaction. Gerar looked at him with narrow eyes. Rooga ducked his head in submission. Nu Alin could feel his host’s surprise at the sound that had come out of his own throat. That brought a brief flush of pleasure. He was almost strong enough to control his host directly again. He fed off the fear of those whose bodies he stole, and the prospect of the looming battle had stirred more than a little fear in Rooga, even with Nu Alin’s will bolstering him.

The unexpected presence of additional minotaurs had agitated all of the gnolls. Across the plaza, their intended prey crouched around a small fire. Two watched chunks of meat smoke in the flames while the other watched the shadows, bull-head turning back and forth, a massive axe in his hands. Two minotaurs would have been acceptable. Three was perfect. One of the minotaurs crouching over the fire was a brute, a head taller than either of the other two. Nu Alin had already selected him as his new host.

If Gerar didn’t back down. Nu Alin exerted his control over Rooga a little more directly than he had before. “Look at that chest,” he said through the gnoll’s mouth. “Imagine what’s inside.”

Rooga’s alarm grew, feeding Nu Alin’s strength. He thrust Rooga back. His time was at hand. If Gerar noticed that Rooga’s voice was suddenly rougher and more stilted than normal—Nu Alin could force his host’s body to respond, but the nuances of voice were more difficult—he didn’t show it. The chest in question, a rough box slung by straps from long poles for easy carrying, didn’t actually look like much. Nu Alin could imagine it empty as easily as he could full, or filled with rocks instead of treasure. What he imagined inside it wasn’t important, though. He watched Gerar’s eyes drift from the minotaurs to the chest, before returning to the minotaurs.

“There are three of them,” he said again.

Behind them, ordered to keep their heads down and thus unable to see what lay ahead, gnolls shifted impatiently. If they were heard, the element of surprise would be lost. Nu Alin thrust Rooga’s muzzle even closer to Gerar’s ear. “The rest of the pack waits for our attack. They’ll unleash the hyenas from the other side. The minotaurs will be caught between us.”

There was no response from Gerar. Nu Alin bared his teeth and added, “If we turn back now, the pack will believe you’re a coward.”

Gerar jerked his head around and glared into Nu Alin’s eyes.

Rooga wanted to roll over and bare his throat to the pack leader. Nu Alin held his body still and glared back, daring Gerar to deny what he said.

Gerar’s muzzle twisted into a silent snarl. His breath blew into Nu Alin’s face in short, sharp bursts—then he turned and gestured for the other gnolls. Faces looked toward him. Hands tightened on weapons. Muscles tensed. Gerar glared disdainfully at Rooga, then turned back to study the minotaurs. Below the level of the wall, he lifted his spear and held it steady, waiting for the perfect moment to signal the charge. The gnolls pressed close.

“Yeenoghu!” bellowed Gerar, thrusting his spear high. He vaulted the wall and the gnolls followed in a cackling, screaming rage.

Nu Alin jerked Rooga’s body, sending him stumbling after them. The gnoll was gibbering—Nu Alin’s strength wasn’t enough to control both body and voice, not yet—but his terror was lost in the chaos.

The minotaur on guard spun around instantly, any warning he might have shouted lost in the screams of the gnolls. Warnings were hardly necessary. The two minotaurs by the fire were on their feet as well and grabbing for weapons that were just out of reach.

They didn’t have time. The shadows on the far side of the broken plaza exploded as the remaining gnolls burst from hiding, along with the pack’s hyenas.

The largest minotaur dove back to the fire and seized the rough skewers of cooking meat. Roaring with rage, he hurled them like spears. The weight of the meat dragged the flying skewers down but the force of the throw was still powerful. The hyena leading the charge went down with hot metal sizzling in its chest.

Nu Alin knew that he was going to enjoy that body.

At his full strength, Nu Alin wouldn’t have hesitated to push Rooga up to the minotaur and make the leap from body to body. Still weak, he would need to take the big creature by surprise. He needed a distraction.

Most of the gnolls who charged with Gerar focused their attention on the minotaur who had stood guard. He’d retreated to a fragment of old wall, something to put his back against, and was keeping the gnolls at bay with sweeping swings of his axe. Nu Alin lurched Rooga to Gerar’s side and yelled in his ear. “We have to go after the big one!”

He turned Gerar and pointed. The largest minotaur was at the center of a storm of hyenas, but acquitted himself well. Huge fists hurled the animals away. A few came charging back into the fight, only to be met by a swift dip and toss from the minotaur’s horns—impractical natural weapons, but effective.

Nu Alin felt Gerar stiffen at the sight, however. “We don’t have to fight him.”

Fury seized Nu Alin. “He’s going to run,” he rasped with Rooga’s voice.

“The hyenas will bring him down.”

“There aren’t many of them left,” Nu Alin said tightly. He grabbed Gerar’s arm and dragged him out of the melee. “Fight him! Take his horns. Make a helmet of his skull so all of Thunderspire fears Gerar.”

Gerar hesitated, weighing the merits of such a trophy—and while he hesitated, the big minotaur shook off the last of the hyenas, looked around, saw the trouble his companions were in, and decided to save himself. He took off across the plaza like a juggernaut. Nu Alin bit off a curse and made Gerar’s decision for him. Rooga’s terror gave him a burst of strength. Nu Alin shoved the gnoll in the direction the minotaur had fled. “Go!”

Caught off balance, Gerar moved. Nu Alin stayed with him, forcing him along. When the few gnolls that weren’t caught up in the frenzy of fighting the two smaller minotaurs looked up, he waved them back. “This will be your kill, Gerar,” he barked as he drove the leader of the pack along. “Yours and yours alone. You can take this cow!”

Gerar looked a little bolder at that, and when the minotaur glanced back, he roused himself to a blood-curdling howl. Behind them, the other gnolls echoed the cry. The big minotaur’s eyes narrowed and he put on a burst of speed, breaking out of the plaza and diving into a passage leading to another part of the ruins. Gerar slowed as they approached the same passage and held back Nu Alin as if hunting the minotaur had been his idea all along.

“He’ll try to ambush us,” the gnoll growled. “He’s probably just around the corner of the passage waiting for us to come out.”

“Let me guard your back,” Nu Alin told him. The passage wasn’t long—maybe ten paces. He could see where it widened into another chamber. They moved in silently on the tough pads of gnoll feet. Nu Alin’s control over Rooga had solidified just as it was time to leave his body. He felt frustrated at that.

The hammerfall of the minotaur’s hooves had ceased. If he listened with Rooga’s ears, Nu Alin could hear the creature’s harsh breathing echo in the chamber beyond. If he extended his own senses, he could feel the heat of his body. The minotaur was indeed waiting to ambush them, but not where Gerar expected—he lurked farther out in the chamber, ready to bring his weight and horns to bear in a deadly charge. Gerar would have to come out into the open if he wanted to attack, and then he’d be at the minotaur’s mercy.

Nu Alin held his tongue. Gerar’s fate didn’t matter.

They reached the end of the passage. Gerar peered out into the chamber and asked without turning his head, “Are you ready?”

“More than ready,” Nu Alin spat through Rooga’s mouth.

Gerar threw himself out of the passage with another howl, rolling across the chamber floor to come up in a crouch, spear twitching from shadow to shadow. “Rooga!” he barked. “Come now—”

Nu Alin heard the minotaur’s bellow as he emerged from hiding, saw Gerar jerk around to face him, felt the subtle vibrations through the stone floor as the massive beast charged. He heard Gerar screaming for his help. He didn’t answer. He didn’t move—except to throw back Rooga’s head and do what he’d longed to do for weeks.

Force himself out of the gnoll’s body.

The filaments of himself that he had extended through Rooga’s limbs, the sheets that he had wrapped around bones and organs, released their hold and drew back into the gnoll’s torso. Nu Alin felt what remained of Rooga’s mind come screaming back from the void that had been its prison. He plucked at nerves as he pulled free and the screaming rose to a wail. Rooga’s pain and fear had been delicious as first, but after so long trapped in the gnoll’s body, they’d become sour. Nu Alin pushed up.

Rooga’s torso bulged. His ribs creaked. The scream in his mind never reached his throat—Nu Alin already filled it. His jaw cracked. The skin of his muzzle stretched and tore.

And Nu Alin thrust one glistening pseudopod out of Rooga’s mouth into the air.

Perception was different outside of a host. There was a familiar moment of disorientation as he reacquainted himself with seeing in all directions at the same time, then everything came into focus. He looked down at Rooga’s wide-eyed, pain-wracked face at the same time as he examined the walls of the passage. The rough stone surface was just a little too far away for him to reach easily. He gave a last tug deep within Rooga and the gnoll’s spasming body lurched two steps closer. Perfect. Nu Alin stretched out and anchored himself on the wall, then dragged the rest of himself out of Rooga.

The gnoll collapsed like a discarded robe, trembling and whimpering as blood poured from his ruined face. Nu Alin flowed across the wall, up to the ceiling, and out into the chamber. He could already feel the air, the very energy of this world, attacking him. The form with which the Voidharrow and the Elemental Eye had blessed him was meant for a different place. Little bits of his naked substance dried and flaked away as he moved. His liquid self evaporated. He would need to act swiftly or all of his carefully hoarded strength would evaporate with it.

Neither of the combatants below noticed the silvery-crimson crystalline blob that crawled across the ceiling. The sounds of their battle thumped against his skin like fists on a drum. Gerar had survived the minotaur’s charge and now held his enemy off with his spear. The minotaur had drawn a broad-bladed knife, more of a tool than a weapon, but dangerous enough with his powerful muscles behind it. Gnoll and minotaur circled each other warily.

Distract him, Gerar, Nu Alin thought. That’s what you’re here for.

Clinging to the ceiling, he stretched down toward his new host.

Gerar saw him—the gnoll’s eyes went wide and he froze for an instant. Caught up in the frenzy of battle, the minotaur didn’t hesitate. He lunged at Gerar, knife slashing. Gerar ducked to the side on instinct, but the attack was a feint. The minotaur twisted around and kicked out with one heavy hoof. His blow caught the gnoll’s shoulder and sent him spinning across the chamber. The minotaur straightened, satisfaction on his brutish face, and started toward the injured gnoll.

Nu Alin twisted his dangling body and released his grip on the ceiling.

He fell across the minotaur’s shoulders like a serpent falling from a jungle tree. The minotaur roared in surprise and tried to push him off, but clutching fingers passed right through his attacker’s fluid body and his roar became a muffled moan of panic as Nu Alin spread across his face. Before the minotaur could think to close his mouth, Nu Alin thrust himself inside. Past teeth, over flailing tongue—he slid a portion of his substance into the minotaur’s nose as well, slithering through nostrils to join himself at the back of the mouth and slide down the minotaur’s throat. The staggering beast fell to his knees, fighting for breath, still trying to claw at the ooze that invaded his body. Nu Alin sent fine filaments of himself through the small gaps in the minotaur’s flesh. He flowed like water in his veins and through his muscles. The minotaur would be a fine, strong host. With care, he might last for months. The minotaur’s struggles weakened as Nu Alin took control of his limbs, his lungs, his heart.

In the black vault of the minotaur’s mind, Nu Alin’s will swept over that of his terrified host. A name came to him: Apech. At another time, he might have toyed with Apech, savoring his fear. Not this time. With a swift, brutal thought, Nu Alin slapped Apech back and sealed him away in his own mind. He drew a hot breath through Apech’s nostrils and opened Apech’s eyes to the sight of Gerar standing over him, spear poised to thrust. The gnoll gave a nervous little bark as his frightened gaze met Nu Alin’s. For a moment, neither moved.

The spear stabbed down. In the same instant, Nu Alin threw Apech to the side. What should have been a blow to the minotaur’s heart instead skittered along the right side of his ribcage. Pain seared his side, but Nu Alin grabbed hold of the spear as he rolled, dragging it out of Gerar’s grasp. He brought Apech back to his hooves and looked at the gnoll, then turned so that Gerar could see the wound. Blood ran freely down Apech’s shagging hide. Not taking his eyes off Gerar, Nu Alin concentrated briefly, shifting his own substance around the wound. Pain faded and blood stopped flowing as silver-crimson liquid crystal filled the gash. Gerar’s eyes nearly bulged right out of their sockets.

Nu Alin flipped the spear around his grip. “My turn,” he said with Apech’s voice.

Before he could move, though, before he could even raise the spear to end Gerar’s foul, stinking life, awareness of the Voidharrow came crashing over him.

He knew what it was immediately, just as he had known when it swept over him as he wandered wounded and dying in the labyrinth. Then, before the Voidharrow had ebbed back, he’d known that it had been freed from its prison. This time, though, it was more than just free. It was thriving. As if, like him, it had been dormant, resting and recovering its strength. Now it was awake. Nu Alin felt its power call to him. It pressed against his consciousness, swelling like a storm surge ready to break over an ocean coast. Then it did break and Nu Alin felt it as a cresting wave, washing over the beach and retreating—but leaving some of itself behind.

How was that possible? Nu Alin turned where he stood until he knew, in what passed for his guts, that he faced the Voidharrow. It was a beacon in his mind, strangely divided but with that same strong presence at its core.

A presence that was already moving away from him.

“No!” Nu Alin screamed. His minotaur’s body turned the word into a hoarse bellow. He dropped the spear and ran at the wall, beating his fists against solid rock. “Don’t go! I am your Herald!”

It was too late. Uncaring and distant, the Voidharrow moved on. Nu Alin’s fists slid against the unrelenting rock. Nothing had changed. The Voidharrow was still there in his mind, pulling on him—he would just have to travel farther before he joined with it.

Nu Alin turned away, willing his crystal form into knuckles broken against the wall. Gerar was gone, wisely fled in the face of something he didn’t understand. Nu Alin briefly considered returning to the gnolls’ den and keeping his promise to slaughter them. The distant touch of the Voidharrow had given him his strength back. Rendering the pack forever silent would take little effort.

But no, he was the Herald and that was more important than anything else. The senses of his minotaur host would guide him through the labyrinth. He could be free of Thunderspire Mountain within the day, then he would follow the Voidharrow to the edge of the world if he had to.

And if the Voidharrow was truly free, Gerar and the other gnolls would find their end soon enough, anyway.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The sight of the massive hole that gaped in the side of the lonely hill left Albanon with an eerie sense of familiarity. Though maybe not so much eerie as deeply disturbing—and not so much familiarity as dread. He and the others might once have climbed out of that pit in triumph, but that didn’t change what waited below. He shivered in spite of the day’s warm sunlight and put his back to the hole.

Shara grabbed his arm and turned him right around again. “Going somewhere?”

“I thought I’d check the horses.”

“They’re picketed with feed and water in reach. They’ll be fine until we’re back.” She punched his shoulder. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

He poked her back with the end of the staff that he carried. “Other than a long drop to a cavern full of undead and possibly a very angry dragon?” he pointed out.

“Shara’s right.” Kri rose from the brink of the hole and stepped back. “I know magic that will let us reach the floor of the cavern, and from your descriptions, I think the undead were roused through a ritual by the lich who led you here. I suspect that as long as we don’t attempt to interfere with them, they won’t interfere with us.”

“And Vestapalk?” Albanon asked.

Shara’s face hardened. She reached over her shoulder and slapped the hilt of the greatsword that rode across her back.

Albanon clenched his teeth, pushed back the fear in his belly, and reminded himself that he had wanted this. For the first day after they rode out of Fallcrest, he’d been twitchy with a guilty excitement; their hunt to find Vestapalk and whatever remained of the shattered vial of Voidharrow might be deadly serious, but it felt good to be setting out on another adventure. On the second day, guilty excitement had turned to nervous anticipation. By the third day, as they turned off of the King’s Road and plunged into wilderness, he’d started twitching for entirely different reasons. As he’d kept watch beside their campfire the night before, he’d jumped at every flickering shadow and every snap of burning wood.

The first time they’d come here, they hadn’t known what they would find. There was no turning back now. Albanon took a deep breath and let it out, forcing himself to calm down. “So how are we going to get down?” he asked.

Perched on his shoulder, Splendid extended her wings so that they flashed in the sunlight. “If you could only fly—”

“Well, we can’t.” Albanon looked to Kri. “Last time I used a spell to let Shara float down. I could do that again, but it will only support one person. What’s your magic?”

“The next best thing to flying, I think,” said Kri. “Save your spell.” He started rummaging through his pack. Curiosity flickered in Albanon and he leaned over. The pack that Kri carried was small, but before they’d set out from Fallcrest, he’d produced from it a suit of curiously fine chain, the polished links flashing with a faint golden sheen. Albanon couldn’t help wondering what else the old cleric had in there. As if feeling the eladrin’s eyes on him, Kri scowled and bent over the pack, shielding its interior. Splendid snorted and nipped at Albanon’s long ear.

Albanon yelped and twisted his head to glare at her. The pseudodragon tossed her own head back. “Rude!” she said.

By the time Albanon looked back, Kri had already produced a battered book, a pouch, and several vials. Motioning for Albanon and Shara to stand clear, he opened the pouch and drew out a handful of fine silvery dust. When he began trickling it out on to the ground, Albanon felt as if a hand had closed on his throat. He wheezed loudly and had to look away.

Kri scowled again but didn’t look up from the circle—about three paces across—that he was tracing. Shara glanced at Albanon. “What is that stuff?”

“Residuum,” said Albanon. “Extracted from enchanted objects. It’s worth … well, that handful could probably buy half of Fallcrest. The good half.”

“It’s worth any price to find out what happened to the Voidharrow,” commented Kri. “Now hush and let me work.” The cleric finished the circle and stepped into it. With colored powders from the vials, he drew several large symbols around himself. Some of the symbols Albanon recognized; others he didn’t. He was fairly certain, though, that the symbols were more like those used by wizards than any holy writing he’d ever seen in the hands of priests. His tongue itched with the urge to ask questions, but he held them back. At least until Kri was done with his work.

When the symbols were traced, Kri opened the book with the confidence of long familiarity. Stretching out his free hand, he began a low chant and started to turn in place. Where the shadow of his arm passed, the powdery symbols began to shift and blur. Albanon stared as if he could commit the complex ritual to memory.

With the sixth slow turn, the symbols had blurred so much they were unrecognizable. The colored powders gave a light tint to the whole space within the residuum circle. Kri’s voice rose, his arm coming up as well. The colored circle shimmered in time to his words, then, as they reached a peak, gave a kind of … jump. Albanon blinked. Kri’s voice trailed away. He closed the book.

“Join me,” he said. “Bring my pack.”

Albanon scooped it up and together he and Shara stepped carefully over the border of the circle. The colored powders, along with the residuum, now spread out around Kri in a thin, shimmering disk. He looked at the cleric.

The corners of Kri’s mouth twitched into a faint smile and he made a small lifting gesture with his fingers.

Smooth as silk over glass, the shimmering disk rose very slightly, no more than a hand span. Shara gasped in surprise and stared down at her feet. “It can hold us all?” she asked. “But it’s so thin!”

“It doesn’t need to be thick. If I’d made it larger, it could have held our horses, too.”

Kri seemed quite pleased with himself. Albanon ventured a question. “That seemed more like the ritual of a wizard than of a priest.”

“A ritual is neither spell nor prayer,” said Kri. “Anyone with the proper knowledge can work one—and I serve the god of both knowledge and magic.” He pushed his hand outward and the disk slid forward with them on top of it. It moved no faster than Albanon could have walked, but the motion was smooth. The disk tilted slightly as the ground rose, following the contour of the hill.

The gaping hole was just ahead of them and coming closer. Albanon had a sudden terrifying vision of the disk sliding up to the edge of it, then tipping right over. His stomach clenched. “Kri.…”

“Don’t worry.” The cleric turned his hand palm upward as the disk approached the hole. It slowed to a crawl and nosed over the edge like a drunk man feeling his way through a dark room, then slid out over the hole. Without solid ground beneath it, the thin disk seemed even less substantial. Albanon held his breath as more of the disk crept into empty space.

The spell that would allow him to float like a feather came unbidden into his mind. He let it stay there and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

When he opened them again, the disk hovered stationary over the hole. Shara looked at him in amusement. Kri just shook his head. “Have some faith, Albanon,” he said. “Trust me.” He turned his hand and pressed down. The disk began to descend into the cavern below.

“I climbed down on ropes before,” Albanon protested. “I’m not scared.”

“Then look over the edge,” said Shara.

Albanon leaned a little way and glanced down. Sunlight fell in a bright shaft through the hole above, turning the darkness to dusk. The tilted and broken remains of the necropolis that lay across the distant floor of the cavern seemed to lurch and reel before his eyes. He stood tall and faced Shara. “I don’t think I will. I don’t need to prove myself.”

“Fine, then.” Shara bent over the edge and scanned the cavern. Splendid leaped from Albanon’s shoulder, gliding to the warrior’s and peering over with her. “There,” Shara said. She pointed to a chasm that ripped through the shattered tombs. “That’s where Vestapalk fell. Take us there.”

Kri shook his head. “The disc follows the ground. It can move up or down, but I can’t take it through the air. We’ll need to go on foot once we reach the cavern floor.”

Shara grimaced. “Scared?” Albanon asked.

“We’ll waste time crossing the ruins,” she grumbled. She looked around the great cavern again and added, “I wish I knew what happened here.”

“Me, too,” said Albanon. As the disk sank lower he could see more of the cavern without getting close to the edge. The tombs of the necropolis, though ancient and broken, were at least upright. Clusters of them rested on wide shelves of stone. Others stood as solidly as if they’d been constructed down here. “If the ground had given way beneath the tombs and they’d fallen, they’d be more jumbled. It’s almost as if the cavern gave way under the whole place all at the same time.”

“Or as if a vast hand reached up and pulled it all underground,” said Kri. Albanon and Shara both looked over at him. The cleric gazed around as if they were passing through some beautifully decorated palace rather than descending into an undead-haunted necropolis. “You said one of your friends called this Andok Sur?”

“Erak,” said Shara. “He was a … servant of the Raven Queen. Sometimes his god put knowledge into his mind with no explanation of what it meant.”

“The ways of the gods are not the ways of mortals.” Kri glanced at Albanon. “Did Moorin have you study the writings of Kelsom Farwanderer?”

Albanon wracked his memory. “A little. He was a traveling scholar.”

“There’s a great deal we know about the world because Kelsom Farwanderer—may Ioun remember him—chose to copy it from older, more fragile texts. Including Andok Sur.” Kri swept an arm around them. “In the days when this stood above ground, Bael Turath was still in its infancy. This area was part of the territory of the warrior tribes of the Western Plain. They didn’t live here. It was strictly a ceremonial center.”

“They brought their dead to the tombs here?”

Kri’s mouth twitched into a smile again. “They brought their enemies here—and entombed them alive.”

“But there are so many tombs,” said Shara, staring around the cavern. “If all of the undead we fought before were buried alive …” She shuddered. “That’s monstrous!”

“If you were born in the Nentir Vale, those monsters are likely among your ancestors,” Kri said mildly. “But yes, those left to die here did not pass gently into the Raven Queen’s realm. Andok Sur was dedicated to Orcus, Demon Prince of the Undead. Even demon princes are ultimately creatures of destruction, though. Legends say that Orcus was angered by some slight and plunged all of Andok Sur beneath the ground in retribution.”

Splendid’s small face wrinkled. “Why would anyone follow a demon prince? Demons are nasty things.”

“Hatred. Self-loathing. Insanity. Some people think they can command demons or tap into their power, but such efforts never last. Demons don’t care about anything except destruction—it’s a rare demon that exhibits anything like subtlety. They’re born out of the Abyss and belong to the Elemental Chaos in the same way that eladrin belong to the Feywild.” Kri nodded at Albanon. “But the Feywild is the vibrant and magical reflection of the world we know. The Elemental Chaos is nothing like our world and the Abyss is a corruption of the Elemental Chaos. The undead of Andok Sur are more like us than demons are.”

Shara grimaced. “I fought off zombies, skeletons, and wights down here that were doing their best to eat me. I didn’t exactly feel kinship with them.”

“Zombies, skeletons, and wights were alive once, just like us,” said Albanon. “A demon has never been anything other than a demon.”

Kri nodded approvingly. “Exactly. It’s good to see Moorin didn’t completely waste his time with you.” The cleric looked to Shara. “The point is that you can’t trust a demon. They don’t understand mercy or fear. They only exist to destroy.”

“I suppose we’re lucky it’s not easy for them to get out of the Abyss, then,” Shara said. “Dragons loose in the world are bad enough—”

The disk gave a sudden lurch, interrupting her. Albanon’s stomach shot into his mouth and he grabbed onto Shara for support. “Nothing to worry about,” said Kri. “We’re almost at the bottom—something about the ruins and slope of the walls must be affecting the disk. Just let me concentrate until we’re down.”

The cleric’s words might have been calm, but Albanon could see that his face was pale and tight with more than just concentration. They weren’t so close to the floor of the cavern that they’d survive a fall without injury. He untangled himself from Shara. “Let’s figure out the best away across to the chasm while we still have some height.”

The warrior nodded. Splendid, however, spread her wings and pushed herself off from Shara’s shoulder.

“If you don’t mind,” said the pseudodragon, “I think I’ll just fly the rest of the way on my own.”

Albanon couldn’t say he blamed her.

They came to rest in a relatively clear space among the broken tombs. Albanon wasted no time in stepping off the shimmering disk on to solid ground. Climbing down into the cavern on long, swaying ropes had been nerve-wracking, but somehow sinking slowly on the disk had been worse.

Kri made a gesture and the disk seemed to give a little bump and dip, then the old man stepped off it as well. “It will remain until we return. We can ride it back to the surface again.”

“What about the chasm?” asked Shara. “We’ll need to get down it as well.”

“We have ropes,” said Albanon.

“And the way through the ruins will be uneven and, I suspect, tight,” said Kri. “The disk would have difficulty passing.”

Shara just grunted and shouldered her pack. “It looks like we’re on our own, then.”

The way across the cavern floor was indeed awkwardly uneven and, where it passed between tombs built close together, uncomfortably narrow. Shara and Albanon had picked out their route and a few key landmarks from above, though, so at least they were able to find their way quickly. Kri’s prediction that the undead of Andok Sur would remain quiet in their tombs seemed accurate as well. There was an eerie silence in the twilight of the cavern and nothing moved that shouldn’t have, but Albanon couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. The atmosphere of the place was eerie; every hair on the nape of his neck felt as if it was standing on end like an animal’s. The first time they’d been here, they’d been too busy fighting either Vestapalk or a horde of undead to really notice. It was almost enough to make Albanon look back fondly on those desperate moments of combat.

They were at the chasm soon enough, though. Evidence of their battle stood out. Chunks of flesh and bone hewed from the bodies of undead attackers littered the ground, untouched by scavengers but slowly rotting under the attention of unhealthy looking fungi. Stones bore the scars of Vestapalk’s clawed feet or the stain left by his poisonous breath. A long scorch mark showed where Albanon had burned up three skeletons in a burst of fiery magic. He shivered and turned away.

“Here,” said Shara. “This is where I stood and watched Vestapalk fall.”

There was something strange in her voice, a little like regret, a lot like anger barely restrained. Regret, Albanon guessed at not making sure Vestapalk was dead the first time. Anger that the dragon should have had even the chance to survive. Albanon joined her at the edge and looked over. The shaft of sunlight that gave illumination to the cavern didn’t touch the chasm’s depths. With a flick of his fingers, Albanon conjured a glowing spark and sent it falling down the chasm. It fell about a dozen paces before it winked out. Its light didn’t reveal the bottom.

“We’d better get out the rope,” Albanon said quietly.

“We may not need, too,” said Kri. The cleric poked a toe at something a little further along the edge. “Someone has been down already. Albanon, another light.”

Albanon flicked his fingers again. The stark light flashed on Kri—and cast into sharp shadow the rope at his feet. It was coarse and light, one end knotted around a stake wedged into the rock, the other vanishing over the edge of the chasm. And it wasn’t the only one. At least half a dozen more also ran down into the darkness.

“That can’t be good,” said the wizard.

Shara knelt and examined the rope. “This isn’t strong enough to hold one of us. Whoever is using them must be smaller.”

“Vestapalk had a kobold wyrmpriest with him. Maybe he has more kobold followers now.”

“It’s possible.” Shara frowned, eyes focused on something dark on the stones alongside the rope. Albanon watched her rub her fingers over it, then give them a sniff. “Blood,” she said. “Still sticky, but it would dry slowly down here. I’d say it’s a day, maybe two, old.”

“Dragon blood,” suggested Albanon. “Maybe Vestapalk is dead and they’re carving him up for meat.”

“A kobold would never do that.” Kri’s eyes narrowed. “Splendid, we need you to scout for us.”

The pseudodragon, perched on top of Albanon’s pack, flinched. “Down there?”

“There might be an ambush waiting for us. If we climb down we’ll be vulnerable,” Kri said. “You’re a fast flier. Just glide down, then come back up and tell us what you see.”

Splendid looked unconvinced. “I have more honeybark,” Kri added. Splendid’s head and tail rose together. “And we’d be in your debt.”

Splendid flapped her wings and rose into the air. “If I don’t make it back, I expect you to come find me,” she said. “But when I do come back, have that honeybark ready.” She flew a short distance from them, then banked and began slow, silent descent into the chasm.

As soon as she was out of sight, Kri turned to Albanon and Shara. “Start getting our rope ready. We’ll be going down.”

Albanon blinked. “What if Splendid finds something?”

“Then we’ll know to be cautious at the bottom.” Kri gave him a long look. “We’re going down no matter what Splendid finds, Albanon. Discovering what happened to Vestapalk and the Voidharrow is too important not to go.”

Albanon looked to Shara, but she was already digging rope out of her pack. Her face was hard and he knew she wasn’t thinking of the Voidharrow so much as of Vestapalk. The eladrin pressed his lips together, swung his pack off his shoulders, and started searching for his own length of rope.

Splendid was back, however, before they were able to do more than tie the first rope to a convenient anchor. The pseudodragon came flapping up out of the chasm with a worried look on her small face. She settled on to a broken column close to Kri. “Something was camped down there,” she reported. “It’s abandoned now, though. The camp has been destroyed. Everything is scattered.”

“And Vestapalk?” asked Shara.

“No sign of him,” Splendid said. “But there’s a cave opening off the floor of the cavern.” She fluttered her wings and added defensively, “You didn’t ask me to go in any caves. It’s away from here, though. If anything is going to ambush you from there, you’ll have time to defend yourselves.”

Albanon, Kri, and Shara exchanged glances, then Kri produced another dry strip of honeybark and tossed it to Splendid. “Well done.”

They finished knotting the ropes together and lowered them over the edge of the chasm. Shara tied a dagger to the end as a weight, listening closely as the rope went down. There was still some slack in the rope’s combined length when Albanon heard the dagger clink as it reach a solid surface. Shara dragged the rope back and forth a few times, then nodded. “We’re at the bottom.”

“You go first,” said Kri. “I’ll follow. Albanon, give us light and be ready with your spell in case anyone falls.”

Albanon swallowed, tucked his staff securely between his pack and his body, and nodded.

The descent went faster and more smoothly than he would have expected. The chasm wall was mercifully clear of large projections—maybe because Vestapalk had broken many of them away when he’d fallen. Albanon spotted several points where areas of broken stone were smeared with the dark remains of blood. Green scales as big as his palm glittered here and there where they’d become wedged among the rocks. Vestapalk’s descent had not been easy.

He felt the rope shake and heard the ring of a drawn sword as Shara leaped to the chasm floor. Glancing down, he saw her take up a guard position. Splendid hovered near her shoulder, pointing out the direction of the unseen cave. Shara kept watch in all directions, though. Kri joined her, his morningstar at the ready, then it was Albanon’s turn. He kicked away from the wall and landed as softly as he could manage. Kri put a long, thin stick into his hand without looking. Albanon recognized it as a sunrod and understood what Kri wanted. He struck the rod’s gnarled end against the rock wall.

Light brighter than any he could summon flared from the rod. He held it high, illuminating the chasm around them.

Splendid had been right. The remains of a camp littered the chasm floor. Rough blankets, crude pots, baskets, and gear had been torn and broken. The ashes of fire pits covered wide areas in black and gray dust. Shara pointed at tracks through the ashes. “Kobolds,” she said.

“What happened here?” Albanon asked quietly.

Kri seemed to pay no attention to either of them. Morningstar set aside briefly, he gripped the holy symbol of Ioun around his neck with one hand while the other stretched out, fingers spread wide. His eyes were narrow with concentration, darting back and forth around the chasm. He pointed and Albanon shifted the sunrod. A patch of darkness he had taken for shadow on the stone refused to move. Dried blood—a big patch of it. Shara looked up to the chasm’s edge high above, then back down.

“I think that’s where Vestapalk fell,” she said.

“I’m sure of it.” Kri’s finger traced a path and Albanon saw more dried blood smeared across the chasm floor underneath the remains of the camp. “The kobolds moved him,” Kri said. “Dragged him. That way.”

“That’s where the cave lies,” whispered Splendid.

“And that’s where we have to go.” Taking up his morningstar, Kri moved off through the camp. Albanon and Shara glanced at each other, then went after him. Splendid hung back behind them all.

“Why would the kobolds have dragged Vestapalk around?” asked Shara. “Do you think they were trying to make a tomb for him?”

Kri’s face tightened. “If we’re lucky.”

The cleric still gripped his holy symbol with his free hand. His eyes still scanned the shadows beyond the sunrod’s light. “You can sense the Voidharrow, can’t you?” Albanon said to him. “Is Vestapalk in there? Is he dead?”

“Dead or he would have come charging out at us,” Shara answered.

“Perhaps,” said Kri. His eyes were on the deeper darkness taking shape in the shadows ahead—the cave mouth. The long streaks of dragon blood went right into it. “Perhaps not.”

Shara growled in frustration at the cryptic answer, but it caught Albanon’s imagination. What did Kri mean? That perhaps the dragon was dead? Or that perhaps he would not charge? Or perhaps that the great beast wasn’t dead but was too injured to attack? Albanon had seen Vestapalk’s wounds when the dragon fell out of the air and down the chasm. He couldn’t have made it down the rocky shaft without sustaining more injuries.

Or perhaps there was some fourth option. The Voidharrow had turned Nu Alin from a man into a monstrosity. Kri had hinted that something similar might have happened to Vestapalk. What if it already had? Suspicion nagged at him. “Kri,” he asked, “what exactly is the Voidharrow?”

Kri said nothing, just strode on toward the cave. Suspicion turned into fear in Albanon’s belly. He grabbed Shara’s arm, but from the look on her face, she shared his concern. She pushed his arm away. “Kri—,” she began.

The old man stopped in the mouth of the cave and turned. “Bring the light,” he said.

“Give us an answer,” demanded Albanon.

“Bring the light!”

There was compulsion in his words. Albanon’s feet betrayed him and he crossed the last few paces to stand beside Kri. The cleric seized his arm, shoving it and the sunrod up to throw light into the cave beyond.

It was empty. Gouges showed where talons had dug into the stone and there was a bitter tang to the still air, a smell Albanon remembered from the battle with Vestapalk. The dragon had been here, but he wasn’t any longer. Shadows clung to the ceiling and to the fringes of rocky chamber, but they weren’t deep enough to hide a creature of Vestapalk’s size. Kri’s expression was blank. Shara came to stand beside them. Unlike the cleric’s, her face was alive with anger.

“He’s gone,” she spat. “He’s alive and he’s gone.” She turned to Kri. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know!” Kri spun around. “Healed and left because you didn’t finish him. Because you exposed him to the Voidharrow. Now it’s gone, too. The cave crawls with the remains of its presence, but it’s lost to us.”

Shara leaned into his face. “Enough about the Voidharrow! You won’t even tell us anything about it. I have a score to settle with Vestapalk. He killed my father and the man I loved. What is this Voidharrow that it’s more important than that?”

Albanon took a step away from the shouting pair and bumped into Splendid. The pseudodragon’s feet grabbed for purchase on his shoulder and she huddled close to him, her tail wrapping around his neck. “Albanon,” she said softly, “listen.”

She looked up at the unseen roof of the cave. Albanon tilted his head back and tried to ignore Kri and Shara.

Something scraped on stone. A hand. A claw. Albanon’s heart leaped into his throat.

The shadows weren’t deep enough to hide a dragon—but they could hide something smaller.

“Kri! Shara!” he yelled, jumping back. “The kobolds!”

It was already too late. Shrieking and grunting as if his warning had been the signal to attack, dark figures dropped from the unseen ceiling.

CHAPTER NINE

Albanon’s world dissolved into the chaos of battle. The diminutive forms of the kobolds dropped fast. Barely thinking, the wizard flung out his hand and screamed the arcane words of a spell.

Fire roared from his spread fingers, banishing the last of the shadows. The shrieks of four falling figures rose into howls of agony. They slammed hard into the ground, three of them already dead, the fourth flailing at the flames that clung to it.

But that was only four of the figures. Others landed with startling grace and leaped for him. Albanon gasped and stumbled.

A sword blade whipped through the air and cut the first of the creatures down in midleap. Shrieking like one of their attackers, Shara put herself between them and Albanon. Kri moved to her side, morningstar swinging, a prayer on his lips. “All-Knowing Mistress, shield us!”

Albanon could almost feel the power of the cleric’s faith surround them. For just a moment, everything seemed still and he got his first good look at the kobolds that had ambushed them.

The sight made him recoil in horror and disgust.

The kobolds looked as if they were suffering from some kind of disease. Their scales hung in patches and strips from raw, oozing flesh. Boils bulged across their bodies—especially across the backs of the shoulders, some so huge the kobolds who bore them hunched forward as if trying to escape their weight. Other kobolds carried massive swellings that seemed to engulf their faces from brow to long snout.

But sores and boils weren’t the only things afflicting the kobolds. Whip-lean bodies that should have stood no higher than Albanon’s waist had become thick, gnarled, and up to a head taller, like strange reptilian dwarves. The growth must have been sudden, he realized—much of the kobolds’ peeling skin marked where flesh had been stretched and torn by the changes in their bodies. Heavy, curved talons forced their way from hands and feet. Thin tails hung limp and shriveled like dying vines. Pain and madness blazed in the eyes shot through with red.

The moment of grace vanished like a soap bubble. The wave of kobolds crashed into Shara and Kri.

And Shara and Kri crashed back. Greatsword and morningstar moved in deadly arcs, cutting and crushing, slicing and slamming. They fought well together, a wall of steel holding back the diseased kobolds.

But they were doing no more than holding the creatures back. The cleric and the warrior made a short wall, and though they had the kobolds’ attention for the moment, they wouldn’t hold it for long. Albanon took a couple of swift steps back and shrugged off his pack, prompting a squeal of dismay from Splendid as she tried to cling to it.

“Hide!” he ordered her, tearing his staff free of the pack’s straps and wedging the sunrod upright in its place. The pseudodragon half-jumped, half-flew into the nearest rocky crevice—and vanished, cloaking herself with defensive invisibility. Albanon wished he could do the same. He spun back to the fight and snapped a word of power as he thrust the staff at a kobold grabbing for Kri’s arm.

Magic flowed through the staff, a bolt of silvery force that blasted the kobold back. Albanon turned and hurled another bolt at a second kobold, then yet another at a third, trying to open up some space around his companions before they were overwhelmed. The magical missiles weren’t as effective as the burst of flame, though. The first kobold was already staggering back to its feet.

“You can’t take down more than one at a time?” Shara called over her shoulder. She swung her sword and separated a clawing arm from a kobold. The creature just screamed and grabbed for her with its other arm. Shara’s backstroke bit through its torso.

“Not without catching you in the spell!” Albanon shouted back. He flung a second bolt at the staggering kobold. This time it went down like a sack of flour.

Unfortunately, it fell against one of the other kobolds—one who fixed Albanon with a red-eyed glare. Hissing, it grabbed another kobold and charged at the wizard. Two more, their attention drawn from Kri and Shara, followed. Kri snarled and caught the slowest a heavy blow from behind that sent it sprawling, but Albanon’s gut still flipped over in his belly.

He choked on a curse and swept his free hand at the charging creatures. Bright blue-white magic hissed over the first two kobolds. Frost whitened their scales and froze the flesh beneath, for an instant binding them in place.

The third vaulted right over them, mouth wide and talons spread. Albanon brought his staff up and tried to knock the thing out of the air, but it was quicker than him. Bashing the staff aside, it sank teeth that seemed far larger than they should have been deep into Albanon’s left arm.

Agony ripped through the eladrin. He tried to focus on the words of a spell, but he couldn’t. He only barely had the presence of mind to jam the end of his staff into the kobold’s ribs, holding it back so that its talons raked his skin but dug no deeper. Shara cried out but the remaining kobolds surged around her and Kri both, pinning them down. The kobold on Albanon’s arm almost seemed to grin at him as it chewed into his flesh. Above its tooth-filled snout, below a forehead grown thick and bony, its tiny eyes glittered.

Glittered like liquid red crystals shot through with streaks of silver. Albanon’s breath caught in his throat. Up close, he could see the weeping sores where blisters had burst. At the center of each grew a red crystal. More crystals, hand-sized plates like crystalline armor, grew within the massive blisters across shoulders. The raw flesh that showed beneath its peeling scales glittered, too, as if something were crawling through it, corrupting the creatures before Albanon’s eyes.

He stiffened in shock and the kobold grabbed his arm, opening its mouth to get a better bite.

“No!”

A winged blur streaked past Albanon and fastened itself onto the kobold’s back. “You will not hurt him!” Splendid shrieked. “You will not hurt him!” Her small claws dug into the kobold’s skin. Her wings battered its head. Far more dangerous, however, was her tail as it darted at the kobold’s exposed torso again and again, repeatedly jabbing with the poisonous stinger at its tip.

The kobold howled and let go of Albanon to slap at Splendid, but she slid aside from its awkward blows and took to the air. Still shrieking, the pseudodragon darted at the other kobolds. Some ducked. Others grabbed for her. The one who had attacked Albanon, flesh already swelling from Splendid’s stings, bowled through them as it clawed for her.

For a moment, all of them forgot Shara and Kri. Shara turned with a howl and went after them, swinging her greatsword in an arc that sheared right through two of the creatures. Kri, however, stood his ground. His morningstar fell to his side as he reached up to touch his holy symbol with one hand. He closed his eyes and his lips moved in a whispered prayer. Albanon watched as a radiant glow seemed to suffuse the old cleric’s face.

Then Kri opened his eyes and the light exploded from him.

For a heartbeat, the divine radiance was all that Albanon could see, a white brilliance that filled his eyes but was cool on his skin. The kobolds seemed to feel something far different. In the instant that he basked in the light of the gods, they wailed as if they were on fire, then fell silent.

The light passed like a veil. Albanon blinked—there weren’t even any spots left to cloud his vision—and saw that all of the kobolds were either down or staring blind into space. Kri’s hand slipped from his holy symbol. “Finish any that live as quick as you can. You only have a few moments,” he said to Shara, then turned to Albanon with a look of concern on his face.

Concern? A part of the eladrin wondered. We’ve won. What is there to be concerned about? He stepped forward to meet Kri.

The cave turned around him, bringing with it a powerful throbbing in his arm. Albanon looked down.

His left forearm was a torn mess of skin and muscle. Blood dripped in a pattering rain on to the cave floor. “Oh,” he said.

He didn’t remember starting to fall, but suddenly Kri’s hands were supporting him and lowering him more gently to the ground. The cleric examined the wound in his arm, then parted shredded robes to inspect his side as well. He looked into Albanon’s eyes. “I can heal you.”

Albanon nodded. He’d experienced magical healing before. It was comforting, like a warm blanket laid over his wounds. He forced himself to relax in spite of the pain as Kri’s hands moved over his arm and settled above the place where the kobold had bitten the deepest. The old man’s face tightened in concentration and he murmured a prayer. Albanon closed his eyes and drew a deep, slow breath.

The sudden fire that burned through his arm was worse than the kobold’s bite. Albanon yelled and forced his eyes open against the blinding light that flared from Kri’s hands. He tried to pull away, but Kri gripped him tight. One hand moved to his side, tracing fire along the wounds there, then light and pain faded together. All that remained of the wounds were bloodstains and angry, tender scars.

“The wound might have been infected,” Kri said, pushing himself to his feet. “The light of the gods was necessary to cleanse it just in case.”

“You could have warned me!” Albanon sat up. The healing had taken only moments. Splendid was just coming to perch on his discarded pack and Shara was still moving like a whirlwind around the chamber, dispatching the last of the radiance-stunned kobolds. She cut down a final kobold and turned to face them, a grim smile of triumph beneath the blood that spattered her face.

“That was a better fight than I would have expected from kobolds,” she said. “Moon and stars, what happened to—”

If Albanon hadn’t been sitting on the ground and looking up, he wouldn’t have seen the movement in the shadows above her. He wouldn’t have seen the form of one last kobold as it dropped silently from its hiding place.

Quick as thought, he flicked his fingers at it and spat the first spell that came to his mind, the one that had hovered near his lips all day.

The kobold yelped as its fall was cut short, deadly descent turned into a slow drift.

Shara and Kri spun around and stared up at it. The kobold squealed and spat, flailing with arms and legs as if it could swim through the air, but there was nothing for it to push against. It was helpless. Shara’s eyes narrowed and she brought up her sword. The creature just hissed louder.

“Kill you!” it snarled. Its voice was high-pitched, a weird sound coming from a muscular body, and its massive teeth got in the way of the words. “Eat your heart! Eat your eyes!”

“Eat this.” Shara drew her sword back, ready to strike as soon as it was close enough.

“No,” said Kri sharply. “It talks.” He reached down and offered Albanon a hand to pull himself up. “Quick thinking. Can you keep it in the air?”

“Why would you want to?”

“To question it.” The cleric strode to Shara’s side. Wrapping one hand around his holy symbol, he touched the other to the blade of the warrior’s greatsword.

Golden radiance flashed along the length of the metal. As its slow, inexorable fall brought it closer to the shining sword, the kobold’s eyes went very wide. Its struggles increased. Albanon joined the others, keeping his distance from the thing’s clawed hands and feet.

“What happened to it?” His stomach tightened with fear, but at the same time he felt a strange sense of fascination. He hadn’t made a specific study of disease, but Moorin’s teachings had been eclectic. None of his master’s books described any infection or plague that affected its sufferers as the kobolds had been affected. The drifting kobold had the same silver-red crystal eyes and half-formed crystalline growths as the one that had attacked him. The same, he realized glancing at the corpses that lay around the cave, as the rest of the kobolds. His stomach tightened a little more. The same silver-red crystal as the Voidharrow. “What happened to all of them?”

“A good question to start with.” Kri regarded the kobold. “What happened?”

The creature just hissed at him. Kri nudged Shara’s arm—and her sword—a little higher. A look of discomfort crossed Shara’s face. “Kri, I don’t like this.”

“It will kill you if it has the chance. Slowly, if it has the luxury.” The cleric’s gaze didn’t leave the kobold as he spoke. “Besides, don’t you want your revenge on Vestapalk?”

The kobold’s hissing broke into an open growl at the mention of the dragon. “Will not speak the Great One’s name!” it said. “Not worthy! Great One will slay you!”

“So he lives, then,” said Kri. Shara’s expression hardened and Albanon noticed that when Kri released her arm, she didn’t lower her sword. The cleric circled around the kobold, forcing the creature to keep turning its head to watch both of them. When he spoke again, his voice was unexpectedly soft. “Do you have a name?”

The question seemed to puzzle the kobold. It blinked several times and its mouth quivered around its oversized teeth. Finally it said, “Sistree.”

“Why did you hesitate? Was it hard to remember?”

The kobold flinched and snarled. It lashed out, trying to reach them. Albanon couldn’t help thinking of a wounded dog, snapping at anything that came near and all the more dangerous because of its pain. The spell wouldn’t keep the creature aloft for much longer. The next time it lunged, it might catch one of them. “Kri, the spell …” he said in warning.

The cleric held up a hand. “Did Vestapalk do this to you, Sistree?”

Shara sucked in her breath in surprise. Albanon glanced sharply at Kri. How could Vestapalk have done this? Sistree’s answer was confirmation of Kri’s suggestion, however. “Blessed!” insisted the kobold. “Blessed the tribe.”

“Did he? Kobolds know to run from danger.” Kri swept an arm around the cave. “Why didn’t your tribe run? Why did you attack when you could have remained hidden?”

Sistree’s fierce expression became confused. “Have to.” It looked like the kobold was struggling to form thoughts and words. “Have to kill. Hate you. Hate everything!”

His clawed hands clenched and a burning light returned to his crystalline eyes. Kri’s face tightened. “Where is Vestapalk?”

“Gone,” said Sistree. “Flew up! Flew away.”

Kri stepped close, almost within reach of the claws. “Gone where?” he demanded. “Why did he leave his tribe after he had blessed you?”

Sistree’s shrill voice rose in a howl. “Left us to look for the Gatherer!” Albanon felt the magic of the spell finally unravel. The kobold’s muscular body jerked and uncoiled suddenly as it threw itself at Kri. Clawed hands drove at the old man’s face. Too many clawed hands—with a wet ripping sound, a second pair of arms ripped out of the blisters on its shoulders. Albanon yelled in shock.

Shara’s sword made a radiant streak that connected with Sistree’s back and slammed the kobold to the ground. Wisps of smoke rose where the blade, still glowing with the power of Kri’s prayer, touched crawling, crystal-tinged flesh. Even with its body broken, the kobold—or rather the thing that had been a kobold—continued to shriek and rake at them. Shara dodged past the flailing arms and brought her sword down on its head. The shrieks ended like a snuffed-out candle.

Kri, however, glared at Shara in a fury. “Why did you do that?”

The warrior scowled. “You’re welcome,” she said. Putting a boot to the back of Sistree’s skull, she wrenched her sword free.

“I could have taken care of myself.”

“Really? I’ve never seen a priest pray with his jaw ripped off.”

Kri stared down at Sistree’s corpse, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he looked up again, his eyes went to Shara. “I’m not used to having other people defend me.”

“Apparently not.” She turned away and looked around the cave. In spite of her swift actions, Albanon could see that she was shaken. The danger might have been past but her knuckles were still white as she clenched her sword. “What kind of disease makes something grow extra arms?” Shara flinched suddenly and released her sword to scrub at the blood spattering her face. “Steel and thunder! Is it something that can spread to us?”

“Only if they’d broken your skin,” said Kri. “Albanon was in danger. You’re fine.”

Shara twisted back toward him. “You know about this, don’t you? What is it? What did Vestapalk do to these kobolds?”

Kri’s lips pressed tight together

The answer burned in Albanon’s mind, though. “He used the Voidharrow on them,” he said. “Look at their eyes”—steeling himself, he bent down and peeled back a corpse’s eyelid to reveal the red crystalline orb within—“or where their growth split their skin, you can see it there. It all looks just like the Voidharrow.” The eladrin glanced up at Kri. “You said the Voidharrow made Nu Alin and that it might have turned Vestapalk into something else, too. You weren’t just guessing when you asked Sistree if Vestapalk did this. The Voidharrow is some kind of disease and Vestapalk can spread it.”

The cleric stood still for a moment. Then he nodded. He looked down at Sistree again and seemed to sag a bit, as if his age was catching up with him. “I don’t think there’s a ‘might’ to Vestapalk’s transformation any longer.”

Shara cursed. “So what has he transformed into, then?”

“I don’t know. Not entirely.”

Albanon exchanged a glance with Shara, then looked back to Kri. “You don’t know. What about these, then?” He gestured to the dead kobolds. “What were they turning into?”

Kri just shook his head. Albanon felt a knot of fear return to his belly. “What exactly is the Voidharrow, Kri? You said the Order of Vigilance was dedicated to watching over it.”

“Watching over it,” said Kri, finally breaking his silence. “I didn’t say we understood it. We’ve never known what it was—only what it can do.”

“And what’s that?” asked Shara.

Kri looked at her, then at Albanon, too. “The Voidharrow,” he said, “creates demons.”

The sun touched the rugged horizon by the time they returned to the surface. At Kri’s insistence, they’d searched the cave and the chasm for any remaining kobolds, then burned the bodies of the ones they had killed in a holy fire kindled by the cleric’s prayers. Albanon had never felt more grateful for the wind and fresh air of the land above. They recovered their horses and spent twilight putting some distance between themselves and the buried necropolis of Andok Sur. They’d seen no undead, the kobolds were destroyed, and there was no sign that Vestapalk, wherever he might be, had remained in the area, but among the haunted Old Hills, it was better not to take chances.

Only when they were camped with a bright fire snapping and popping in the wind did they talk.

“The kobolds weren’t really demons, were they?” Albanon asked. The thought had been gnawing at him since their encounter. As they’d collected the bodies of the kobolds for burning, he’d found others that showed the same developing pair of extra arms as Sistree. In others, the crystalline shoulder plates had grown large and thick enough that they might have deflected the blow of a weapon. The way they had hunched forward hadn’t just been because of the weight of the crystal armor—their bodies had actually been reshaped by the Voidharrow. Whatever creatures the kobolds might have become, though, calling them “demons” seemed to go too far. “Isn’t it more likely they were turning into some other kind of monster? They don’t look like any demons I ever read about in Moorin’s books.”

“You wouldn’t have read about them in books. Only a handful of people—all members of the Order of Vigilance—have ever encountered such creatures before.” Kri, turning a thin stick in the fire, shook his head. “But make no mistake. The taint of the Abyss was upon them. If your training lay in that area, you would have sensed it as well. The kobolds were not demons yet, but we’d been another day arriving to investigate, they would have been. Flesh struggles to resist the Voidharrow as it resists any infection.” He frowned at the stick. “It’s just far less successful.”

“Then Vestapalk is turning into a demon, too?” said Shara. She sat with her greatsword across her knees, running a whetstone across the edges of the blade. The skrrr of stone on metal grated at Albanon’s ears and made the tension in his neck and shoulders even worse. Shara’s expression was dark. He was certain that with each pass of the whetstone, the warrior was imagining the sword cutting into Vestapalk’s flesh.

Kri was silent for a moment before he said quietly, “If we’re lucky, yes.”

The sound of the stone stopped. Even Splendid, stretched out close to the heat of the flames, lifted her head to look at Kri. “If we’re lucky?” Shara asked.

Albanon’s jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt. “You need to tell us everything, Kri.”

“Ioun teaches that we can tell only what we know; all I know comes from the histories of my order, and those are thin.” The cleric tossed his stick into the fire and sat back. “In a time when the Empire of Nerath was still at the height of its glory, two groups of heroes found their quests coming together—much as the search for Moorin’s killer and the search for revenge on Vestapalk brought you two together. Both groups sought a mad man, one for what he had done, the other for what he would do. When their quests led them from this world into the silver wastes of the Astral Sea, the groups joined forces to hunt down the mad man and his followers. That mad man’s name was Albric—Albric the Accursed, as he is remembered in the histories.”

“Nu Alin,” said Albanon. “You said that was his name before he became … what he is.”

Kri nodded. “In the Astral Sea drift the domains of the gods, as well as the remains of shattered domains destroyed or devastated during the Dawn War between the gods and the Primordials. Albric and his followers traveled to one of these empty realms and there attempted to break open the prison of one of the great evils locked away during those ancient times. The heroes arrived and interrupted their plans, but not before something had slipped through: a quantity of red, crystalline liquid. And that was when the heroes witnessed the power of what they would come to know as the Voidharrow.”

“Albric and his followers were in the throes of the plague when the heroes caught them—still partly mortal beings, already changing into something else. I can’t do justice to the words of the histories, but they became grotesques. As the heroes fought them, they transformed into creatures of tremendous power. Albric became the bodiless creature we know as Nu Alin. The others who were exposed to the Voidharrow changed in different ways. The heroes managed to defeat them all, though not without cost to themselves. One of their number was lost through a portal opened by Albric as part of his scheme. Another was possessed by Nu Alin but gave his life so that the monster might be contained. In the end, however, the heroes were left in possession of the last of the Voidharrow carefully collected into three crystal vials—but with no knowledge of what it truly was. No sage they consulted had ever seen or heard of such a substance. The servants of the gods, called on through the most powerful of rituals, were silent. The Voidharrow was a mystery save for what they had witnessed themselves. They didn’t even know what to call it. The surviving heroes knew it was dangerous and so they became the Order of Vigilance, sworn to protect the mysterious substance and keep it from any who might attempt to misuse it. For generations, the Order kept the vials safe while we searched for clues to what it was, where it came from, or even what sort of demons Albric and his followers were transformed into. Curiosity overcame the fear that nagged at Albanon. “Did you find any?”

“If we had, do you think we would be sitting here today?”

“Ah.” Albanon felt his face turn warm with embarrassment. “Right.”

“If it was so dangerous, why didn’t they just destroy it?” asked Shara.

Kri bent his head toward her. “A more sensible question. They tried—and discovered that when the gods themselves have nothing to say, wise mortals should remain silent as well. Do you know the red ebarri plant? The leaves are irritating on their own, but burn them and the smoke will sicken anyone who breathes it and the ashes are a deadly poison.” His expression grew taut. “When it seemed that all possibilities for investigation had been exhausted, a member of the Order named Dravit Nance proposed attempting to destroy a quantity of the Voidharrow. After much debate, his proposal was approved. Dravit took one of the vials into the wilderness, removed a portion of its contents, and attempted a ritual that he believed would safely incinerate the Voidharrow.”

“It didn’t,” Shara guessed.

“It didn’t. Nor was Dravit so isolated as he thought. His ritual only vaporized the Voidharrow and it drifted on the wind—right into a small settlement.” Kri touched his holy symbol. “In trying to destroy the Voidharrow, Dravit unleashed it. He tried to summon the Order for help, but it was too late. All the Order could do was keep the village quarantined and watch as the disease spread from person to person. We gained valuable insight into the effects of what we had so carefully guarded—its name at the very least, babbled by the villagers in their suffering—but at the price of more than three dozen innocent lives. And Dravit’s. He died a demon, infected in the final cleansing of the village. The Order ruled that it was safer to preserve the Voidharrow than make any further attempt to destroy it. The two remaining vials were separated. One went into the distant east with its keeper. The other, passed from guardian to guardian, ended up with Moorin.”

The cleric sighed. “And now Vestapalk has been exposed to the Voidharrow. A dragon. There’s no indication in the histories of the Order of how the Voidharrow might affect a creature of such power. That Sistree considered exposure to the plague a blessing is a bad sign. It suggests that he knew something was happening and that Vestapalk deliberately infected the kobolds.” Kri steepled his fingers before his face and rested his forehead on his fingertips. “The histories of the Order say that the disease passed easily from person to person through wounds, but there’s no indication that infection was intentional. Vestapalk is acting differently from those infected with the Voidharrow in the past.”

“Could he be trying to carry on what Nu Alin started, releasing that imprisoned evil?” Albanon asked. The words were hardly out of his mouth before another thought occurred to him. “Nu Alin! We drove him off, but we weren’t able to kill him. If he’s still alive, maybe he’s the one Vestapalk went to find. Maybe he’s the Gatherer.”

Kri’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps,” he said, “but keep an open mind. The Gatherer could be someone else. A third being. As for your first question, I don’t know. It’s possible, as anything is possible. There have been some among the Order who suggested that Albric’s intention in the Astral Sea was never to free the imprisoned evil. He only wanted to obtain the Voidharrow. If that’s true, he succeeded long ago.”

“What do we do now then?”

The cleric looked into the fire, silent for a moment before he said, “Our mission hasn’t changed; it’s just become more urgent. We do what we came here to do. We find Vestapalk and learn what changes the Voidharrow has wrought in him.” He looked up at Shara. “I assume you don’t have a problem with that.”

“Whatever Vestapalk is doesn’t change what he’s done.” Shara swung her sword over her shoulder and guided it into its sheath. “I’m with you.”

Kri nodded and looked to Albanon.

The eladrin felt his mouth go dry, but he nodded and asked “Where do we start?”

“We return to Fallcrest and Moorin’s tower,” said Kri. “Vestapalk could have gone anywhere, but we have to begin somewhere. Fallcrest is as good a place as any.”

“We can find Uldane,” Shara said. “He’ll want to join us—and I want him at my side.” She stood up and stretched. “And if we have to travel anywhere else, I want four people to split the night watch instead of three. I’ll take the third watch. Who’ll take the first?”

Kri took it. As Shara and Albanon banked the fire for the night and settled into their bed rolls, the cleric moved a little way off to better see in the night. Before he gave himself over to a restful trance, Albanon watched Kri for a time. Watched the old man look to the heavens, one hand rubbing the holy symbol around his neck, and wondered what it was like to spend a lifetime preparing for something terrible and then have it come to pass.

With a tremble, Albanon hoped that he’d have the chance to live so long.

CHAPTER TEN

Raid eased his head over the edge of the stone railing that separated the gallery from the larger hall below. A massive statue depicting a powerful man with the head of a tiger and backward-facing hands—a rakshasa—dominated the hall. The carved stone shone with the soft, red light of some ancient magic. Under that ruddy glow, slim figures worked at shifting the remains of one collapsed wall. The light made skin black as night seem even darker, rendered white eyes gleaming red, and turned white hair into blood-colored manes above gracefully pointed ears.

“Drow,” murmured Raid.

“I told you so,” said Uldane. The halfling’s tone was careless but his voice was no louder than Raid’s. He had to stand on his toes to look over the railing. “You know, I’ve always wondered why people call them dark elves—with eyes and hair like that, they look much more like eladrin.”

“They’re both originally creatures of the Feywild,” Raid said without thinking, then immediately clenched his teeth and grimaced. Just five days of travel and he’d grown far too accustomed to the halfling’s fleeting attention span and endless babble. He forced his eyes back to the drow below. “They’re not supposed to be here.”

“No, I suppose not, but I’ve always heard that after they were exiled to the Underdark from the Feywild—”

Raid fixed him with a cold glare. Uldane blinked. “Oh, you mean they’re not supposed to be here in the Temple of Yellow Skulls.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

There had been no difficulty reaching the temple from Fallcrest. The King’s Road had taken them west from the town until Raid had found the landmarks he sought and led his companions off the road into the wilderness. Above ground, the Temple of Yellow Skulls didn’t look like much. Uncounted centuries had reduced it to overgrown rubble that moaned with the wind. Its true secrets lay beneath the surface, protected from the elements. The upper passages had become animal dens and the haunt of treasure seekers, but as they’d made their way deeper into the structure, wonders of the ancient architecture presented themselves. Wall carvings of uncanny beauty and dark subjects. Columns that bulged in flawless, if inhuman, proportions. Objects of subtle magic that were, like the statue, too large to have been carted off by previous visitors. Whenever Uldane scouted ahead, Raid was left with a nagging suspicion that he might not come back—not because he’d fallen victim to some hidden danger but simply because of his own boundless curiosity.

This time the halfling’s scouting had paid off. In the years that had passed since he’d first received a vision of the Elemental Eye, the Chained God had come to Raid in waking dreams numerous times, granting him guidance and inspiration when he needed it most. Key to that guidance were visions of the subterranean passages of the Temple of Yellow Skulls. In his mind’s eye, Raid had passed through these halls a dozen times. He knew the way to the golden treasure. He knew the dangers. There should have been nothing unexpected standing in his way.

The drow had not been a part of his dreams.

And yet here they were. Anger at their presence, their interference with his plans, boiled up inside him. Raid held back his anger and let it tickle the edges of his mind while he studied the drow. There were about a dozen of them, some shifting rubble, a couple consulting scrolls, others standing watchfully with hands on their weapons. “It must be an exploration party,” he said.

“Why do you say that?”

“There are no slave takers. When drow hunt slaves they come ready for it. And a border patrol wouldn’t be stopping to dig up a fallen wall.” He looked back to the drow. They were a mixed group, some looking wildly excited, some looking utterly bored. Some were heavily armed, others not. He spotted a female with a whip riding on her hip and the spiders that the drow considered holy decorating her armor. A priest of Lolth, he was certain. A least one of the male drow carried a greatsword of such eerily black metal and weird jagged design that it made his skin crawl with suspicion. Such blades were often favored by warlocks.

“I’ll bet there are caves below these passages that lead all the way to the Underdark,” said Uldane. “Maybe the drow have heard about the golden skulls, too. Are we close to them?”

Raid nodded to a narrow passage that lay just at the edge of the dim light shed by the statue. “We need to go that way.”

Uldane winced and slid back down below the wall. He looked up at Raid. “I might be able to sneak through and you can be really quiet when you want to be, but I think the two of us would have a hard time getting across that hall. Tragent and Dohr definitely wouldn’t make it, and that’s a lot of drow for the four of us to fight.”

The lust to make the attempt knotted inside Raid’s chest. His hand crept toward one of his axes. He forced it to remain still and dropped below the wall as well. It pained him to admit it, but the halfling was right. “Let’s get back to Tragent and Dohr. We’ll have to find another way.”

They crept out of the gallery and into the dark passages beyond. Once there was no chance of being spotted from the hall, Uldane took out a stone that shone like moonlight and let its cool glow illuminate their way. The light of the torches that lit the chamber where they’d left Dohr and Tragent was a welcome brilliance.

“Well?” asked Tragent.

“Drow,” said Raid. “Too many. We’ll go around.”

The swordsman’s face tightened. “You’re certain there’s a way?”

“We’ll find one.”

“You’re confident for someone who’s never been here before,” Dohr said. “You walk these passages like you know them.”

“We’re not the first ones to come here, Dohr,” said Uldane blithely. “There must be maps and journals if you know where to look. In fact, I know an old man in Winterhaven who just lives to collect stories from adventurers—”

“Uldane,” Raid said, cutting him off. Then he looked to Dohr and met the half-orc’s gaze directly. “You doubt me?”

Tragent answered for his companion. “These drow are the first problem we’ve encountered. It’s been too easy.”

Raid grunted. “Very few people would complain about that.” He took up one of the torches. “Don’t worry. It will get harder. Save your strength.” He chose one of the other passages leading from the chamber and gestured with the torch. “This way.”

He didn’t miss the glance that passed between Tragent and Dohr, but the pair picked up their packs and followed. Uldane, of course, was already skulking ahead, ready to plunge into the unknown.

Without the guidance that the Eye had sent, finding their way was slower and more difficult. Uldane had been right about one thing, though: There were maps and accounts of the Temple of Yellow Skulls, if you knew where to look. In a couple of cases, he’d even managed to track down and question the old adventurers who’d written them. The guidance of the Eye was strong, but not perfect. A good hunter had to know his territory.

When they returned to the route revealed by the Eye, however, Raid felt it like a shiver along his spine. This was where he was meant to be. The way that all those other adventurers had sought but that had only been revealed to him was near.

“Uldane, stay close,” he said.

“Why?” The halfling was already hovering on the edge of the light cast by their torches. He looked back. “Do you think there are more drow?”

“Forget the drow.” Raid’s mouth felt dry in anticipation. He checked his axes and made certain they were loose. Tragent, experienced and alert, picked up on the cue and readied his sword. Dohr grinned. His fist clenched and thin blue strands of lightning crawled around his fingers. Uldane’s eyebrows rose and he slipped back to join them.

“Fighting?” he asked.

“Yes.” Raid gave them all a warning glance. “Hold your most powerful attacks in reserve. No matter how bad things might seem shortly, they will get worse.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” said Tragent.

Raid smiled at him. “You thought things were too easy before. Make up your mind what you want.”

He moved on. The passage they followed was broad—a good eight paces across—with a high, vaulted ceiling supported by arches at regular intervals. The pillars of the arches had been elaborately carved with the figures of wailing, screaming demons. The walls were well-dressed stone, little touched by time. More passages, less elaborately decorated, split off here and there. Once this had been a grand hall within the temple.

Dohr nodded down as they went. “A lot of people have walked here. The floor is worn smooth.”

“Not just the floor,” said Uldane. “And I don’t think it’s people.” He paused beside a carved pillar and ran a hand over its lower part. Up to about a sword’s length above the floor, the stone was as worn and hollow as the blade of an old and oversharpened knife. The halfling looked to Raid, but Raid avoided his gaze and kept walking. The passage ended ahead in the dark opening of a descending staircase.

The top of the stairs had also been worn hollow. A slow whispering and scraping sound, punctuated by soft clacks, drifted up from below. Raid shifted his torch to his off-hand, then stepped swiftly to the head of the stairs and raised the torch high.

In the room below, thick, gray bodies like monstrous worms writhed and reared back in the sudden light. There were four of the big monsters—and at least a dozen smaller, immature ones, hidden back behind the others. Where their heads should have been, the creatures had four flat, fleshy tentacles surrounding a massive, snapping beak.

“Gricks,” growled Dohr. “A nest of gricks.” He cursed. “If they wore down the stone in the hall, they must have been here for decades!”

“Longer,” said Raid. He fought to keep his voice steady as excitement rose inside him. He shrugged out of his pack and let it slip to the floor, then slid out the large flask he’d arranged on top for easy access. His hands started to tremble, making the torchlight jump. His words sounded brittle in his own ears. “Don’t let them surround you.”

Tragent looked at him. “We’re going down? Wouldn’t it be easier to let them come to us? We’re at the narrow point. Only one or two can come up the stairs at a time—”

With a fierce screech, a grick twice as large as any of the others loomed out of the darkness below, throwing itself at the stairs. As if they had been waiting for its charge, the rest of the adult gricks attacked, some following the big one, the rest scattering to crawl straight up the walls.

Tragent’s sword left its scabbard. “Or I could be wrong.”

Raid’s mind felt like a hammer ready to pound through his skull. He focused on the mass of young gricks, took aim, and threw the flask. A heartbeat later, he hurled the torch, then without waiting pulled his axes from his belt and screamed a challenge to the creatures.

The flask shattered on the ground, splashing oil across the young gricks an instant before the torch fell among them, igniting the fuel. Raid’s scream was accompanied by an explosion of greasy light and the squeals of the burning gricks. One or two of the charging adults paused, whipping around at the cries of their young. Raid didn’t hesitate. He leaped down the stairs, straight at the largest grick.

It reared up to meet him, tentacles lashing out. Raid ducked two, but the third caught him and wrapped around his waist. Suckers on the underside locked onto him; horny claws on the tip groped and tore at the thick hide of his armor like primitive fingers. Raid thrust his arms up, keeping them clear as other tentacles found him and the grick dragged him in close to its snapping beak.

Raid didn’t resist. With the thrill of the fight burning inside him, he pushed himself along with the pull and drove an axe into the grick’s flesh just above its upper beak.

The thing’s hide was as tough and pliable as wet leather. Raid’s axe didn’t penetrate as deep as it might have, but he didn’t relent. He wrenched the weapon free, strained back as far as he could against the pulling tentacles, and struck in the same spot with the other axe, hacking at the broken hide as the brutal beak sought him. He was dimly aware of the others fighting—of flashing lightning and booming thunder as Dohr scattered gricks with his magic, of Tragent and Uldane battling one of the creatures that had tried to come behind him along the wall—but all of his being was consumed with beating blow after blow into the grick that held him. Two of the four tentacles released him to grab for his arms. He swatted them back. The beak was only a couple of hand spans away from his face, then less than that. Still, the grick fought just as hard as he did.

Until finally—finally—the grick’s snapping faltered and it tried to pull away from him.

Raid’s blood surged, his fury feeding on the thing’s weakness. Howling, he drew back an axe and struck with all of his strength.

The steel edge broke through the tough hide. Half the blade’s width sank into the grick’s flesh. The tentacles holding Raid loosened. The monster swayed. Raid released his grip on one axe, wrapped both hands around the shaft of the second, and brought it down right beside the first. A spasm shook the grick, then tentacles and worm-body all went limp.

Another grick waited right behind it. Previously blocked by the larger creature’s thrashing, the thing lunged across its fallen body. Raid snarled and grabbed the first tentacle that came near him. The grick screeched in surprise and twitched back. Before its other tentacles could come at him, Raid jerked one of his axes out of the corpse of the first grick and swung it.

The grick fell back, its tentacle severed. Raid flung the writhing appendage away, snatched up his second axe, and went after it. The grick tried to retreat. Raid didn’t let it. Spinning around, he swept the creature’s remaining tentacles aside with one axe and swung at its beak with the other. The axe sheared through the horny beak, taking off half the bottom and almost all of the top. The grick squealed in agony, twisted around, and started squirming away. Raid leaped astride it, buried an axe in the thick hide behind its tentacles, and used the weapon to hold himself in place as he chopped from the side. The grick twisted under him, screeching and squealing. Its blood bathed Raid, made the handles of his axes slick, but he held on and kept chopping until the second grick was as dead as the first. He jumped away from it and turned, looking for his next target.

The adult gricks were all dead: the two he’d killed with his axes, a third brought down by Tragent’s sword and Uldane’s daggers, the other two slain by Dohr’s spells. Only some of the young remained, twisting and rolling in agony as flames sizzled in their fatty flesh. Raid stalked down the stairs and put an end to their mewling.

He could feel the gaze of the Eye settle upon him, filling him with confidence and certainty. He looked up from the last of the grick young and saw the Eye spinning above him, raw elements spiraling together into the primal void.

The Chained God’s voice rolled like thunder only he could hear. “Your destiny is at hand. Claim the skulls. Let my temple rise again!” “I will,” Raid whispered. Voice and gaze withdrew, leaving his belly and knees trembling with pleasure. Raid swallowed, composed himself, then lowered his axes and turned to look up at the top of the stairs. Uldane, Tragent, and Dohr stared back down at him. Raid managed a narrow smile.

“Are you waiting for more of them?” he asked. “Come down. And bring my pack.”

As they descended the stairs and the light from their torches grew brighter, Raid turned, examining the room. It wasn’t particularly large, but the ceiling was high and the decorations had once been grand. The stairs dominated one wall, while massive statues that reached almost all the way to the shadowed ceiling stood out from the other three. Their features had been softened by the crawling of uncounted generations of gricks, but the feline heads and backward-facing palms of rakshasas were still distinguishable.

Uldane carried his pack. He looked at Raid with a somber expression as he handed it to him. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like that. I think you scare me, Raid.”

“I’ve scared many people, but I’m still alive.” Raid took a rag from his pack and wiped the grick blood from his face, armor, and axes.

“What is this place?” asked Dohr. He stared up at the statues, then gestured with his torch at another curious feature of the room: Spaced between the statues were square gaps, a little more than a hand span across, in the stones of the wall. The gaps were arranged in pairs at shoulder height to a tall man—a little above the knees of the towering statues. “I’ve seen holes like that in other ruins. You run beams between them to support a floor, but that would be a low clearance underneath.”

Uldane’s eyebrows rose. “Low for tallfolk, maybe,” he pointed out.

“They’re not for beams,” Raid said. “Two of them are the keyholes. This room contains the door to the heart of the Temple of Yellow Skulls.”

The halfling laughed. “Keyholes? Which ones are they? If the keys are that big, I could pick the locks with my fingers!”

“You don’t need to. We already have the keys.”

Uldane looked gratifyingly baffled, but Tragent saw the answer immediately. He held his hands up before a pair of the holes. “Our arms are the keys.” He narrowed his eyes. “A lock that everyone has keys for isn’t a very good lock.”

Raid smiled. The visions sent by the Chained God had told him how to find this place, but they hadn’t given him all the answers. He’d had to uncover some dangers for himself. “Not everyone has the proper key. A previous visitor to the temple had an interesting story to tell me about how he lost both of his arms in this room.”

He made a chopping motion just below his shoulder. The others shuddered.

Their weakness brought a renewed excitement to Raid. He dug a carefully wrapped bundle out of his pack and went over to a particular pair of holes. “His party,” he said, “investigated these gaps thoroughly. All of them are deep enough to slip an arm into, with a slot inside that will allow you to bend your elbow if you hold your hand flat. Two of them, however, also contained studs to be pressed with the tips of your fingers and thumbs. Except that when he pressed them, blades came down. Snick.”

He held out a hand to Tragent. “Give me your sword.” The other man winced and pulled back. Raid gave him a disapproving look. “I need to make certain that no young gricks crawled in to hide.”

“Ah.” Tragent handed over the blade. Raid slipped it into first one hole, then the other. The only resistance the blade met was stone. He returned the sword and pulled off the gauntlet on his left hand. Before the others could say anything, he slid his arm into the hole.

He had to reach all the way up to his armpit. The stone of the wall was cold against his cheek and rough beneath his probing fingers. He found the slot the old adventurer had described and carefully bent his elbow. Light as a caress, he ran his fingers across the curving wall of the slot. The studs were there, one for his index finger, one for his middle, and one, almost flush with the bottom of the slot, for his thumb. Unlike the stone, they were slightly warm to the touch, as if they had been fashioned out of bone or some other once living material. The old adventurer had remembered that sensation vividly—it had, after all, been the last thing he’d ever felt with his hands.

Raid let his fingers curl back away from the studs and raised his hand so that the back of it brushed the top of the slot. He found what he was looking for almost immediately. Smiling to himself, he pulled his arm out of the hole.

Uldane screwed up his face. “Nothing happened.”

“That’s because I didn’t try to turn the key.” Setting the bundle from his pack on the ground, Raid unwrapped it to reveal a pair of gloves. The leather was soft and fine, the best he’d been able to find. The glove maker had questioned the strange modifications Raid had requested, including the curved vane of brass that lay alongside the thumb across the back, but he’d stitched them up quickly enough. Raid stripped off his other gauntlet and hesitated briefly. Should he test the other hole? No, he decided. The old adventurer had been adamant that the arrangement of studs was the same in both. Raid pulled on the gloves and tightened the cords that ran from the little finger through little eyelets on the back of his hand to the base of the brass vane. He looked up at Tragent.

“If this doesn’t work and the blades come down, I want you to put your sword through me.”

Tragent nodded. Raid faced the square holes, took a slow breath, and put his arms inside. The leather, as fine as it was, dulled his sense of touch. Finding the slots and bending his arms into them was no trouble, but he had to locate the studs on the left almost by memory, then blindly match the position of his fingers and thumb on the right. He paused, fighting to slow his racing heart. He could feel a cold sweat on his forehead.

“What the old man and his party didn’t think of,” he said, “was that this door wasn’t meant to be opened by humans, elves, dwarves, half-orcs, or any other common race. It was meant to be opened by a rakshasa. And a rakshasa’s hands are back to front.”

Right hand and left hand moving together, he pushed his fingers against the studs, but kept his thumbs still while stretching his little fingers wide. Tugged by the taut cords, the brass vanes rose—and pressed the studs hidden in the top of the slots the way a rakshasa’s thumbs would have.

For a moment, nothing happened. Raid’s heart felt like it had stopped.

Then with a grinding louder than a dozen millstones, the statue on his right slid aside to reveal another passage. Pale greenish light filtered out of it.

Raid let out his breath, allowed the brass vanes to fall, and withdrew his arms from the holes. “The heart,” he said, “of the Temple of Yellow Skulls.”

“Really?” said Uldane. “This is it? What do you think makes that light?” He skipped toward the newly opened doorway.

Fury rose through Raid. “Uldane! Stay where you are!”

The halfling froze. So did Tragent and Dohr. Raid felt heat in his face. His blood roared in his ears. His fingers curled into claws that he could imagine around Uldane’s neck—

No.

He forced the anger out. “I’ve worked too long for this,” he said tightly, making sure that he locked eyes, however briefly, with each of the others. “I’ll be the first one through.”

Dohr and Tragent nodded. Uldane looked like a kicked dog. Raid still kept one eye on him as he stowed the gloves in his pack and retrieved his gauntlets. He wiped his axes again, then tossed the bloody rag on top of one of the dead gricks and turned to face the green light. “Let’s go.” The corridor beyond the doorway was short and led to more stairs. Floor and stairs rippled with cold green flames similar to the witchfire that sometimes played around the masts of ships at sea. Raid glanced at Dohr. The sorcerer studied the flames, then nodded. Raid stepped into the corridor and felt no more than a light tingle across his lower legs. In fact, the fire seemed to flow away from his feet; every step left a brief shadow behind.

At the top of the stairs, down another short corridor stood a pair of tall doors carved out of some fine-grained black stone made even darker by the green flames that flitted across their surface. Once again, the figures of rakshasas dominated the carvings, but this time they stood apart and a leering skull filled the space between them, split down the middle of the doors. Raid stopped and considered it for a long moment, then jerked his head at Uldane. “Look to see if there are any traps.”

Uldane perked up at that. He slipped past Raid and crept down the corridor, examining the walls and testing the floor with every step. He nodded in satisfaction. “No traps here. Come forward.” He turned to the door itself and moved a little closer.

With a groan of ancient hinges, the doors split and swung open. Witchfire stretched and broke from them like cobwebs.

Uldane jumped back, a dagger appearing in his hand. He looked to Raid. “I didn’t do that.”

“I know.” Raid walked down the corridor. Every step filled him with excitement. He was close now. So close. He walked up to the open door and stepped through.

The doors opened to a landing about halfway up a vast, rounded chamber. The same greenish flame that lit the hall danced on broad stone stairs and walkways connecting platforms at different heights throughout the chamber. Stairs, walkways, and platforms vaulted through space without any visible means of support. It was like standing on the edge of a vast web spun by spiders of stone. Something tugged at Raid’s mind as he stared, a feeling that the pattern of stairs and walkways was only a part of something larger that defied comprehension.

Suspended throughout the pattern of the web were the skulls, gold gleaming in the green radiance. Raid tried to count them, but something in the maze of pathways confounded his efforts. The skulls slipped out of his mind, almost as if they were moving around whenever he took his eyes off them. However many skulls there were, though, all of them faced in the same direction: Their empty eye sockets stared toward one large platform in the middle of the chamber. The platform was empty save for the flash of the green flame on a series of metal circles inlaid into its surface, but Raid could imagine the ancient rakshasa prince who had built this place standing there under the gaze of the skulls.

“This is incredible,” said Uldane, and for once Raid felt no urge to thrust him back. “I really wish Shara and Albanon could have been here. They’d like to see it.”

“Incredible is one word for it,” Dohr said tightly. Barely restrained lightning crackled around the half-orc’s fingers. “This place seethes with power. Let’s collect the skulls and get out of here.”

Tragent, however, hung back, hovering on the threshold of the door with his sword at the ready. “Wait.” His eyes moved slowly around the stonework web before coming back to Raid. “You said to keep our most powerful attacks in reserve. What’s the danger?”

“I don’t know,” said Raid. That much was the truth. The Eye had guided him along the path that led to his destiny. Of what else lay at the end of that path, it had revealed nothing except a strong foreboding. “But there must be something. Would you leave a treasure like the skulls without protection?”

Tragent’s face tightened. “We should stay on guard.” He took a step into the chamber.

Just as they had opened when Uldane approached them, the stone doors groaned and started to close as soon as the swordsman moved away from them. Tragent and Uldane both cursed. Tragent tried to step back across the threshold, but the swinging doors didn’t stop moving—he had to jump back or risk being caught between them. Uldane moved faster, drawing a thick-bladed dagger and jamming it into the one of the pivoting hinges. The door hesitated for a moment, long enough for Tragent and Dohr together to try pushing back against it, but to no avail. With a screech, the dagger bent and snapped. The pieces went clattering and sliding down to the curved floor of the chamber. The doors slammed shut.

“No! Bloody no!” cursed Dohr, throwing himself against the stone. “Now what are we supposed to do?”

“Look for a trigger,” Uldane said. “No one makes a room that they can get into but can’t get out of.”

He took one side of the door. Tragent took the other. Dohr kept pounding at the near-invisible seam between the doors as if that would make them open. And Raid …

Raid could almost imagine that he heard the whispers of the Chained God again. Your destiny is at hand. Claim the skulls. He turned to look back out into the chamber.

The green flames that danced along the stairs and walkways had grown steady, like candles placed inside a lantern. They grew brighter as he watched, losing their green tinge and fading toward white brilliance. The others noticed the growing brightness as well. Raid heard them stop their struggling and turn around.

He drew his axes. “Forget the door,” he said.

A dry whispering raced around the room. White sparks flashed in the empty sockets of the golden skulls—and were met with two flaring columns of light among the circles on the central platform. Then the columns shattered and two burning forms thrust themselves, roaring like furnaces, into the world.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

One of the forms swung an arm and Raid saw a big chunk of something dark and smoking fly up at them. The excitement of battle surged through him, this time mixed with the heady thrill of fear. “Scatter!” he spat, and dove away.

The hurled missile cracked into the spot where he’d been standing and shattered into sharp fragments. Hot shards of rock pierced his armor, stinging the skin beneath. The stink of burning sulfur washed over him. Raid rolled to his feet close to the edge of the platform, checked on the others—all standing up, Dohr’s face bleeding from a flying chip he hadn’t managed to avoid—then looked to their opponents.

The thrill of fear turned sour in his mouth.

Even against the brilliance of the now white flames, looking at one of the two forms below was like staring into the heart of an inferno. Orange fire raced and whirled, crackled and roared, in the form of a burning whirlwind half again as tall as Raid. Dark shadows among the twisting flames made a mocking face. Two long tendrils that stretched out from the thing’s body hissed and popped as they whipped through the air.

If the first creature was all bright flame and burning air, the second was as dark as a smith’s discarded slag—save that where the rocky shell of its form split and cracked, the stuff within glowed red hot. Its eyes were smoking embers and its powerful arms ended in clublike fists that oozed molten rock.

Both creatures were already moving, the stony one rumbling on to the nearest walkway, the burning one simply rising into the air with deadly grace. Tragent cursed. “Elementals,” he said. “A firelasher and a rockfire dreadnought.”

“How do we fight them?” asked Uldane.

“The same way we fight anything else,” Raid said. He raised his axes. “Hit them with everything we’ve got. Defeating them may be the key to getting the door open again.”

Tragent grabbed his shoulder. “Then you need to listen to me,” he said sharply. “You can’t charge into battle on your own again.”

His touch brought Raid’s anger to the fore again, but Tragent was already glancing away from him toward the advancing elementals. “Dohr and Uldane, throw spells and knives against the firelasher. Raid and I will take the dreadnought. It looks like it hits hard.” He slapped his armor and looked back to Raid. “Ready?”

In his gut, Raid knew the swordsman was right. The tangle of stairs, walkways, and platforms was their friend. The flying elemental was slowed in its advance while the crawling stone beast no longer had an easy opportunity to target them with hurled missiles. They might stand a chance against the creatures if they fought intelligently.

That didn’t mean he liked it. He bared his teeth at Tragent, turned, and sprinted down the nearest stairs. Behind him, he heard Dohr’s voice rise in a spell like a howling wind.

Battle was joined.

The platforms and stairs that hampered the elementals, though, hampered Raid and his companions as well. There was no clear path through the maze—Raid found his charge broken by the need to cross walkways and twist around corners. A blast of lightning hurled by Dohr burst against a pillar, leaving the firelasher unharmed in its shadow.

“Uldane, up!” ordered Tragent. “Take the high ground.”

“It flies,” Uldane screamed back. “It always has the high ground!” Raid saw the halfling climb anyway, leaving the stairs to leap among the walkways like a monkey.

That was an idea he liked. He darted over to the edge of the platform he stood on and peered over. Almost directly below him, the dreadnought made a sound like grating stone and flicked a fist at him. A lump of rock that glowed red hot flew from the stubby fist. Raid leaned back. The missile soared past the platform to shatter against the underside of a walkway overhead. Hot shards rained down. Tragent, caught among them, shouted in pain. The swordsman’s agony brought a smile to Raid’s face. He leaned out, let another burning rock pass a handbreadth from his head, then leaped over the edge with a bellow, axes swinging as he dropped on to the elemental.

He knew it was a mistake almost instantly. A terrible heat surrounded the thing—it was like leaping into a furnace. There was no backing out of his leap, though. His roar changed to a scream as he brought his axes down on the dreadnought with all of his weight and all of the momentum of his fall behind them.

He might as well have tried to chop through the stone platform. His axes skipped across the rocky surface of the dreadnought’s shoulder before catching a burning crack and ripping it wide. Liquid fire blazed out and splashed across Raid’s arm and face. He screamed as it burned his cheek and ran down his neck under his armor to sear his torso.

The elemental, however, showed no pain. Mighty arms grabbed Raid before he could fall away and hugged him close. The hide of his armor smoldered. Raid arched his back, trying to keep his already burned face away from the hot rock. Caught in the monster’s grasp, he was too close to do anything but beat at it with the handles of his axes.

Then Tragent dropped down behind the elemental. It swung around at the sudden movement, rock grating like a snarl. Tragent swayed back and forth, his sword drifting like a snake. The elemental hissed—and Tragent struck, darting around and driving his sword through a break in the stone and deep into its fiery guts. His attack hurt it far more than Raid’s wild swing had. The dreadnought flung back its head and roared.

Raid felt its grip on him weaken. Drawing both arms back, he slammed the butts of his axes into either side of its head. It roared again, dropped him, and staggered away. Tragent moved swiftly to stand over him. “Get up before it recovers!” he snapped.

The command burned hotter than the elemental’s touch. Raid choked back his pain and shoved Tragent away, then forced himself to his feet. “You don’t give me orders.”

“I will if it keeps us alive. If we work together, we can take it.” Keeping his eyes on the elemental, Tragent jerked his head upward. “See what Dohr and Uldane are doing?”

Raid risked a glance. The halfling and the half-orc were doing a good job of keeping the firelasher off balance. Dohr’s lightning flashed and cracked, blasting gaps into the swirling flame. When it turned its attention on him, however, Uldane hurled a well-aimed knife accompanied by a mocking taunt. Raid had no idea if the elemental understood his words, but it seemed to understand his tone. Fiery arms whipped at him. Uldane just ducked out of the way—and Dohr hit the firelasher with another spell. Raid looked back to the dreadnought as it shook itself and turned its burning eyes on them once more.

He was so close to taking the skulls. His hands tightened on his axes. “What do we do?”

“Flank it, one to either side,” said Tragent. “Try to fight past the heat—”

The dreadnought lunged at them with a grinding roar before he could finish, but Raid didn’t need to hear any more. He met the elemental, matching its roar. The heat of its body seared him again as soon as he moved close, but this time he didn’t try to fight it. He embraced the pain as it scoured his flesh. It became a part of his fury. He bellowed again and unleashed a flurry of blows that drove the elemental back.

Tragent stayed to its other side, taking advantage of momentary openings as the dreadnought tried to fend off Raid’s furious attacks. His sword licked into the deep cuts that Raid’s axes chopped into the monster’s rocky hide; his shouts urged Raid to even heavier, faster blows. Raid ground his teeth together and just fought until his armor smoked. Until the elemental’s torso and arms were scored with deep, glowing gashes.

The injuries barely slowed it down. Raid twisted under a swing of its fists and swept down with a blow that should have sheared off a good chunk of the thing’s side. Rock splintered and fell away, but the elemental’s molten interior flowed to the surface and took its place like a scab forming from drawn blood. The elemental responded by bringing its fist down in a hammer blow that numbed Raid’s entire left arm.

“Don’t stop!” Tragent yelled. He drew the elemental’s attention with a series of feints. The distraction gave Raid the chance to shake feeling back into his arm, but he knew in his gut that it wasn’t enough. It was as if something was sustaining the dreadnought—and the firelasher, too. The flaming monster’s swirling form seemed a little sluggish, but nothing more. Dohr’s powerful blasts of lightning had faded to sporadic jolts. Uldane had run out of knives and was reduced to mockery alone.

So close, yet not close enough. Strain showed in Dohr’s face and, in spite of his words, Tragent’s. They weren’t going to be able to keep up the fight much longer. Only Uldane still seemed full of energy and optimism. “Is that all you’ve got?” he shouted at the firelasher. “I’ve seen better out of a scullery maid trying to light tinder with an old flint and rusty steel!”

Maybe something in the tone of the insult finally penetrated to whatever served the elemental for a mind. It whirled and surged toward Uldane faster than Raid would have thought possible, its whip-like arms leaving streaks of brightness in the air. Uldane’s eyes went wide and he leaped from one platform to the next to take cover—

—behind one of the floating golden skulls.

The firelasher froze. The tendrils of its arms drifted like seaweed in water only an arms length from Uldane’s otherwise insignificant hiding place. The halfling was hardly concealed at all. In the elemental’s place, Raid wouldn’t have hesitated: He would have cleaved the skull in two right between its glowing eyes and taken Uldane with the same blow. So why had the firelasher paused?

Because the elementals had appeared, he realized abruptly, when the witchfire that lit the chamber had turned white and sparks had leaped into bony eye sockets focused on the circles of the central platform.

The skull’s eyes still glowed. The witchfire still burned white. And the elementals still fought on. The golden skulls were the ower behind the temple. What if their power sustained the elementals, too? Raid didn’t know how to extinguish the witch-fire, but maybe there was something else they could do.

“Uldane!” he called. “Turn the skull! Break its gaze!”

The halfling reached out, grabbed the floating skull, and pushed it face down.

The white sparks in its eye sockets winked out.

Both elementals gave a shriek in unison and seemed to go mad. The dreadnought’s pounding fists slammed at Tragent and Raid with renewed force. The firelasher whirled in place, arms lashing around Uldane but never quite touching either him or the skull. Dohr’s face darkened like a thundercloud. “By the storm,” he said, his voice booming, “you will not!”

There was thunder in his words, and the roar of a terrible wind as well. The firelasher turned to face him—and was blown aside, its flames winking and guttering. It tried to reach for Dohr, but the sorcerer’s face just tightened and the wind raged on, holding it away.

Uldane needed no further instruction. As soon as the elemental’s attention was off of him, he raced for the next closest skull and turned it over, too. Once again, the dreadnought and firelasher cried out, but this time their movements seemed to slow. The molten ooze that had sealed the dreadnought’s wounds started to trickle and run like blood. Raid felt a savage grin spread across his face.

“Can you hold your ground?” he asked Tragent. The swordsman nodded grimly. Raid slashed once more at the elemental then dashed down a crooked flight of stairs to a skull and twisted it around.

The elementals didn’t cry out this time but the light that filled the chamber dimmed as the white witchfire ebbed. Uldane laughed like a child playing games as he leaped between platforms to reach another skull. Raid couldn’t help laughing along.

With the turning of the fourth skull, the witchfire returned to a distinctly green hue. Raid found a fifth and when he looked to Tragent again, the swordsman was easily holding his own against the diminished dreadnought. The firelasher had stopped trying to reach Dohr and was just trying to keep its fire alight. Raid dropped his axes and ran faster, charging up and down stairs and along walkways in search of every skull. The sense that they were shifting around seemed even stronger, as if they were trying to escape his attention. He found two more, though, spinning each away from the central platform.

“Here!” Uldane called from the very top of the spherical chamber. “I think this is the last one.” He wrapped his arms around the golden skull and instead of turning it, simply pulled it out of position.

The last trace of white disappeared from the cold flames around the chamber. The dreadnought collapsed into a heap of smoking gravel. The firelasher sighed and vanished without a trace. For a moment, the only sound was a fading rush of wind as Dohr allowed his storm to fade.

Then the doors to the chamber creaked and slowly swung open again.

“We did it!” Uldane thrust his skull into the air in triumph.

“Thank the gods,” Dohr said with a groan as he turned for the portal. “Let’s get out of here.”

Raid’s belly tensed at the idea. “No.”

Dohr swung back to him. “Are you insane?”

“We fought for the skulls—we’re not leaving without them. Gather them all.” Raid pulled at the skull that still floated beside him. It came away with only a little resistance, like breaking a large, unseen spider web. He looked up again. High above, Uldane had already started his descent. Tragent was grinning and making his way to the nearest skull. Raid glanced back to Dohr.

The half-orc’s mouth twitched and he smiled. “Who am I kidding? The only way I’m leaving this place is rich.”

Raid forced himself to smile back. “Indeed.”

The treasure of the Temple of Yellow Skulls made a neat pile on the central platform once they were finished collecting it. Eight perfect golden skulls—the mystery of their exact number solved—gleamed in the green light. Removed from their perches, they no longer seemed to shift when Raid looked at them. They varied in size, from the thick skull of an adult male to the delicate skull of a child, each one flawless and surprisingly heavy. Heavy enough that Raid could believe the legends were wrong and that they’d been transformed into solid gold rather than being dipped in it. He wasn’t about to break one to find out the truth, though.

He caught Dohr flexing his fingers as he looked over the pile. Like all of them, Dohr had his share of burns and other injuries from the battle, but Raid hadn’t seen him treating his hands with such delicacy before. “Blisters from spell casting,” he asked him, “or just from lugging gold?”

The half-orc wrinkled his nose and stuck his hands behind his back like a child caught stealing. “Neither,” he said. He hesitated, then asked, “What are you doing with your share, Raid? Are you going to melt them down for the gold or do you have a collector interested in them?”

New pain surged across Raid’s burned face as he clenched his jaw. “Something like that,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

Uldane and Tragent were looking at them. Dohr’s eyes flicked between them, then back to Raid. “Something like which?” he asked. “The gold or a collector?”

“A collector would fetch more money,” said Tragent, raising an eyebrow to his friend. “The gold’s just gold, but the skulls are something special.”

Raid felt a wash of relief. Whatever was going on in Dohr’s head, he hadn’t shared it with the swordsman. “They’re not going to be melted down,” he said.

“That’s good.” Dohr let his hands slip from behind his back and rubbed them together. “It’s just that … I think the legends are true. I can feel something inside the skulls.”

Uldane’s eyes opened wide. “You think there really are demon princes trapped in them?” He reached over and rapped on a skull. “Hello? Baphorcagonwhozit? Are you in there? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

“Uldane!” said Dohr harshly. He swept the halfling back, then looked at Raid. “I’m no expert in this—you probably want a priest or a wizard—but I’m pretty sure those things should never be melted or broken.” He drew a deep breath and added, “In fact, I’m not sure we should be taking them away from here.”

Raid pressed his lips together, searching for the right response, but Tragent was the first to break the silence. “Are you joking?” he said. “What we’ve seen and done and now you get cold feet?”

“I’ve never felt anything like this before. There’s power in them. We know that.” He turned to Raid again. “This collector you’re selling your share to—would he be interested in paying for our share, too?”

“I imagine he would.” Raid kept his face and voice neutral. So close.…

“As long as he’s going to keep the skulls intact.” Dohr ran fingers through his hair. “Tragent, I think we need to see more of the world. Somewhere a long way from wherever the skulls are going.”

Tragent’s brows pulled together in concern. Raid quickly clapped Dohr on the back. “Don’t worry,” he said. The half-orc scowled.

“I hate it when people say that.” He squeezed his fingers into fists again. “I don’t think I can help carry the skulls out of the temple, though. I’d feel them the whole way.”

“It’s taken care of.” Raid went to his pack and retrieved a second bundle of leather, much like the one that had held his specially made gloves. Unfolding this bundle, however, revealed nothing more than that the leather was, in fact, a finely stiched large sack. Uldane clapped his hands when he saw it.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked. Raid held it out to him, letting the open end sag down. Uldane hopped right into it—and the bag hardly sagged. He popped his head out again, looking a little bit disappointed. “It’s not as roomy as it could be,” he said. “I knew a family of halflings who lived for six months in a really big magic bag. Well, until a gust of wind came up and blew the bag into a lake. We never saw them again. Or half the lake, either.”

Raid upended the bag and dumped him out, then tossed the bag at him, along with a red leather thong. “Load the skulls inside,” he said, “then tie it with that. It will keep the bag closed.”

“Why me?”

“Because Dohr can’t handle the skulls and I want Tragent to look at my burns.” He glanced at the swordsman. “You look like you know something about healing.”

“Some.”

“That’s enough, then.” Raid turned away, leaving Uldane cursing and Dohr smiling in amusement.

Tragent followed him. “Those burns are beyond me,” he said quietly. “You need to see a healer as soon as you can when we’re out of here. Even then you’ll probably carry the scars.”

“I can live with scars. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.” Near the edge of the platform, Raid turned so that he could watch the loading of the sack and started unstrapping the chestpiece of his armor. “Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured to Tragent. “What do you think of Uldane?”

Tragent’s eyes narrowed. “He’s a clown. A dangerous clown, but still a clown.” He reached out to help Raid with his armor. “Careful. If you’re burned under there—”

The warning came too late. Burned skin pulled away. Raid couldn’t hold back a groan of pain. His hand gripped Tragent’s arm. “Do you really want to split your share of the treasure with a clown?” he said through clenched teeth.

“Not if I don’t have to.”

Raid’s heart started to pound in his chest. “Good,” he said. He pulled out his axes and laid them to the side so that he could sit down on one of the stairways. “Help me get my armor off, then call Dohr over. Tell him you need bandages from your pack or something.”

“I do need bandages from my pack.” Tragent grimaced as he eased the chestpiece away. Raid looked down at himself. The elemental’s molten blood had traced a wide red path from his right shoulder down half his chest. It wouldn’t be the only scar on his torso, though. He drew a slow breath, embracing the pain.

For all of his complaining, Uldane had almost finished loading the bag. The skulls made the leather bulge. “Call Dohr now,” Raid said.

Tragent raised his voice obediently. “Dohr, bring me bandages.”

Uldane looked up. “I’m good with bandages,” he said. “Do you want me to help?”

“Finish putting the skulls in the bag,” said Raid. “And make sure you tie it tight.”

The halfling scowled and put the last skull into the bag, then gathered the neck and wrapped the red thong around it. Dohr smirked as he rummaged in a pack and started toward Raid and Tragent with a roll of clean linen in his hand. Tragent bent over Raid, pretending to inspect his burns. “How do we do it?” he asked.

“We catch him off guard,” Raid said. “Just like this.”

He jabbed the knife he had drawn from his boot up into Tragent’s exposed throat. The swordsman’s mouth opened wide in shock and he grabbed for his neck, but Raid twisted the knife then ripped it free. Hot blood cascaded over his body. Shoving Tragent aside, he swept up his axes and charged at Dohr.

The half-orc’s eyes went wide and the bandages tumbled from hands already sparking with lightning. Raid didn’t give him a chance to loose it—he might have encouraged the others to spend all of their energy fighting the elementals, but he’d held something back just for this moment. His first whirling blow swept away Dohr’s rising left hand. His second took off the sorcerer’s head.

Beside the bulging bag, Uldane stared at him, wide-eyed and frozen. No, Raid saw on a second glance, not frozen. The halfling balanced on the balls of his feet, like a rabbit ready to run when faced with a predator. His hand hovered over a knife. Raid had watched Uldane collect the blades he’d thrown at the fire elemental. Many of the knives had been irretrievably warped by the heat of the fiery creature, but Uldane still had at least half a dozen hidden about himself.

Raid lowered his axes and straightened. “I’m sorry I had to do that, Uldane. I’ve been watching them. They were plotting against us.”

“No, they weren’t.” Uldane’s jaw tightened and he kicked the bag without looking away from Raid. “With this bag, one person can carry all of the skulls. You were planning this, goblin kisser. You never intended to share the treasure.”

“It’s not a treasure that can be shared.” Raid took a step forward.

The halfling snatched the knife from his belt—and held it over the bag. This time Raid froze. Uldane raised an eyebrow and nodded. “That’s right. I know how these things work. Puncture the bag and you don’t just lose the magic, you lose anything that’s inside.”

Raid stared at him for a moment. “You want to leave? Go ahead.” He took another step, stopping with Dohr’s severed hand at his feet, and pointed an axe at the nearest set of stairs. “I have what I want. Consider your life as payment for your part in getting me here.”

Uldane looked at him carefully for a moment, then moved slowly away from the bag. With a flick of his wrist, he shifted his grip on the knife, ready to throw it.

The instant Uldane’s knife moved in his fingers, Raid dug his toe under Dohr’s hand and kicked it at him.

The knife flashed as Uldane reacted out of instinct. The throw was good. The severed hand tumbled to the ground with the blade transfixing its palm. Uldane grabbed a second knife from a hidden sheath, but Raid was already moving, dashing forward with the speed of a striking serpent to put himself between Uldane and the bag. Rage and excitement flooded him. The smell of Tragent’s blood on his body was heady. A snarl forced its way out of him as he advanced on Uldane, his axes spinning in a deadly blur of steel. The halfling backed away, but slowly, like a cornered animal. Raid wasn’t fooled. When Uldane dove at him, he was ready.

Uldane went low first, trying to get inside his guard. Raid swung an axe down in response and forced him to jump back. A feint made him jump again—there would be no parrying the heavy axes with a slim dagger. The halfling wove to the side and Raid recognized a feint in return. He shifted as if drawn in.

Instead of pressing the attack, Uldane spun and dashed up the stairs. One … two … three vaulting steps, then he kicked up and tumbled back overhead. The move was fast, flashy, and clearly intended to bring Uldane down behind Raid before his opponent could turn to face him.

Raid didn’t try to turn. He just took two swift steps backward.

He caught a glimpse of panic on Uldane’s face, then the halfling was tucking and twisting in mid-air, trying desperately to avoid the spinning death that waited to embrace him. Raid snarled and brought his axes together.

At the last instant, Uldane straightened his body and spun. One axe missed him entirely. The other caught him with the inner hook of its curved blade. The point snagged in his leathers and whipped him aside. Uldane went tumbling across the floor of the platform, his leathers and the flesh beneath torn deep but not so deep as if he’d met the edge of blade.

Raid howled and leaped after him before he could rise. One axe chopped down—and wedged into the stone floor as Uldane rolled away. The other axe came down. Uldane rolled back, bumping into the blade of the first axe.

Raid drew back his foot and kicked. Hard.

The kick lifted Uldane off the floor and sent him flying through the air over the edge of the platform. He crashed back-first into the side of a walkway—Raid heard something inside him go crack on the stone—bounced off like a broken doll, and fell out of view. Raid cursed and ran to the edge. If Uldane had landed on stairs or a walkway, he might be able to make an escape.

But the halfling hadn’t landed on stairs or a walkway. Down on the rounded floor of the chamber, green witchfire outlined a small body that lay unmoving. One of Uldane’s arms was twisted unnaturally underneath him. A splatter of blood marked where he had hit the curved wall and a smear showed where he had slid down. There was a matching splatter on the walkway he’d struck. As Raid watched, more blood ran freely from his head and from beneath his torso, black rivulets in the green light. Raid waited. And waited.

There was no movement, no sudden jerking as consciousness returned. Nor, he knew in his gut, would there be.

Raid turned away and wrenched his axes out of the stone. The edges would need work to restore their keen, killing edges, but he could do that later. He stripped off the dangling chestpiece of his armor and threw it aside, then rooted through abandoned packs in search of a fresh torch. The torches they’d carried into the temple were spent, but his former companions would have no need of light now.

With one torch burning in his hand and a second thrust through his belt, Raid took up the bag. Magic rendered it no heavier than the corpse of an elf, but he could feel the skulls packed inside. He could feel the power and hear the whispers that had frightened Dohr. They didn’t frighten him. They were his destiny.

He felt the gaze of the Eye on him, warm and rewarding. He knew what it wanted. His destiny didn’t lie here in this ancient chamber. His destiny waited for him beyond the temple. Raid heaved the bag onto his shoulder—the weight sent wonderful agony through his burns—and went to meet it.

Behind him, the heart of the Temple of Yellow Skulls lay as still and silent as it had for uncounted centuries.

Until Uldane groaned softly and sat up.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The hardest part wasn’t lying still. That was easy. The hardest part was holding on to consciousness—if he let himself slip down into sweet oblivion, Uldane knew, he wasn’t going to climb back up. Raid was watching him. He could hear the big man breathing up on the platform. One careless movement, one moan or sigh, one breath drawn just a bit too deep, and the murderer would come down to finish what he’d started.

“If you can’t run,” one of his old mentors had taught him, “play dead like your life depends on it. It probably will.”

After an eternity, Raid moved. Uldane didn’t. There was rustling on the platform. His imagination filled in details of Raid retrieving a rope and preparing to climb down to check on him; of Raid searching Uldane’s own small pack, finding his hidden store of spare throwing knives, and deciding to put them to use; of the traitor deciding to leave the place tidy and dumping the corpses of his other victims down on top of Uldane.

Instead he heard the click of flint and steel and, a moment later, caught the hot smell of smoke from oil-soaked cloth. Raid had lit a torch.

He wanted a better look.

Stay still. Play dead. Uldane waited, feeling the blood running from his head and his side. His shoulder burned in agony. Better in pain than in the grave.

Up above, Raid just grunted as if hoisting a weight. His footsteps echoed in the chamber, heel-toe-heel-toe across the platform, toe-toe-toe up the stairs. Uldane lay still and listened as Raid made his way up to the doors and out of the chamber.

The doors, he thought. Merciful gods, the doors! If they close behind Raid.…

They didn’t. Raid’s footsteps slowly faded into the distance. There was no groan of ancient hinges, no hollow boom of stone on stone. The chamber was silent. Uldane let it stay that way until he’d counted to one hundred. Slowly. Three times.

Raid was gone. He was alive—for now. He sat up.

The pain reminded him of just how alive he was. Dark spots danced in front of the green witchlight and Uldane almost slipped back down again. He clenched his teeth together, forced himself to stay on his feet, and took stock of his injuries. Head: throbbing and bleeding like a widow’s sympathy from a gash across his scalp, but his skull felt whole. Side: bleeding as well from a jagged tear that was already clotting up and would probably leave an ugly scar. Leathers: ruined. Shoulder: He tried moving his arm and felt a new flare of agony, but there was no grinding of broken bones. Dislocated. Grimly, Uldane staggered down the last bit of the curved wall to the floor of the chamber, then over to one of the massive columns that supported the tangled stairs and walkways above. Fixing Raid’s loathsome, burned face in his mind, he let all of his rage bubble up to the surface.

“Bastard!” he muttered. He trotted back and forth in front of the pillar, working himself up until he was shaking. “Goblin kisser. Traitor. Knuckle-dragging, wind-breaking, bottom-feeding—aahh!” Before he could lose his nerve, he slammed himself hard into the pillar, dislocated shoulder first.

The joint snapped back into place with a soft pop and a burst of pain that sent a wave of darkness over Uldane’s eyes. When it cleared, he found himself on his backside with tears in his eyes.

He let the tears flow. “Stupid,” he said. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” And this time he didn’t mean Raid. Why had he trusted the warrior? Why had he abandoned Shara and Albanon? Just to go off and have himself an adventure? Just to prove something? All he’d proved was that Shara was right.

Stupid. Albanon and Shara were probably hanging around Fallcrest enjoying a beautiful quiet evening—or morning or whatever time of day or night it was.

At least he still had a chance to get back to them. Uldane hiccupped once and wiped the tears from his face. No stairs came down to the floor of the chamber, but the pillar in front of him was rough enough to offer easy climbing to someone sufficiently agile. He turned to face it again and started climbing.

With a weak shoulder, an injured side, and a good amount of his blood smeared on the chamber wall, it wasn’t as easy a climb as he expected, but soon enough he was level with one of the lowest platforms. He climbed a little higher, checked his distance and angle over his shoulder, then thrust himself away from the pillar. His tumbling was awkward, his landing painful, but when he climbed to his feet, there were stairs to carry him up to the central platform.

The bag with the skulls was gone, of course. Raid had left everything else, though, including his own pack and even half his armor. Tragent and Dohr lay where they had fallen. Uldane touched each of them on the shoulder, offering a silent prayer and an apology that he had to leave them behind. As consolation, however, he also made them a promise.

“Raid will answer for this,” he murmured. “I’ll see to it.”

The bandages that Dohr had dug out for Tragent were useless, soaked in a pool of the half-orc’s blood. Uldane found others in Tragent’s discarded pack, though, along with a couple of intriguing potion vials. For a moment he considered sampling them—a healing potion was an appealing alternative to suffering through his wounds—but he fought the temptation and replaced them. There was every chance that they were something other than healing potions. Curiosity would do him no good now. He had to focus on getting out of the temple. No more stupid things. He stripped off his leathers, washed and bandaged his scalp and side as best he could, then struggled back into his gear. Even with the tear in it, the tight armor would help hold his side together until he could reach help.

He hoped it would, anyway.

Emptying his pack of all but the bare minimum, Uldane slid it across his shoulders and climbed the stairs to the great stone doors. They made no movement as he approached or as he passed through them, as if they somehow recognized that the treasure they’d protected for so long had departed with Raid. Or maybe the power that had opened and closed them had left along with the skulls—certainly the witchlight in the outer passage was fast fading into a dull glimmer. Uldane took out his moonlight stone and allowed its cool, dim glow to illuminate the darkness.

At least none of his wounds hampered his pace badly. And at least he didn’t need to worry about getting lost. He had a keen memory for directions, maybe the one good side-effect of a compulsive need to explore. Uldane passed through the corridors of the Temple of Yellow Skulls like a ghost, fleeting and silent. He kept his fist tightly clenched around the glowing stone, allowing only a thin moonbeam out to guide his steps. Any more light might draw creatures like the gricks that lived in the darkness and would be more than willing to make a tasty snack out of a wounded halfling on his own.

But beasts weren’t the only danger. Somewhere ahead of him was Raid. How far ahead Uldane couldn’t be certain, but he had a feeling that he might be gaining on the traitor. Raid had no reason to hasten through the temple, and if Uldane struggled with his wounds, Raid would be struggling with the bulk—if not the weight—of the bag containing the golden skulls. As he moved through the darkness, Uldane started to imagine what he might do if he caught up with the treacherous bastard. He was in no shape to stand up to Raid in a toe-to-toe fight. He’d come at Raid from the shadows. Without his armor, Raid’s back would be unprotected. A knife in the base of the spine was risky, but it would bring him down. Then another knife to his throat. Or better yet, some sound to make Raid turn around, then one knife thrown from the darkness into the hollow of his throat or the socket of his eye.…

Uldane smelled blood before he saw it. He froze, choked off all light from his moonstone, and listened for a long moment. When he heard nothing, he allowed a little light to illuminate the passage ahead.

Two bodies lay on the ground, slashed and dismembered. Uldane recognized Raid’s work—and his victims. Dark blood pooled around darker limbs and matted long white hair. Drow. Raid must have come across scouts sent out by the larger expedition they had seen earlier. Uldane wrinkled his nose and allowed himself a thin smile. Now the big man had reason to hurry out of the temple. The drow would miss their scouts eventually and come looking for them.

Unfortunately, he was fairly certain that the dark elves wouldn’t be too fussy about who they caught afterward. Uldane picked up his pace as well, but not before pausing to touch the blood that spilled across the stone floor.

It was still warm. He was catching up to Raid.

That, even more than fear of the drow, gave new speed to his step.

Uldane ascended through the last levels of the temple quickly, climbing back into the chambers and passages that held the hint of fresh air from the surface. There was no further sign of the drow—maybe the bodies hadn’t been discovered yet, maybe he’d just outpaced pursuit—but he started to recognize traces of Raid’s passage. The scuff of a boot. An unexpected drop of sweat or blood. Uldane slowed down as much as he dared, moved as silently as he could. He needed to surprise Raid, not stumble over him. He stopped to listen frequently and finally caught the sound of quiet footsteps somewhere ahead.

He also caught the moaning of wind as it blew through the ruins above ground. Uldane clenched his jaw and cursed silently. He’d been too slow. Raid had almost reached the exit. If he wanted to take the murderer from the shadows, he had to hurry. Uldane broke into a light-footed run, drawing a knife in preparation for the confrontation to come.

One final turn in the corridor before the last flight of stairs up. Uldane put his back to the wall and poked his head around the corner.

Just in time to see Raid and his sack of skulls disappearing up the stairs into daylight. Breath hissed between the halfling’s teeth. Disappointment made the pain in his side and throbbing in his head seem that much worse.

There might still be time, he realized. The rubble-choked ruins of the Temple of Yellow Skulls were themselves something of a maze, and Raid would have to cross the remains of a wide, empty courtyard to reach their horses. If he could reach the taller sections of ruins around the courtyard, Uldane knew, he would have a clear cast to put some knives into Raid.

He waited until the big man’s shadow had cleared the stairs, then went after him. Lightning-quick and shadow-silent, he darted up the stairs and ducked into the nearest, heaviest shadow. Daylight was blinding, but even against the glare Uldane could see Raid less than fifty paces ahead, making his way toward the courtyard. He smiled grimly to himself, turned, and ran in the direction he judged most likely to take him to the taller ruins in time to intercept Raid.

Uldane stayed low, keeping behind broken walls and rubble that would have been waist high to a human but were perfect cover for a halfling. He resisted the urge to look up and check on Raid’s progress. The ground was rough; it took all of Uldane’s attention to keep from stumbling over an up-thrust stone. He was certain that he must have caught up to and maybe even overtaken Raid, though. The moan of the wind changed subtly on his right, becoming more hollow as it passed unimpeded across open space. He’d reached the courtyard.

When crumbling stairs leading up to a small section of broken floor overlooking the courtyard appeared before him, he didn’t hesitate. The clinging remains of a wall gave him cover as he climbed. At the top of the stairs, he paused for a moment to catch his breath and check his knives. Hakken Raid was going to answer for what he’d done. Stilling himself, Uldane stepped into the open—and froze, his breath cut off as his throat and lungs constricted. A little part of him screamed that what he saw in the courtyard was impossible.

For a moment, part of him refused to believe what he was seeing. Raid stood to one side of the courtyard, as frozen as Uldane himself, the sack still over his shoulder. In the middle of the courtyard, however, crouched a dragon. A strangely thin dragon, with mottled green and red hide wrapped tight around muscles and bones, strange discolored pustules pushing through the scales, yet still a dragon.

But there was something more. Carved into the inside of the dragon’s left foreleg was a series of slashes. Uldane knew those slashes. They represented adventurers the dragon had killed—the beast had bragged about it. Two of those slashes were for Borojon and Jarren. Uldane’s gut shrank in on itself in fear and dismay.

How could Vestapalk still be alive? And what was he doing here?

Tiktag hated flying with Vestapalk. Once he had imagined it as a majestic and thrilling experience, but he’d come to discover that the reality was different. It was cold and windy. He was terrified that he’d slide off his master’s back. When they finally landed, the ground always seemed to shift under his feet, leaving him off-balance for the better part of a day.

It was worse since they had left the chasm. Vestapalk’s flight had been labored and his landings both frequent and heavy. Tiktag kept his silence, but he knew that Vestapalk’s injuries—and his transformation—had drained his strength. When the dragon spiraled down to the wide courtyard amid crumbling ruins, Tiktag even wondered if weakness had affected his judgment. The kobold tumbled off his master’s back and, with his staff for support, wobbled around to face him. “Master, this is a bad place to rest. You’ll find no food here. We flew over a forest I recognize. If we go back, there will be deer—”

The dragon’s head hung low, but he glared at Tiktag with burning ferocity. “Vestapalk is not interested in meat, wyrmpriest,” he said with his strange new double voice. “Vestapalk is not here to hunt. This is the place to which the Eye guides Vestapalk!”

“Here?” Tiktag looked around them and his scaly skin crawled. Bulging columns held up empty arches that rose to a sharp point. What remained of the stone walls were carved with weather-worn depictions of violence presided over by creatures with the bodies of humans but the heads of great cats. “I think I know this place from stories told by hunters, master. It’s an ancient place of great danger. You would be better to rest and eat elsewhere, then return when you are strong.”

“The place is here!” snapped Vestapalk. “The time is now. The One Who Gathers comes.”

His red-rimmed eyes opened very wide suddenly and Tiktag had the feeling that he was seeing something other than the courtyard. “He comes!” Vestapalk said. “He comes now!”

The dragon thrust himself upright—and swayed unsteadily as he did. Fear pierced Tiktag. “Master, you are weak.” Inspiration came to him. Before they had left the chasm, Vestapalk had turned his breath upon the kobolds of the tribe, sharing his blessing with them. The act had seemed to invigorate him, at least temporarily. Tiktag flung his arms wide. “Bless me, master! Let my strength be yours.”

Vestapalk slammed a leg down in front of him, knocking him off his feet. “The Gatherer comes,” he snarled. “Step back and do not interfere!”

Tiktag swallowed and scrambled away on all fours to take shelter against one of the taller sections of wall around the courtyard. Vestapalk, in the center of the courtyard, stared at a broken gap with shining eyes. Everything was still, the only sound the moan of the wind. Then there was movement in the broken gap as a human—a big, muscular male with shaggy hair, a savage burn across his face and chest, and a bulging leather sack slung over his shoulder—stepped through and stopped at the sight of Vestapalk. For a moment, the two just stared at each other.

Then, to Tiktag’s amazement, a look of absolute fury settled over the human’s face. The arm holding the big bag slid from his shoulder, easing his burden to the ground, and he drew a pair of axes from his belt. He stepped forward, arms spread wide, lips pulled back. “Are you here for me, wyrm?” he roared defiantly. His eyes shone with the intensity of madness. “Do you want to take my destiny?”

Tiktag thought that his heart might stop. Hatred to match the human’s fury filled him. If his master hadn’t commanded him not to interfere, the wyrmpriest would have blasted the human with his magic. How could this hairy beast dare to challenge Vestapalk?

How could he challenge Vestapalk when Tiktag couldn’t?

Somewhere deep in his guts, Tiktag’s hatred twisted. Could he ever have stood up to Vestapalk the way the human did? Could he have defied the dragon?

Slowly, Vestapalk stood up on all four legs, limbs stretched and spine arched. His great wings unfurled, spreading nearly halfway across the courtyard. The bright sun caught the fine leathery membrane of them, turning them into glowing sheets laced with sparkling red veins. His tail hissed and cracked as it lashed the air. A terrible sound emerged from between Vestapalk’s teeth, less than a growl, more than a hiss, a sound like a fire forced to its hottest under a smith’s bellows. Tiktag served Vestapalk, and the display made even his limbs tremble.

“Gatherer,” Vestapalk thundered, his double voice rolling. “Vestapalk is your destiny!”

He leaped. The human leaped, too, but Vestapalk’s broad wings beat down once, pushing him faster and higher. Talons spread wide, a forepaw slammed into the human’s chest and drove him backward so hard that Tiktag could have sworn he felt the ground shake. One axe went tumbling away. The other remained in the human’s grasp and he tried to swing it against Vestapalk. The dragon’s teeth nipped it from his hand and spit it out. Vestapalk stared down at the human.

“Look upon Vestapalk, Gatherer,” he said. “Look and know your lord.”

The human continued to struggle. He twisted his head and squeezed shut his eyes. Vestapalk bent his neck and thrust his muzzle into the human’s face. “Look at Vestapalk!”

The human’s eyes snapped open, blazing defiance. Dismay filled Tiktag. Why didn’t Vestapalk finish the human? Tiktag had seen him kill for less. What was so special about this Gatherer? Back against the wall, the kobold pushed himself to his feet with his staff.

A trickle of fine dust drifted down into his face.

A new fear shook Tiktag. Had Vestapalk’s earth-shaking leap somehow weakened the ancient ruins? He took a step away from the wall, twisted to look up—then immediately ducked back. During the fight that had left Vestapalk almost dead, Tiktag had fought a battle of his own against a halfling, an ally to his master’s attackers, who had wounded him badly. The wyrmpriest had made a promise to himself that if he ever encountered that halfling again, he would make him pay for the indignity of those injuries.

Like a gift from Fate, the accursed halfling now stood in a gap in the wall right above Tiktag.

What he was doing there, Tiktag couldn’t guess, but there was a knife in his hand and all of his attention was on the frozen forms of the human and Vestapalk. He hadn’t even seen Tiktag. A smile spread across the kobold’s face. Vestapalk had commanded him not to interfere, but he hadn’t known about the halfling spy. This was his chance to defy his master—and possibly reap a reward for his defiance. Some of the knot of self-loathing that coiled in his belly unraveled at the thought.

Sticking close to the wall, he slipped down its face to a broken arch that would allow him to reach the other side.

Raid’s blood pounded like thunder in his ears. His body ached from his injuries. His mind burned with fury at the dragon who would try to snatch away the skulls and his hard-won destiny. Drawing breath was a struggle—the pressure of the beast’s grasp squeezed against his ribs—but he fought as best he could. “I will not,” he gasped, “be denied my destiny!”

“Vestapalk is the one who will fulfill your destiny,” snarled the dragon. “You are the Gatherer. You bring the skulls to him as you were meant to do. Look at Vestapalk, Hakken Raid!”

It was not so much the use of his name that broke through his rage as the voice that spoke it. The dragon had a strange double voice, but abruptly both of those gave way to a third voice that rolled and echoed like a captured storm. The voice of the Chained God.

Raid blinked and looked up at the dragon. Lack of air made his vision swim with shadows, then the dark patches cleared and it was as if he was seeing the dragon—Vestapalk—for the first time.

Glory shone around Vestapalk, an aura of crystalline red streaked with silver. Where his taloned feet touched the ground, dirt and stone shifted and flowed. Where his wings stroked the air, color swirled like blood in water. The sky darkened behind Vestapalk and it seemed to Raid that he could smell smoke and hear screams. He didn’t feel afraid, though. He breathed the smoke and hungered. He listened to the screams and smiled. Voices pleaded, and he knew that he held the power of life or death over them.

The Elemental Eye swirled above Vestapalk, and when the Chained God spoke again, Raid knew that the dragon heard the voice as well. “Your destiny”—the god’s distant voice paused, as if savoring the moment—“is at hand.”

Knowledge stabbed into Raid’s mind, wrenching a gasp from him. His eyes squeezed shut against the agony of the Chained God’s touch.

When he opened them again, the vision had vanished. Vestapalk still pressed him to the ground, silhouetted by nothing more than fading sunlight. Something had changed in his gaze, though. His eyes were narrow, cautiously judging. He hesitated for a moment, then lifted his foot, giving Raid his freedom. His gaze stayed on him.

Breath rushed into Raid’s lungs, and it was tempting to remain on the ground as he drank in the air. He didn’t. The instructions of the Elemental Eye echoed inside him. Raid stood and shifted back toward the bag of skulls. He didn’t turn his back on Vestapalk—he refused to appear weak. For his part, Vestapalk held his ground. The dragon was watching him, Raid realized, waiting to see what he would do.

His leg bumped the bag. Without looking, he reached down and felt for the neck of it. The knotted red thong fell open at his touch, a simple and convenient magic. Raid groped inside. His hands closed on the cold weight of a golden skull.

When Raid drew the skull from the bag, sound came with it. The dry whispers that had filled the underground chamber rose to spill through the courtyard. The sound should have been lost in the open air, but if anything it seemed more intense. There was madness in it, and hatred. The power of the skulls flowed out of the bag like anger flowed from a blind warrior waving his sword in the middle of battle—ready to strike at anything that came within reach.

Uldane wanted to clap his hands over his ears to block it out, but he felt frozen with shock and horror. The dragon who had killed his friends and the man who had almost killed him were working together? Had Raid been working with Vestapalk the whole time? No, he couldn’t have been. When Vestapalk had pounced on Raid, Uldane had felt certain for a moment that he was about to bite off Raid’s head. That wasn’t the greeting of allies.

But dragon and hunter had just stared at each other, then Vestapalk had let Raid go.

And Raid was offering the dragon one of the temple’s golden skulls. Uldane saw Vestapalk’s eyes flicker. His neck stretched out and his nostrils flared as he sniffed at the skull. The rage of the whispers grew.

Vestapalk smiled. His body relaxed, wings folding in against his sides. Raid raised the skull from the bag a little higher. A note of fear and uncertainty seemed to enter the whispers.

The dragon’s mouth narrowed into a thin gap and his chest expanded as he drew a long, slow breath.

One of the whispers broke and rose into a terrified, muffled scream. Uldane stared as a shimmering radiance—faint at first, then stronger—streamed from the skull into Vestapalk’s mouth. The screaming climbed higher and higher.

Vestapalk’s eyelids drooped and he released his breath with a little sigh. He sagged back like a fat man after a meal. The scream ended suddenly. The whispering voices fell silent. Some of the luster had faded from the skull in Raid’s hand. Uldane thought that he could even hear a faint whimper coming from it. For a moment it was the only sound in the courtyard.

Until Vestapalk hissed and stiffened. He shuddered, then suddenly roared and collapsed to the ground, thrashing as if fighting some internal battle.

The rakshasa prince, Raid had said, stripped the demons of their vital essences, binding the mighty beings to an eternity of servitude. And Vestapalk had drawn some of that essence into himself.

Uldane stared at the writhing dragon. And at Raid, who had leaped cleared of Vestapalk’s thrashing and stood with his back to Uldane’s perch. The halfling was abruptly aware of the weight of the almost-forgotten knife in his hand. Raid was still too far to kill with a single cast, but not so far that a throw couldn’t cripple. He could take Raid down while he was distracted, finish him, then maybe take on Vestapalk while he fought whatever he’d consumed. If he could stay on the dragon’s back and climb up his neck to his head, a dagger driven deep into an eye socket would—

Movement in the corner of his eye broke the spell of fascination. Uldane twisted around.

A kobold stood on the stairs leading up to his perch. No, Uldane realized, not just any kobold. The wyrmpriest who served Vestapalk.

Some kind of green energy already seethed around the end of his fetish-decorated staff. His surprise attack foiled, the kobold’s eyes narrowed. “Spy!” he hissed and thrust the staff at Uldane.

Thoughts of revenge on Raid and Vestapalk vanished from Uldane’s mind. The wyrmpriest stood on lower stairs. Uldane jumped up and twisted, bouncing off the wall to slam into the kobold with both feet.

At least that was the plan. The wyrmpriest was quick. His staff flicked as it thrust, tracking Uldane’s movements. The green energy leaped from the staff, gathering itself into a ball that spattered like spit across Uldane’s torso. New pain bit through his bandaged wound. His tumbling bounce from the wall was feeble and awkward. The wyrmpriest darted aside, and Uldane’s soaring kick met nothing but empty space as he sailed past and over the edge of the stairs. The side of a column swatted him out of the air. Uldane tried to clutch at it, to break his fall, but the wyrmpriest’s magic burned through his wound. He landed heavily and felt another burst of agony as his ankle turned under him.

He fell into a crouch, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ankle—and another blast of green magic burst against the column just above his head. Droplets of the stuff hit his skin, puffing into threads of smoke that stung his nostrils. His head, already aching from the burn in his side, swam with the smell. Poison. Uldane looked back over his shoulder. The wyrmpriest was still on the stairs. He had the high ground now and from the way new magic spun around his staff, he meant to use it to his advantage. His eyes burned as brightly as the vile energy he summoned. Nausea gripped Uldane. He fumbled for a knife to hurl, but when he tried to focus on the kobold, his vision blurred and doubled. His aim wavered between two wyrmpriests, both of them leering at him.

Out of sight in the courtyard, Vestapalk let loose another roar, this one thick with pain—but also with unmistakable victory. The kobold twitched around. “Master?”

Uldane chose his target and threw.

The knife clanged off stone, but it didn’t matter. Uldane was already running, dodging between tumbled stones and broken columns. Another ball of poison struck over his head, then nothing. Vestapalk was still roaring. Uldane prayed that the wyrmpriest would rather go to his master than keep up the pursuit. He could feel the poison working its way through his system. Was it lethal? He hoped it wasn’t. The wounds Raid had dealt him were bad enough. He refused to die from a kobold’s poison.

Focus, Uldane told himself. Focus and you’ll get through this.

The edge of the ruins was just ahead, with wooded hills beyond. Fixing an image of Fallcrest in his spinning mind, he sprinted for cover.

The halfling vanished among the ruins. Tiktag hesitated, considering whether to go after him. Then Vestapalk roared again and the wyrmpriest made his decision. Uldane was wounded—he wouldn’t get far. Tiktag could hunt him down later, but first his master needed him. He hastened down the stairs and back to the courtyard.

He found Vestapalk on the ground, his sides heaving with great panting breaths. The big human stood beside him with a curious golden skull in one hand and an excited, almost lustful expression on his face. Rage swept over Tiktag. “You! Human!” he screamed. “What have you done to him?”

He charged, intent on putting himself between the man and his master. To his surprise, the human whirled on him, scooped up a wicked-looking axe that lay in the dirt, and stepped protectively in front of Vestapalk. The excitement in his eyes became ferocity. Tiktag slid to a stop and brought up his staff, a glint of poison already gathering on its tip. “What have you done—”

“He has delivered power to Vestapalk.” The dragon rolled over and rose to his feet. The liquid red crystal that shimmered between his scales glowed brighter than before, almost seeming to run like blood. His eyes were sharper and more intense than Tiktag had ever seen them. His motions were fluid and strong. Even the strange double quality of his voice—one part roar, one part unworldly crystal ringing—was more pronounced.

There was a majesty about him, too, a sense of presence that made Tiktag want to flinch. The big human turned to stare and took a step backward from what he saw. Vestapalk sat back on his haunches and looked down at the human. “The voice of the Elemental Eye spoke through this one. It named you Hakken Raid.”

The human’s back stiffened as if in offense. A twitch from Vestapalk seemed to make him think twice. He bent his head. “That is the name I was given. I serve—” A strange, distant expression came over his face as if someone had whispered something in his ear. “I serve you,” he said slowly.

“Yes.” The word stretched out into a hiss on Vestapalk’s tongue. His eyelids slid half closed. “Step forward, Hakken Raid. You have already served Vestapalk well. You will be blessed.”

The big man moved like someone asleep, feet shuffling, eyes focused on something that wasn’t there. Tiktag’s stomach rose to choke him. He pushed in front of the human. “Master! I’m your servant. Give me your blessing.”

Vestapalk’s half-lidded eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do not make demands of Vestapalk, wyrmpriest.”

Instinct urged the kobold to submit, but anger pushed at him. “Haven’t I served you well?” Tiktag demanded. “Didn’t I care for you?” He pointed at the broken niche where he’d chased off Uldane. “When you commanded that you weren’t to be interrupted, I fought—”

“You serve at Vestapalk’s will,” growled the dragon. “You are this one’s talon. One does not bless a talon.”

Tiktag’s mouth opened and closed as conflicting emotions battled within him. It was an honor that Vestapalk considered him an extension of his will—of himself. But at the same time, shock stole his voice. He wasn’t worthy of being granted the same blessing as a human or even the kobolds he had gathered to look after Vestapalk while the dragon lay injured. Devotion clashed with disappointment.

The wyrmpriest bit back the information about Uldane’s presence. Let his master find the spy on his own, he decided.

But Vestapalk didn’t even wait for a response. Looking back to the human, he said, “Stand forward, Hakken Raid, and raise your eyes to your master.”

Hakken Raid stepped past Tiktag and tipped his head back. Vestapalk stretched his neck down. Just as it had when he’d bestowed his blessing on the other kobolds, silver-red venom dripped along his jaws.

Something was different, though. When Vestapalk had blessed the kobolds, it had come as naturally as breathing. This time, the dragon’s face was taut with concentration. His chest and sides tightened, inflated, and tightened again. The red stuff that showed between his scales flared brighter each time, and Tiktag could see that in places it really did ooze like blood from a wound. Vestapalk’s eyes flickered, as if he was in pain. Maybe he was. Tiktag felt a heat radiating from him.

The venom that ran along Vestapalk’s jaw slowed. His long tongue licked out, gathering it in. His muzzle wrinkled. Pursed. Opened.

A single big drop of intensely red venom fell, like a liquid ruby, from his mouth on to Hakken Raid’s forehead.

The big man sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes opened very wide. The ruby drop smoked against his forehead for a moment, then seemed to seep right into his skin. Hakken clutched his head and screamed. Staggered. Fell to his knees, then to his side.

Tiktag stared. When Vestapalk had bestowed his blessing upon the kobolds of the tribe, they had seemed to fall ill even before the dragon and his wyrm-priest had departed. The touch of the silver-red venom had left them wracked with pain and covered in sores—but not like this. Not with such speed.

Hakken’s skin bubbled up as if he were being held over a fire. The blisters spread faster than Tiktag could follow, swelling and bursting so violently that the kobold had to dart back from the foul spray. The raw skin left beneath showed a crystalline shimmer that quickly changed to a red-brown tint, darker than it had been and distinctly ruddier, too. Where the blisters grew and burst across the human’s broad chest and arms, they left patches of hair that was thicker than it had been before; the shaggy hair on his head even seemed to grow longer, a tapering ridge of it sprouting down his back like the hair of a beast.

Something popped and creaked as Hakken writhed under the venom’s influence; it took a moment before Tiktag realized it was the sound of bones and flesh breaking. Hakken was growing. He’d been as tall as two kobolds before. As he stretched and flailed on the ground, he looked to be as tall as three. His muscles swelled, dragging new screams from him. Thick veins pushed up from his skin.

Except they weren’t the purple-blue of veins filled with blood. They were brilliant red and they pulsed with the same glowing crystalline light as the stuff that flowed through Vestapalk. Hakken’s arms and legs twisted and stretched as if the veins were pulling him apart. More blisters formed around his joints—elbows, wrists, fingers—making them thick and knobby. They didn’t so much burst as weep and collapse as something pushed out from within them. When they shriveled back, they left clusters of silver-red crystals behind. Tiktag wondered if there were still bones under the man’s skin or just more clumps of crystal.

Then Hakken threw back his head and screamed once more. Glistening red sweat made a thick sheen on his forehead. Hakken crouched down, bashing his head against the ground as if he could drive the pain away. But there was no escape. Tiktag watched as the entire left side of the man’s skull pushed out, his growing cheekbone stretching the skin along with it.

Horror planted itself in Tiktag’s belly. This was the blessing he had sought?

The dragon’s head dipped over his shoulder. “The plague takes hold rapidly. The strength of the skull empowers it and he embraces the Voidharrow. He will serve well.”

Vestapalk sounded tired. Tiktag tore his eyes away from Hakken to look up at him and was shocked by what he saw. His master’s body sagged, the majesty that had animated him much diminished, the glow that had shone between his scales faded. It was as if all of his strength had gone into the human’s transformation. “Master,” the kobold said automatically, “you must rest.”

His master sneered at him. “Vestapalk will recover,” he said. He stretched out a foreleg and dragged the bag of skulls closer. A thin wailing drifted from the bag. Vestapalk’s sneer turned into a cruel smile at the sound. “Hakken Raid has provided the means for this—and for so much more.”

“There is no Hakken.”

Tiktag whirled around at the deep rumbling voice. The big human—or whatever he had become—was rising unsteadily to his feet. His stance was hunched like an animal’s. He shook his head and wiped at his face with a thick-fingered hand as if he’d just walked through a spider web. His misshapen face twitched and jerked, then he rolled his head and, with a groan, stretched his jaw open.

The skin at the corners of his lips tore to reveal a wide new mouth filled with sharp teeth. Creases in the tortured flesh across the left side of his face split—and blinked. On that side of his face, three crystal red eyes opened like wounds, two above and one below the tooth-filled mouth.

Only the right side of his face, where he had been burned, still betrayed hints of the human he had once been.

Hakken caught him staring. Tiktag flinched back from his red-eyed gaze, but Hakken just paused and reached up to feel the burn. His fingers touched the blistered skin and dropped immediately.

“There is no Hakken,” he said again. His face curled into a snarl. “I am Raid and the world will know my strength!” He dropped to his knees in front of Vestapalk. Where the dragon’s blessing had touched him, more red crystals grew in a tight, glowing cluster. “I serve.”

“The first of many,” said Vestapalk. His cruel smile grew wider. “Gatherer, your service is only beginning!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nu Alin woke to find his host’s nose bloodied and his face full of grass and dirt. In the back of his mind, Apech the minotaur scratched at the walls of his mental prison, trying to escape while his jailer was unconscious. Nu Alin slapped him down with hardly a thought and rolled over to stare at sunlight filtered through leaves. His head spun with the movement.

The last thing he remembered was the Voidharrow flaring brighter than the sun, brighter than anything Nu Alin could think of. It had exploded out of his awareness with such power that he could imagine he’d actually seen it with Apech’s eyes. It had lit up the distant horizon like a second dawn, so intense it had seemed to turn the trees around him to winter-bare skeletons. So intense it had overwhelmed him.

There was something more to it as well, an additional sensation, though he couldn’t quite name it. An ancient memory returned to him: the moment when a mere human had joined with the Voidharrow and begun the transformation into something else. No, that wasn’t quite right. What he sensed from the Voidharrow wasn’t like his own transformation—it was like the transformation of those who had followed Albric and likewise been consumed by the Voidharrow.

The Herald was needed. He pushed Apech’s body up and continued his journey to the beacon that was the Voidharrow. With every step, the dizziness left by the surge in the Voidharrow faded a little more, replaced by exhilaration. The Voidharrow was still distant, even at Nu Alin’s tireless pace, but it felt much closer. The time he had waited for so long was almost at hand!

Dizziness and exhilaration together—along with the intensity of his focus on the Voidharrow—contributed to his stumbling into the ambush.

One moment he was alone, striding through the forest. The next, he had the sensation that he was being watched. Nu Alin slowed his pace, but kept moving as he scanned the trees around and ahead. There was nothing to see with his host’s eyes. He extended his own senses outward and discovered half a dozen hidden figures, bandits lurking along the trail he had chosen to follow through the wood. Two up in the trees would be archers while the others, lurking to either side of the path, would be thugs. Nu Alin was still considering whether to stop and deal with them when one of the figures moved from hiding and stepped out on to the path ahead.

The bandit was a tall human, lean and desperate looking. He pointed an old sword with a much notched edge at Nu Alin. “In a hurry, minotaur?”

So that was how it would be. Nu Alin slowed to an easy walk. “The time it will take to deal with you is no delay,” he said.

The bandit’s eyes widened slightly as he looked him over. His gaze flicked to someone out of sight, then back again. Nu Alin knew the man had seen the wounds Gerar the gnoll had inflicted on his host body, now sealed with his own silvery-red form. The cracks that showed around the eyes of any host body Nu Alin used harshly were probably also visible. He walked a little closer to the bandit.

The old sword wavered, then grew steady. “Stand where you are!”

Nu Alin stopped obediently. The bandit smiled, confidence restored. “You’re a long way from Thunderspire,” he said. “We have you outnumbered. I’ve got four archers in the trees and twice as many men in the woods”—noise rose on cue from the hidden thugs in an attempt to convince their victim of the lie—“so if you want to continue your journey with your life, you’ll throw down everything you’ve got.”

Apech had been carrying a few trinkets when Nu Alin had taken his body. Some loose coins, a pretty stone, a good knife, shiny brass cuffs. Nu Alin pulled them out or took them off, and threw them to the ground. Then he tossed down the empty pouch from the minotaur’s belt and even the belt itself. The crossed harness of leather straps that Apech wore across his chest. The bandit started looking nervous again.

“That’s enough,” he said. He gestured with the sword. “Move away.”

Nu Alin stood his ground. “Come and take them. They’ll do you no good. You’re going to be dead soon enough. You and all your men. You and every living thing in this world.”

The bandit with the sword flinched. There was a curse from the bushes, then a command. “Loose!”

Nu Alin staggered as arrows zipped from the trees and thumped into Apech’s broad chest. He righted the minotaur’s body, looked down at the arrows, then wrapped a fist around each and ripped them free. The silvery-red crystal of his form bubbled up in the wounds. The bandit stared at him.

The voice in the bushes rose high. “Kill him!”

Waving an assortment of weapons, the remaining bandits broke from hiding and charged. Two more arrows thumped into Nu Alin, then the archers’ shots were blocked as the bandits surrounded Nu Alin. They could still be a nuisance, though. He couldn’t just let them continue to loose arrows into his host body. The first bandit to reach Nu Alin was a slight man wielding a quarterstaff. Nu Alin caught a blow from the staff on his forearm, before wrenching it out of the bandit’s grasp with his other hand. A twist of Apech’s massive shoulders, enhanced by his own flowing form wrapped around the corded muscles, sent the staff whirring through the air. There was a crash and a yell cut brutally short, followed by another crash as the first archer’s body fell out of the tree.

The slight bandit tried to retreat. Nu Alin grabbed him by the throat. Pain blossomed in Nu Alin’s back as another bandit plunged a dagger into Apech’s kidney. Nu Alin pushed himself into the wound, seized the slight bandit with both hands, and flung him into the dagger man. Both men went down, but the dagger man staggered back to his feet—the slight bandit stayed on the ground, choking on a crushed throat. Nu Alin lunged across him for the dagger man. The fallen bandit’s ribs crunched under his hooves and the dagger man screamed as a sharp horn drove into his belly. Nu Alin lifted him up, then twisted his head and hurled him away. Blood and scraps of his guts clung to Apech’s horn. He flicked them off as he turned back to the remaining bandits.

There were no more arrows. The second archer had wisely fled. Only the bandit with the notched sword and another man, presumably the actual leader of the bandits, with a spear remained. They stood shoulder to shoulder with their weapons pointing at Nu Alin, but not moving, caught halfway between the urge to fight and flee.

Exaltation flooded Nu Alin. “Your kind are too weak,” he told the men. His voice was a rasp in Apech’s broad chest. He could feel his substance pulsing and dripping like tears around the minotaur’s eyes. “You will be easy prey in the age that comes. If you cannot harm the Herald, what hope do you have against his master?”

It was too much for the bandit with the sword. He whimpered and tore away from his leader, sprinting for the concealment of the bushes.

No minotaur should have been able to move as Nu Alin did. He leaped high and felt muscles tear as he did, but just knitted them together with strands of his own being. His jump took him clear over the bandit leader and into the fleeing swordsman. Hooves caught him in the hips, shattering bones as Nu Alin drove him to the ground. The man wailed and squirmed, possibly unaware of what had just happened to him. Nu Alin crouched over him, took his head in Apech’s big hands, and snapped his neck.

When he looked up, the bandit leader had vanished from sight—but not from Nu Alin’s senses. The man ran like a rabbit, ducking and dodging among trees and bushes with scarcely a sound. Nu Alin rose and strode after him.

“The world you know will end in rivers of lightning and seas of blood!” he roared. “Iron forests will sprout leaves like knives and your organs will hang like sodden fruit from their branches.” He increased his pace to a charge. Nothing stood in his way. He ignored the bite and sting of thorns and saplings. Small trees fell under his hooves. “The sun will look down on deserts of ice, the moon on mountains of bone, and the only stars will be the flash of red crystal wings bringing death to all things!”

His pursuit closed the distance to the fleeing bandit. Even over the crash of his charge, he could hear the bandit leader’s panicked weeping. And though the call of the Voidharrow still burned strong in his mind, Nu Alin did not think it would begrudge him a moment’s sport in his journey.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sergeant Murgeddin, the old dwarf in command of the guards at Fallcrest’s eastern gate, waved to Albanon and the others as they rode back into town. “Good journey?” he called cheerfully.

“Not really, no,” said Kri and rode on past the guard without even pausing.

Albanon reined in his horse and paused beside Murgeddin. “Sorry,” he said. “We didn’t exactly find what we were looking for.”

“Few ever do, lad, few ever do.” Murgeddin looked up at Shara as she rode in with Splendid draped across her shoulders. “Are you going to bite my head off, too?”

Splendid answered for her. “Probably not. Dwarves taste bad.”

Murgeddin eyed the pseudodragon and drew a rattling breath as if preparing to spit. Splendid’s eyes went wide and she leaped from Shara’s neck into the air. Hovering safely out of range, she glared down at the grinning dwarf. “You wouldn’t!”

“Probably not. Pseudodragons make easy targets.”

Splendid let out of a whistling hiss of annoyance and swooped around as if to show off her agility. Shara ignored her and leaned over to Murgeddin. “Have you seen Uldane?” she asked.

Murgeddin’s eyebrows went up and he shook his head. “Not since you rode out, but you know he’s a hard one to keep track of. I don’t go out of my way to watch for him when we’ve got real troublemakers in town.”

Shara cursed under her breath and threw an angry glance at Albanon. “The tower,” she said and urged her horse on. Albanon sighed.

“Thanks, Murgeddin,” he said. “If you do see Uldane, tell him we’re looking for him. Splendid, come on.” The pseudodragon gave one last taunting twirl, then settled on his shoulder. Albanon tucked his heels into his horse’s side and turned it after Shara and Kri.

By the time he caught up to them before the Shining Tower, Kri already had the tower wards down. “Stop doing that!” Albanon told him.

“Learn to improve your wards,” the old cleric said irritably. “There was a massive flaw in them.”

Albanon scowled. “It wasn’t a flaw. I left it like that so”—he glanced at Shara—“so Uldane could get in if he needed to.”

The warrior woman’s face brightened and she all but leaped off her horse in her haste to reach the door. She threw it open and charged inside, calling Uldane’s name. She was back out in moments. “He hasn’t been here since we left,” she said.

“We’ve only been away a few days,” said Albanon. “His note said he’d be gone that long, too.”

“I don’t like it.” Shara hauled her gear off her horse’s back and threw it inside with a thud and a crash. “I’m going to ask around about him. I’ll be back.”

“Wait! Shara—” Albanon swung himself down from his horse, but he was already too late. She vanished along the road to the lower town before he could stop her. Sighing, he turned to Kri—and found him marching into the tower without so much as a glance back. Sighing again, Albanon set to work removing tack and gear from their horses. “Looks like it’s just you and me again, Splendid.”

The little pseudodragon shifted awkwardly.

Albanon closed his eyes and leaned his head against a horse’s neck. “Fine. Go.” He heard her whistle of delight and the rattle of her wings; he opened his eyes to see her flitting up to one of the tower windows. “You wouldn’t have been much help anyway!” the eladrin called after her, then turned back to the horses.

He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised that the others had so quickly gone off on their own. The ride back from Andok Sur and the Old Hill had passed mostly in silence. Shara had been wrapped up in thoughts of finding Uldane and renewed vengeance against Vestapalk while Kri had been consumed by … whatever consumed him. The cleric of Ioun might as well have been a follower of Vecna, the dark god of secrets, for all he shared of his thoughts. Albanon had ended up spending most of the journey trying to talk to Splendid.

Shara wanted to find Vestapalk to mete out the vengeance he’d avoided by not dying before. Kri wanted to find the dragon to determine exactly what exposure to the Voidharrow had done to him.

And Albanon wanted to take them both by the scruff of the neck and bang their heads together until they started working with each other. He felt torn between them when they really had a common goal. On the one hand, he wanted to help Shara—and Uldane, when they found him—avenge the friends and family Vestapalk had killed. On the other, he wanted to help Kri investigate the mystery of the Voidharrow as a tribute to his master, Moorin, slain by Nu Alin in his attempt to recover the vial. What Vestapalk had done with the Voidharrow to the kobolds beneath Andok Sur was proof of the urgency of that investigation. All trails led ultimately to Vestapalk. If they could find him, they’d all gain something.

If only, he thought as he finished with the horses and carried the last of their gear into the tower, they knew where to start looking.

After Albanon washed away the grime of travel and changed his clothes, he went looking for Kri. He found him in the library, surrounded by piles of books pulled off of the shelves. The cleric didn’t look up as Albanon entered. Or when he dragged up a chair and sat down across the desk from him. Or when Albanon cleared his throat—although he did grumble, “You want something?”

“I know this library,” Albanon said. “If there’s something you’re looking for, I can probably help you find it.”

Kri snorted. “I would be no priest of Ioun if I couldn’t find my way around a library.”

Albanon studied—upside down—the book he was reading. He recognized the ornately drawn maps that decorated the crinkling pages. “The History of the Frontiers of Nerath?” he asked. He looked at the other books Kri had collected. Most were collections of tall tales and legends. A few were proper histories of the Nentir Vale. “What do you hope to learn from that?”

“That kobold said Vestapalk left Andok Sur in search of the Gatherer.” Kri turned a page. “I’m looking for a clue to what or who that might be.”

“It might not be anything in the Vale,” said Albanon. “Vestapalk could have left the region. Dragons can fly a long way.”

“The world is large. The Nentir Vale is small. When I have exhausted the possibilities in the Vale, I will look beyond it.” He turned another page, then another, lingering over an illustration that Albanon recognized as the dwarven city of Hammerfast on the eastern edge of the Vale. “Besides which, I have a feeling that the dragon has not gone far.”

Albanon remembered how he’d held his holy symbol and swept a hand across the shelf in Moorin’s study where the vial had lain for so long. “You can sense the Voidharrow!”

Kri scowled into the page. “Only when I’m close. No—I believe that something drew Vestapalk to the Vale and he isn’t finished here yet.”

“Andok Sur and the vial,” Albanon said promptly.

The cleric paused and finally looked up at him. The scowl hadn’t left his wrinkled face. Albanon felt an urge to shrink back under that glare. “No,” said Kri. “Use your brain and tell me why you’re wrong.”

Albanon grimaced and considered his assumptions, just as he would have if Moorin had set a problem before him. “Shara only broke the vial against Vestapalk by accident. He wasn’t looking for it. But when we fought him, he babbled something about the Herald arriving soon.” He glanced at Kri. “Nu Alin was in pursuit of the vial. If we hadn’t encountered and defeated him, he might have gone on to Andok Sur after it. And if he was the first being infected by the Voidharrow, he could be considered its herald.” He frowned, turning the facts over in his mind. A chilly certainty formed in the pit of his stomach. “Vestapalk was in Andok Sur to meet Nu Alin.”

“Whether he knew it or not,” said Kri, nodding. “Shara told me that one of the first times she and her friends encountered Vestapalk, they surprised him as he stood over the disemboweled corpse of a horse, as if searching for an omen in its entrails. The histories of the Order relate that Albric the Accursed was also led by omens and visions before he became Nu Alin. I suspect that Vestapalk and Nu Alin were both led to Andok Sur by omens. If further omens or visions are leading Vestapalk in search of the mysterious Gatherer, perhaps omens are also leading the Gatherer to Vestapalk. He or she—or it—might already be in the Nentir Vale.”

“Or anywhere else,” Albanon said.

Kri scowled again at the suggestion. “The world is large, the Vale is small,” he repeated stubbornly. He turned his eyes back to his book.

Albanon wrinkled his nose and wished he could take back his words. For a moment, Kri had actually seemed to warm toward him. “Shara knows a lot about the Vale,” he said. “She’s traveled through much of it and her father before her.”

“And I intend to ask her about that when she returns from her fool’s quest for your halfling friend,” Kri said coolly.

Albanon slumped in his chair. It was going to take more than a subtle suggestion to get the cleric and Shara working together. “It’s too bad Moorin wasn’t still alive,” he said. “He knew a ritual for locating people. He might have been able to find Vestapalk.”

“I know the same ritual,” said Kri, turning pages again. “Unfortunately, it requires more supplies to conduct than I have available—or are present in your tower stores. Or, I suspect, are commonly available for purchase in a town like Fallcrest. Besides which, there is a limit to what spells and prayers will reveal. I told you, the Order has tried rituals in the past. The gods and their servants will not answer questions about the Voidharrow.”

Albanon sat up. “What about a question about a dragon? We wouldn’t be asking about the Voidharrow, only Vestapalk.”

Kri raised his head—and gave him a sharp but approving look. “Well considered,” he said. “Unfortunately, we still lack the means to perform the appropriate rituals, but the idea does suggest there may indeed be a serviceable brain between your pointed ears.” He closed the book and regarded Albanon. “Moorin taught you nothing of the Order of Vigilance, did he?”

“Nothing.”

“He should have. He should have passed on his knowledge—the Order has never been large and it’s the responsibility of each member to train one or two to follow him.” Kri folded his hands over the book. “You have questions. Ask.”

Albanon’s eyebrows jumped up high. “Any question?” he asked. Kri just cocked his head in silent response. The eladrin ran his tongue over his lips, trying to think of the right thing to ask. “Have you trained new members for the Order?”

A flicker of pain crossed Kri’s face. “Any other question,” he said.

Discomfort warmed Albanon’s cheeks. “I’m sorry.” He thought again. “Are all members of the Order clerics or wizards?”

“Not at all. Links to the arcane and the divine are common because of the nature of what we protect, but a strong warrior and a cunning rogue are just as welcome. Most members are worldly, brought into the Order because they have seen much and learned to survive it. The most significant criteria, however, are that potential members are thought to be interested and trustworthy.” Kri held his gaze steady on Albanon. “Did Moorin not trust you?”

The heat in Albanon’s face burned hotter. “He trusted me!”

“Then maybe he had some other reason. Maybe he thought you weren’t interested in becoming a member of the Order.” Before Albanon could react, Kri pursed his lips and added, “I think he might have been wrong.”

Albanon’s mouth turned dry and his heart beat a little faster.

And downstairs, there was a crash as the door of the tower flew open. Somewhere, Splendid screeched in alarm—and was drowned out by Shara’s voice. “Albanon!”

He started to call back to her, then hesitated and glanced at Kri. The old cleric just gestured for him to answer. “Our discussion can wait.”

Albanon nodded gratefully and raised his voice. “In the library!”

Shara came trudging up the stairs and pushed through the door. Her face was flushed from running. She was breathing heavily. “I’ve picked up Uldane’s trail. The night we had our fight, he went to the Lucky Gnome.”

Kri’s eyebrows rose. “A tap house in the lower town,” said Albanon. “Not the best place in Fallcrest.” He stood up and offered Shara his chair. She shook her head, though she gripped the back for support as she brought her breathing under control. Albanon frowned at her. “Have you been running?”

“Halfway across Fallcrest,” she said, then took a final swallow of air and stood straight. “I ended up at the river above the falls. One of the porters who works the upper quays was in the Lucky Gnome that night and remembers seeing Uldane there, too.” Her face tightened. “He was talking to Raid.”

“That’s no surprise,” said Kri. “His note mentioned Raid.”

“And you told Raid to go to the Lucky Gnome that night if he wanted to find adventurers,” Albanon pointed out.

Shara scowled at him. “Well, it sounds like he found them. The porter says he saw a human named Tragent and a half-orc named Dohr with Raid and Uldane, all of them celebrating like priests with their hands in the poor box.”

Kri’s eyebrows rose higher. Shara wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, Kri. You know what I mean. They were up to something.”

“And your porter knew nothing else?” the old man asked.

“No, but if they were making plans, someone might have overheard something. We need to go down to the Lucky Gnome. Three can ask around better than one.”

“Two can ask questions as effectively as three,” said Kri. He slid the book he had been reading on to a pile and selected another. “I’ll remain here. Someone has to do something to find Vestapalk.”

Shara’s hand slammed down on the book before he could open it. “If you want our help, we want yours.”

Kri tilted his head and looked at her with hard, steady eyes. “We?”

Both of them looked at Albanon. The wizard winced, all of his frustrations coming back to him. He let out a long breath and tried to think of a way to get the two of them working together. “Yes,” he said. “We. I want to find Uldane, too. I’m concerned about him and if we can find him, I’m sure he’ll be valuable in tracking down Vestapalk. You’re not having any luck locating anything in the books, are you? Come with us, help us find out where Uldane is”—he turned and glanced at Shara—“and Shara will help with the lore of the Nentir Vale.” He gave the warrior a pointed look.

Shara’s lips pressed together tightly for a moment, but she nodded. “I want to find Vestapalk, too, but not without Uldane beside me.”

Kri seemed to consider that for a moment, then he slid the book away. “Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s find your halfling.”

Relief broke over Albanon. “Splendid,” he called. “We’re going out.”

“Good!” the pseudodragon called back. “Your arguing is keeping me awake. Try not to slam the door again.”

Over the seven years that he’d lived in Fallcrest as Moorin’s apprentice, Albanon had managed to avoid the Lucky Gnome on all but a few occasions. The tap house looked no better by day than it did by night. Even with shutters thrown wide, it was filled with a kind of dismal, unsavory shadow.

No one took any notice of him, Kri, and Shara as they paused inside the door. The afternoon was growing old, the day’s work was finishing, and the place’s clients were more interested in a tankard of ale than they were in who crossed the doorstep. Albanon looked around the room at the tired, dour faces and a disappointing thought entered his mind. “These are the wrong people,” he said quietly. “Uldane and Raid were here later at night. All these people would have gone home by then.”

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” said Shara. “Every tavern has people who are there all the time. We start with them.”

She pushed through the tavern to the bar and Albanon realized what she meant. At one end of the bar leaned a thin elf woman in a dirty coat too large for her. At the other slumped a man with his arm wrapped protectively around a mug. And those were the customers—the scruffy, scowling man who stood behind the counter looked as if the only daylight he saw was what came through the tap house windows.

Shara walked up to him and spread three fingers. The bartender turned away without comment to draw three tankards of ale. Albanon’s stomach recoiled at the thought of drinking whatever was brewed here, but he tensed his belly and reminded himself they were doing this for Uldane.

“We’re looking for someone,” Shara said as the bartender set down a full tankard and started to fill an empty one. “A halfling. He would have been in last week.”

The bartender’s eyes flicked to her, then to Albanon. They lingered on Kri. The old man gave a smile that would have soured milk. The bartender’s eyes went back to the tankard. He swapped it for a third. “Lots of halflings come in here,” he said.

“He would have been with a half-orc and two human men. One of them a little older, big man with thick hair running a bit to gray, pale eyes, two axes on his belt,” Shara continued.

“Sounds to me like he’s the one you want to find, not your halfling.”

“The halfling is a friend of ours,” said Shara. “Do you remember them? One of the porters from the upper quays said he saw them celebrating in here.”

The bartender slid their ale across the counter to them. “Lots of porters come in here, too,” he said. “They like to talk but you can’t believe everything you hear from them. You don’t give good information away for free.”

He tapped the fingers of his left hand on the bar top meaningfully.

Albanon saw Shara scowl, but she reached for a pouch on her belt.

Kri’s hand caught her arm. “Pay for the ale,” he said. “Nothing else.”

Shara looked at him questioningly. He gave her a twitch of his eyebrow and a slight tip of his head. The bartender just shrugged. “Pay for what you want. Doesn’t matter to me.”

His hand turned palm up. Shara dropped some coins in it, then gathered their tankards. “What was that about?” she asked Kri as they moved away from the bar.

“Why pay for grapes when you have wine?” said the cleric. “He may or may not know anything, but she definitely does.” He nodded again, pointing with the tilt of his head. “Be discrete.”

Albanon took one of the tankards and turned casually to lean against the wall and glance around the tap house. It took him a moment to realize that Kri was indicating a serving wench, a lean, worn-looking girl. As if she felt his eyes on her, she glanced up—and right at him. Albanon slapped a stupid grin on his face and raised his ale in salute.

The server’s eyes dropped immediately and she hurried away to another table.

Kri slapped Albanon’s arm, making ale slosh out of his tankard. “Idiot. I said be discrete!”

“I tried to be—then she looked at me. What was I supposed to do?” Albanon stared after the woman. “She’s scared of something.”

“Indeed,” said Kri. “She was serving a table close to the bar when Shara described Raid. She must have overheard because she went stiff and got away from us as quickly as she could.”

“It makes you wonder what exactly she’s afraid of, doesn’t it?” Shara glanced at the other woman, then away. She took a drink of her ale, then passed the tankard to Albanon. “I want to talk to her.”

“You’re not going to be able to talk,” said Kri. “She’s watching us. She’s going to run away if we try to get close.”

“If you try to get close, she will. Find a place to sit. Somewhere out of the way.” Shara walked away, not toward the serving wench but around the outside of the room.

Albanon stared after the warrior. “What’s she up to? What’s she planning on doing—sneaking up on her?”

Kri gave him a hard look. “For a smart person, you can be really slow sometimes.” He turned away. “Let’s find that place to sit.”

There were a few narrow booths at the back of the tap house. All of the booths were occupied, but it only took a few quiet words from Kri to persuade some patrons to make way—Albanon didn’t hear what he said, but the former occupants of the booth hurried away with pale faces. Kri settled himself in the shadows and sipped at his ale. Albanon sat where he could keep an eye on Shara and the frightened serving wench.

At first he wondered if maybe he had been right and Shara was trying to sneak up on the other woman. She approached the serving wench slowly, almost as if she was stalking a deer in the woods. She didn’t make any effort to hide, though. When the server got skittish and moved, Shara just nodded to her, smiled, waited a few moments, then shifted closer. But never too close. After moving away a couple of times, the serving wench stopped and watched her. Albanon saw Shara speaking, but the two women were too far for him to even guess at what they were saying. Eventually though, Shara was standing right in front of the server, hands spread wide and a calm expression on her face. In contrast, the server’s face was stiff and pale, and she shook her head frequently. Shara just kept talking until finally the serving wench nodded once. Shara smiled at her, then came over to join them at the booth.

“Her name is Jewel,” she said. “We’re meeting her outside shortly.”

“How did you get her to agree to talk to us?” Albanon asked in awe.

“Remember when I said there was something about Hakken Raid I didn’t like?” Shara took her tankard back from him and drank from it. “I was right.”

“He threatened her?” said Kri.

Shara nodded. “Jewel didn’t want to go into detail, but she didn’t deny it when I asked. She definitely saw him with Uldane, though.” She twitched her head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Outside the Lucky Gnome, Shara led them around to the back of the tap house. The area was empty save for discarded barrels piled against the building’s walls and the long shadows of dusk. There was no sign of the serving wench. “You don’t think she made a run for it, do you?” Albanon asked

“She’ll come.”

“I’m here.” The thin woman slipped out from among the barrels so suddenly that Albanon jerked in surprise. Jewel ignored him. Her gaze flicked around the area, then settled on Shara. “You don’t tell him nothing, right? I didn’t talk to you. You’ve never met me.”

Her voice was strained. Her eyes were wide and wild. Albanon felt a surge of pity for her. “We just want to find our friend Uldane, the halfling you saw with Raid,” he said. “If we see him, we won’t mention you at all. Hakken Raid is nothing to us.”

Jewel turned to stare at him. “Have you ever talked to him?” she asked. “Have you ever stood in the dark and stared into those pale eyes of his? You wouldn’t say that if you had. There’s something wrong with him.” She shivered and took a step away. “I shouldn’t be talking to you. He said if I talked to anyone, he’d find out and come back for me.”

“Jewel, wait.” Shara took her hand before she could leave. “Whatever Raid said, we won’t let him hurt you. I won’t let him hurt you. Tell us what you know about him and Uldane.”

The server looked at her for a moment, then her fingers squeezed Shara’s. She moved a little closer, though she didn’t relax at all. “That night they were here, I served them. First just him and Tragent and Dohr—I know them a little, they come in sometimes. They talked quiet and it looked like they came to some kind of agreement, because they called for more ale. While I was fetching it, your halfling friend showed up. They didn’t look pleased to see him, but then they relaxed and started talking. There’s no mistaking adventurers heading out of town, so when I came back, I listened.”

“You make a habit of listening to adventurers?” Kri asked.

“They usually have interesting stories.”

The cleric gave her a level look. “When they’re getting ready to leave town?”

Jewel shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “All right,” she said after a moment, “I have an understanding with some of the local boys. If I find out someone is leaving Fallcrest for somewhere interesting, I let them know and they watch for them coming back. They lighten their load a little bit.”

“That’s a dangerous business for them.”

“They’re careful. Times are tough.”

“Did you tell the local boys about Raid and the others?” asked Albanon.

“Didn’t get a chance to.” Jewel shivered again. “Your man and the others left before the Gnome closed that night, but when I left to go home, he was waiting for me. He covered my mouth and dragged me back here behind the Gnome. I know how to stop a man having his way with me, but he was too fast. I couldn’t get a knee or a scratch into him. He didn’t try anything, though, didn’t even ask me if I’d heard anything. But he knew already, I could tell. He just held me, and said ‘If you talk to anyone about me, I will find out. I will come back for you and I’ll make sure you never talk to anyone about anything ever again.’ ”

Just her imitation of Raid’s words was enough to make Albanon’s skin crawl. “He hurt you?”

She ran fingers over her mouth. “Bruises. Nothing I haven’t had before. But it was the look he gave me. ‘The eye is on you,’ he said—”

“The eye is on you?” said Kri sharply. The old cleric leaned forward with a speed that brought a flinch from Jewel. “ ‘The eye is on you,’ not ‘my eye is on you?’ ”

“I know what I heard,” Jewel said. “He had me against the wall, those eyes of his staring right through me. He said ‘the eye is on you.’ I would have sworn on my daughters’ lives that I’d never talk, but just then Frober and Kide came out from the Gnome with the night’s barrels. Raid gave me one last look, then he let me go and disappeared. I don’t think he wanted to be seen. He had me so scared that I didn’t even go to Frober for help. I just ran all the way home.”

“What did you actually hear at the table?” said Shara. “What do you think Raid was trying to hide?”

Jewel’s face twisted. “I don’t bloody know. I’ve been looking over my shoulder for the bastard every day and night since and the only thing I heard was something your halfling said. ‘I’ve been around. I’ve heard stories. The ruins lie to the west of Fallcrest.’ ”

She was a good mimic. Albanon could recognize Uldane’s voice in hers. “That’s all?” he asked.

“Raid saw me and shut him up right quick.” She clenched Shara’s hand and looked into her eyes. “When he said he’d know if I talked, I believed him. Maybe he was bluffing, but I don’t want to find out. If you find him, do me a favor. Make sure he never comes back to Fallcrest.” She pulled her hand free and stood up.

“Jewel.” Kri held out his hand. Albanon saw the flash of silver and the gleam of gold in his palm. Jewel’s eyes went wide. For a moment, Albanon didn’t think she’d take them, but then she scooped them up and made them vanish.

“You didn’t hear nothing from me,” she said again and trotted away, back around to the front of Lucky Gnome and the dubious safety of the tap house.

Shara let out her breath—and cursed. She looked at Albanon and Kri. “Blood,” she said. “I don’t like this. Raid scared the wits out of her and all she heard was something about ruins to the west?”

“Maybe he thought she heard more,” said Albanon. “What ruins do you think Uldane was talking about?”

“That’s the problem.” Shara pushed a hand through her hair. “There are a lot of ruins around the Vale. Easily half of them are west of Fallcrest. Raid and Uldane could be anywhere.”

“No,” said Kri. The priest stood with a hand half covering his mouth, his eyes narrow in thought. “Uldane’s note said he’d be back in a few days. To their destination and back again in a few days. They couldn’t have gone too far.”

“We traveled east to Andok Sur and back in a few days,” Albanon pointed out. “If they went the same distance to the west, that leaves us with a big area.”

“And how many ruins are there in that area?” asked Kri. He glanced at Shara. She raised her eyebrows, looked thoughtful, then wiggled her fingers.

“Half a dozen, maybe. Spread out. It would take time to check them.”

“It’s a start.” Kri pushed his ale away. “We’ll ride out tomorrow. Shara, I found a map in the library of the tower. We’ll mark the ruins on it, then we can compare what you know about them to what I’ve learned from Moorin’s books. We may be able to narrow our search—”

“Wait.” Albanon had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. He’d wanted Kri and Shara to work together, but the cleric’s abrupt change of heart felt … odd. “A little while ago, you were barely interested in Uldane’s name, now you’re willing to ride across half the Vale to look for him?” He cocked his head at Kri as a suspicion came to him. “Why was it significant that Raid said ‘the eye is on you?’ ”

Kri’s wrinkled face tightened, and for a moment, he was silent. Then he leaned across the table, gesturing for Albanon and Shara to come close. “Have you ever heard of the cults of the Elder Elemental Eye?”

Shara shook her head. Albanon dredged up a memory, a reference he’d read years before in a book Moorin had expressly forbidden him from reading. “The Elemental Eye is something dreamed up by madmen. The cults that claim to follow it are full of lunatics intent on causing chaos wherever they can in the name of various elemental primordials.”

“True,” said Kri, “insofar as followers of the Elder Elemental Eye are madmen intent on causing chaos.”

“And you think when Raid said ‘the eye is watching you,’ he actually meant this Elder Elemental Eye?” Shara said.

“I’m certain of it.”

Albanon spread his hands. “What does that have to do with finding Uldane?”

“Because before he brought the Voidharrow into the world and became Nu Alin,” Kri answered, his voice dropping even lower, “Albric the Accursed worshiped the Elemental Eye. Except that the cults are actually far more than they seem. The Elemental Eye is only the most palatable of names for the darkest of the gods. A deity so insane and vile that the other gods joined forces to seal him away.”

Albanon’s ears tingled all the way to their pointed tips. “You said Albric and his followers were trying to free something evil when the founders of the Order interrupted them. Were they trying to free this imprisoned god?”

“Yes.” Kri’s fingers strayed to his neck and the holy symbol of Ioun. “Some call him the Chained God. Others dare to use his true name: Tharizdun. Some say the cults of the Elemental Eye are his last faltering hold on our world. I … have my doubts.”

Albanon frowned. “What did Tharizdun do to make the other gods so mad at him?”

“In the earliest days of creation, he found a seed of utter evil and planted it in the unshaped depths of the Elemental Chaos. The seed grew. Tharizdun created the Abyss.” Kri straightened. “Nu Alin brought the Voidharrow into the world and now that it has been set loose in the Nentir Vale, another follower of the Elder Elemental Eye arrives. My belief in coincidence runs only so far.”

Shara looked grim. “All the more reason to find Raid.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Energy flooded through Raid. Limitless energy. Limitless, exhilarating energy that drove him day and night. He was stronger than he had ever been. Faster. No one would deny him now. No one would reject him. No one would dare. What the Eye had promised, the Eye had delivered.

The bliss of his new existence was like a fog over his mind, as welcome as the cool of twilight after the day’s heat. Raid stalked the land wrapped in his own power. He was a wolf. He was a panther. He was a drake.

He was more than all the most dangerous beasts he had ever hunted. He was perfect. Raid bared his teeth in a smile—a smile that ended in the painful tightness at the right side of his mouth. The smile turned into a snarl and a nearby tree paid the price for his sudden fury. Heavy fingernails gouged deep gashes into the bark.

He was almost perfect. The new form that the Voidharrow had given to him was beautiful, strong, and savage. A reflection of what Raid had always known was inside him. Only the right side of his face and chest marred his perfection, as if the burned flesh had resisted transformation.

Under the scars, Hakken—pitiful, pathetic Hakken—remained. If he could have, Raid would have clawed off half his face to be rid of him. He howled and slashed at the tree again. And again. And again, until the trunk, as thick as his thigh, shuddered, splintered, and crashed down. Raid stood over the jagged stump, breathing hard.

He needed blood. He needed the hunt.

In the distance, a dog raised its voice in a frenzied baying. Others joined in before the sound faded away. Anticipation tightened Raid’s belly. He turned away from the broken tree and set out in the direction of the baying. “Come,” he called over his shoulder.

Three hulking figures moved obediently out of the long shadows. The setting sun flashed on heavy plates of red crystal that grew across their shoulders like armor. On a second set of powerful arms that reached around from beneath the crystal armor. The brutes moved stiffly, heavily, especially in comparison to Raid’s own powerful grace—but then he had embraced the Voidharrow willingly.

“You will gather this one an army,” Vestapalk said. “A horde. Vestapalk must have a horde.”

The dragon lay in the courtyard of the Temple of Yellow Skulls, limbs drawn close to his body, head weaving at a level with Raid’s own. His red eyes were dull and clouded. The blisters on his body seemed larger, more full, as if whatever afflicted him had seized on his weakness to assert itself. The pain of Raid’s transformation still ached in his joints, but he couldn’t help thinking that if Vestapalk was weak, he might be able to take him. Almost as if he were able to hear the thought, the dragon’s head reared back. He hissed and glared down at Raid. Claws flexed, dragging up stones long buried in the surface of the courtyard.

Raid felt his anger—not just in his head or in his gut but in his very blood. In the Voidharrow that lingered in his body. Submit, it seemed to urge him. Raid lowered his gaze. “How?” he asked.

“How, master,” barked the little kobold who stood by Vestapalk’s shoulder. Raid glared at him and bared his new teeth. The kobold flinched and shrank closer to the dragon’s leg. A coward.

“Enough, Tiktag.” Vestapalk twitched his leg, forcing the kobold away from him. He examined Raid, then pointed a talon. “Your claws. Your bite. Break the skin. The Voidharrow will pass on.”

The thought of allowing the Voidharrow, the source of his power, to pass to another struck unexpected fear into Raid. He clenched his hands into fists. “No.”

Vestapalk looked at him as if he was a child.

For a moment, old anger flared in Raid—no, he reminded himself, Hakken had been weak. People mocked Hakken. They wouldn’t dare mock Raid.

Vestapalk sneered. “You think it will diminish you? It will make you stronger. Those you mark will suffer as you have. If they pass through the plague, they will submit to your strength.”

“They will be like me?”

“They will be what they are. But no, they will not be like you. Vestapalk desires a horde. Those you mark will be his soldiers. His enforcers. His brutes!”

Vestapalk shook with anticipation as he spoke. The liquid crystal of the Voidharrow welled up around his mouth, running and dripping like saliva. Some of it he licked back with a tongue that bore tiny pustules; some dripped from his jaws to splatter at the dragon’s feet. Raid found his gaze drawn to it as if it were the most precious stuff in the world.

Where the Voidharrow touched the ground, dirt clumped into stones spiky with sharp red crystals. A beetle splashed with it shuddered and scrambled away, its carapace flashing like a living jewel. Raid stared at the stuff in fascination, then poked a foot at it. For an instant, the Voidharrow seemed to pull back from his touch—then it reached out and clung to him as if recognizing kin. Its touch stung, but the pain was almost pleasant, like dipping a toe into icy water.

The kobold Tiktag stared at it with barely disguised fear. Raid flicked it at him. Tiktag ducked and the Voidharrow landed among a patch of moss, soaking into the green carpet. An instant later, the soft fur of the plant seemed to writhe with hunger.

Raid understood its hunger. He looked up at Vestapalk. “A horde to aid in restoring the temple of the Elemental Eye,” he said.

The dragon’s eyes flickered. “Yes,” he said. “To restore the temple. Turn those you mark loose. They will make their way to Vestapalk. Walk the land, Gatherer. Make Vestapalk his horde.”

Raid looked back up at him. “Master of the Voidharrow, for you and the Chained God, I will strip the Nentir Vale.”

That first night, not too far from the Temple of Yellow Skulls, he’d found three hunters asleep around a smoking campfire. They had a hound that growled at him as he approached, but Raid had just growled back at it and it had cowered away, one beast dominated by another. The screams of the first hunter as Raid raked claws across his chest had woken the others. They’d fought—or tried to fight. With the power of his new form, it had been like subduing children. It was more difficult not to give into his bloodlust and kill them outright. He had all three bound or unconscious within moments. Then he had crouched and watched.

The disease took hold swiftly. More swiftly than he might have expected, maybe accelerated by some lingering power of his own infection. The changes were not so quick as his had been, but they looked no less painful. The hunters’ wounds swelled, inflamed as their bodies fought the Voidharrow, but the raw, red flesh sparkled like crystal in the firelight. The inflammation spread and massive blisters formed. His victims thrashed and screeched—Raid was forced to remove the bonds as the hunters’ growing bodies pressed against them, but the men weren’t running anywhere. Blisters burst to reveal plates like crystalline armor and a second pair of powerful arms. Eventually, the hunters’ screams fell silent. Raid suspected that they had somehow moved beyond the ability to feel pain.

By the time the sun touched the horizon, the hunters had risen as Vestapalk’s first three brute minions. All three had survived the Voidharrow. Raid should have sent them to the dragon, but he kept them and they shambled after him like stupid hulks as he moved on in search of new prey. The hound followed, too, and it wasn’t until they came across an isolated farmstead that Raid realized it had taken to him like a wolf to the leader of a pack. It obeyed his commands, though its appearance had become more feral, as if his presence, enhanced by the presence of the Voidharrow, was drawing out the wild beast inside.

By the time Raid left the farm, five more brutes of varying sizes—a farmer who brought his family into isolation had no right to cry at his children’s screams—were stumbling in the direction of the Temple of Yellow Skulls. Another, not strong enough to survive infection and transformation, was a twisted corpse on the floor. Two more dogs had become a part of Raid’s pack.

Vestapalk’s horde had grown by about a dozen since then. Humans, goblins, a dwarf. Once Raid—or, he discovered, one of his own three brutes—had wounded them, they were all the same. Brutes for Raid’s new master. Vessels for the Voidharrow. There was a pressure inside Raid that urged him to make even more. For every being he infected, he want to dig his claws into three more to make Vestapalk’s army grow even faster. The pressure urged him to go to Winterhaven or even to Fallcrest. He would sweep through the town, a plague with a mission. The anticipation made his heart race.

Raid resisted the urge. Yes, his new form was powerful, and yes, he had three of Vestapalk’s soldiers and his pack to back him up, but was that enough? Could he take on all of Fallcrest’s defenders? The progression of the disease when he wounded another victim was slowing. The onset of the crystal-bearing blisters that seemed to mark the turning point of the infection came slower and slower. Vestapalk’s horde was still growing, but not so quickly now.

Better to be patient. Build the army, then lead it against Fallcrest and spread the Voidharrow to anyone left alive to build the army even further. For now, he stalked the wilderness, taking whatever—whomever—he found, with the pack roaming ahead to locate suitable prey.

And from the sound of their howls, that was exactly what they had done. Raid sniffed the air and caught the fetid smell of a marsh. He picked up his pace, silent as a wolf in the dusk. The soldiers followed him, not quite so quiet but with more stealth than their bulky forms might suggest. Just as the ground started to sink toward a reed-filled lowland, the pack came slinking out of the underbrush to join them. The hound that had once been loyal to those first transformed hunters crept up to Raid and nuzzled his shins. Its eyes were red-rimmed and foam flecked its jaws—Raid had a feeling that it might be dying under the influence of his dominating power, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. The beast was a tool, his to use and command.

“Show me,” he told it.

The hound whined and turned back toward the marsh. The other dogs went with it. Raid gestured for Vestapalk’s soldiers to hold their positions, then followed, crouching low for cover among the reeds.

Along the dry edge of the marsh, a party of powerfully built lizardfolk were occupied setting up a camp. A dozen of the reptilian creatures milled around, some building fires, some skinning and butchering a couple of big marsh deer that hung from tall trees. A hunting party, then. Raid’s eyes narrowed as he watched them go about their tasks.

A dozen lizardfolk … Vestapalk would reward him. Of course, in a group so large, there would be fighting. Two or three lizardfolk might die before being subdued. Raid smiled to himself. He certainly hoped so.

But there was more. A few of the lizardfolk in particular caught his eye. A tall hunter with a bright red and yellow crest strode among the others, hissing and barking in what Raid thought might be laughter—the other lizardfolk deferred to him. On the other side of the camp, a smaller specimen armed with a blowgun demonstrated his mastery of the weapon in a contest with another, spitting darts at tiny spots of moss on the trunk of a tree. Helping with the butchering, one of the biggest lizardfolk Raid had ever seen—easily as tall as his own transformed height, but half again as broad through the shoulders and with black scales in contrast to the dull green of the others—hacked through thick bones as easily as if they were dry tinder wood.

“One more task, Raid,” Vestapalk had called to him as he was leaving the Temple of Yellow Skulls. “This one needs more than just brutes. Watch for the exceptional individuals among your prey and do not transform them. Capture them. Bring them back to Vestapalk. A horde needs commanders. You are only the first of Vestapalk’s exarchs.”

The tall hunter, Raid decided, and the massive blackscale would go back to Vestapalk. They would make powerful exarchs for the dragon. The darter and as many of the lizardfolk as survived would fill the ranks of the horde. Raid gestured for the pack to stay—they sank to their bellies in the moist dirt—then went back to retrieve the other brutes. His chest was already tight with the thought of the fight to come and the praise Vestapalk would heap on him.

The tree shuddered with every blow that the blackscale lizardman dealt the hanging carcass. High up in the leafy branches, Uldane hugged the trunk and tried not to fall from his perch. Or vomit from the smell of offal. The stink made his already throbbing head spin—and that made him hug the tree even tighter.

The next person who told him that halflings were a lucky folk was going to get a hard kick in the ankles. If he survived to meet them.

The wounds that Raid, then Tiktag, had inflicted on him were worse than Uldane had expected. He’d escaped the ruins of the Temple of Yellow Skulls with Vestapalk’s roars ringing in his ears. As he’d pushed his way into the woods he’d chosen as his cover, the roars had been replaced with horrible screams. Raid’s, Uldane thought—or at least hoped. The anger in his heart burned nearly as harshly as Tiktag’s poison magic burned in his wounds. He hadn’t paused but had just kept running until his legs faltered beneath him.

That was when he first noticed how the trees seemed to be spinning around him and just how strangely warm it had become. Uldane had stopped by a stream and tried washing his wounds, but it hadn’t done much good. Now he really did regret leaving the potions from Tragent’s pack behind.

He’d staggered on in what he thought was the direction of Fallcrest, only to find himself crossing and recrossing the same stream. Finally he’d given in to whatever message the gods seemed to be sending him and started following the flow of water downstream. If he kept wandering, he reasoned, he might just stumble back to the temple—and that was the last place he wanted to be. All of the streams in the Vale joined up with the Nentir River eventually, though. All he had to do was follow the water and find the river, then make his way up to Fallcrest. And he’d have plenty to drink on the way, which was good considering how thirsty he felt.

In hindsight, maybe he should have tried striking out to the northeast and finding the King’s Road. He could have followed it to Fallcrest and there would have been travelers to help him. Uldane didn’t mind being on his own, but he was fairly certain that he slipped into unconsciousness a couple of times. Once he sat down in daylight and woke to the stars and moon. Another time, he fell and when he sat up, his face and arms were hot with sunburn as well as fever. Companions would at least have moved him into the shade.

He was never traveling without Shara at his side again. Or Albanon. Or even Splendid.

When the stream finally vanished not into the rush of the Nentir River but the still waters of the Witchlight Fens, he’d thought his luck could sink no further. He’d been wrong—he’d barely managed to swarm up the tree he was resting under when the first of the lizardfolk appeared out of the swamp.

The blackscale lizardman hacked another leg off the deer. The tree shivered. Uldane pressed himself to the rough bark and clenched his teeth against a moan. Night was coming. Maybe he could slip down under cover of darkness and get away. There was one advantage to being up in the tree: He had a good view not just of the camp but the meandering edge of the fens to the north and south as well. Not too far away to the south, on the other side of the lizardfolk’s camp, the broken remains of an old imperial watchtower shone under the setting sun.

Uldane knew those ruins. He’d used them as a landmark before. He turned his head—cautiously for fear of setting the world spinning with quick movements—and squinted to the north.

A faint trail weaved in and out of the reeds. A trail that, in a little more than a day’s journey on foot, would lead him directly to the King’s Road. Uldane’s heart jumped in his chest. Maybe halflings were lucky after all!

The sudden baying of wild dogs brought his head back around to the camp and his stomach up into his throat. He swallowed, trying to keep himself from vomiting. Down below, the lizardfolk were all looking around as well. The dogs had howled earlier, but they’d been farther away and hadn’t gathered much attention. Now they were much closer. Very close, Uldane thought.

He saw them before the lizardfolk did, three lean shapes that came tearing out of the tall reeds. Red eyes and foaming jaws flashed in the twilight as the dogs rushed for the heaps of butchered meat beneath Uldane’s tree. The lizardfolk screeched in unison and surged in to stop the frenzied animals. The yelping dogs scrambled around them, claws digging up sprays of dirt. A lizardman who had been playing with a blowgun calmly slipped a dart into his weapon, lifted the tube his mouth, tracked the lead dog for a moment, then blew hard. The dog yelped and snapped at its hindquarters. Moments later, its quick movements had turned sluggish. The darter laughed and called something to the other lizardfolk. Two of them closed in on the poisoned animal as the other dogs continued to race around the camp.

None of them saw what Uldane saw: another shape slipping away from the spot where the dogs had appeared and circling around to the other side of the camp. The halfling blinked. His wounds and fever were finally getting to him, he thought. The shape looked like nothing he’d ever seen before, all long arms and legs with knobby, gnarled joints, and a head stretched out on one side. And yet there was something strangely familiar about the way it moved. A bad feeling rolled up Uldane’s spine.

The attack came from the west, out of the last blaze of the sun as it slipped below the horizon. Massive hunched silhouettes that seemed to wear red fire like a mantle rose from hiding and descended on the camp with a thundering roar. With all their attention on the frenzied dogs, the first lizardfolk to fall didn’t stand a chance. The shadowy figures were on them in an instant, laying into them with not two, but four muscular arms. Three lizardfolk hunters went down quickly, felled by heavy fists, but a fourth put up a struggle. His spear wove back and forth as he sought an opening—the red fire, Uldane realized, was the sun shining through a heavy shell of crystal.

The creature made two grabs for the lizardman. A third closed on the shaft of his spear and jerked it close. Monstrous strength pulled the lizardman off his feet. The creature’s other three arms seized him. The thing threw back its head as far as it was able and bellowed as it tore the struggling lizardman apart.

Uldane couldn’t hold back his nausea any longer. He retched and the thin bile of an empty stomach spattered the tree trunk. There was no one to notice, though, as the lizardfolk reacted to the sudden attack. One of the hunters, a big lizardman with a red and yellow crest, screeched and roared at the others, organizing them. The lizardfolk scattered before their hulking attackers. Darters pulled back, loading their weapons. The two dogs had changed tactics, too, however, and lunged at any lizardman they could. One got its teeth into a scaly arm and dragged the lizardman to the ground. Steel and teeth flashed as hunter and dog wrestled together.

The tall long-limbed shape Uldane had glimpsed in the shadows entered the camp in the wake of the big monsters. At first Uldane barely registered its presence. Though it moved with a frightening grace, it didn’t leap into the fighting. Instead, it paused beside the lizardfolk that had been knocked out and raked claws across their chests. It moved quickly—it had reached the third lizardman by the time the first started screaming. Once again, the focus of the fight shifted as the lizardfolk turned to the tall creature. It hissed and rose slowly. Firelight flashed on its face for the first time.

On too many white teeth and too many red eyes. On flesh and bone stretched out of proportion to one side of its head—and, to the other, on a scarred face that Uldane knew.

“Raid?” he breathed.

The big crested lizardman bellowed a battle cry and threw himself at this new threat. Uldane watched Raid—the monster that had been Raid—smile and duck aside, his knobby limbs making him look like a bizarre spider as he drew his familiar axes.

There was no question that the crested lizardman was overmatched. His barbed spear darted and thrust, but its reach gave him no advantage against Raid’s long arms. He slid back from Raid’s whirling blades and tried to strike under the axes, but Raid was faster. The spear plunged in. Raid twisted. An axe chopped down—and the head of the spear went spinning away. The lizardman’s eyes narrowed. He leaped away toward the water of the swamp, and Raid stalked after him, axes held wide. Raid smiled and Uldane heard the words he rasped even over the howls and roars of the rest of the battle.

“The Voidharrow will take you. You will serve!”

As if in reply, the crested lizardman blew a sharp, sliding whistle between bared teeth.

The swamp water seemed to boil as something big surged out of it. Low to the ground but moving fast, a massive crocodile charged at Raid with jaws snapping. Raid jumped away, his smile faltering. The lizardman moved to the crocodile’s side, a look of triumph on his face.

Then, inexplicably, Raid’s smile returned. He hunched slightly, spread his arms wide, and hissed. The crocodile thrashed suddenly, shaking its big head from side to side. Its eyes blinked shut for a moment.

When they opened again, they shone red like Raid’s. The lizardman stepped away in surprise, but not quickly enough. The crocodile turned and lunged.

Its jaws closed on the lizardman’s leg and powerful muscles wrenched it out from under him. The crested lizardman’s screams merged with the crocodile’s snarling as it whipped him back and forth until screams gave way to a horrible wet pop and the tearing of flesh. Uldane couldn’t watch anymore. He turned his head, looking away to the north and the distant haven of Fallcrest.

The final rays of the sun flashed on the three mounted figures galloping along the swamp edge trail toward the battle. Uldane’s heart leaped. Even in the gathering gloom of twilight, he knew Shara. And that was Albanon beside her, silver hair and blue robes streaming. He didn’t recognize the third rider, an old man in bright chainmail, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t even matter how they’d managed to get here. They were probably only reacting to the sounds of battle, thinking they were interrupting a bandit attack. Either way, he was saved!

In the same instant the thought flashed into his mind, though, his leaping heart froze. Was he saved? Fighting the dizziness that swept over him, he looked back at the scene in the camp.

The big crested lizardman clawed weakly at churned mud, trying to drag himself away from the crocodile as it chomped on the mangled remains of his leg. Blood poured out of his wounds and Uldane knew he wouldn’t make his escape. Most of the other lizardfolk were down, either dead or unconscious. Only three still stood, struggling in the grasp of the four-armed monsters, the big blackscale lizardman among them. Their captors bled from numerous wounds and had darts sticking out of their thick hide like spines, but hardly seemed affected. The last of the dogs still howled and thrashed as it died. The three lizardfolk Raid had gone out of his way to injure still screeched as well, as if in the grip of a terrible fever. In fact, Uldane could have sworn he saw their skin shifting and bubbling.

And Raid, completely untouched, his axes not even bloodied, looked over the scene with satisfaction.

The elation of rescue slipped away from Uldane. Raid and his monsters had devastated a full dozen strong lizardfolk without difficulty. Shara and the others had no idea the danger they were riding into—and in only moments, the lingering screams of Raid’s victims would no longer be enough to cover the sound of their horses’ hoof beats.

Bracing himself against the trunk of the tree, Uldane sat up. He drew a breath deep enough to send agony through his chest, squeezed his eyes shut, and cupped hands over his mouth. As loud as he could, he let out the piercing wail of a night heron, the call Shara’s father had always used to signal danger.

He cracked his eyes open to see his friends reining in their horses. Shara wheeled hers in confusion—before looking straight at his tree and punching her heels into the animal’s side, urging it back to a gallop.

“No,” Uldane whispered to himself. “No!” He cupped his hands again and made the call again—a call that died in his throat at a sudden snarl from below. “You!”

Uldane looked down into Raid’s horrific, misshapen face.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Albanon had been the first to hear the sounds of the fight ahead down the trail, but Shara was the first to rein in her horse at the sound of the bird call. “That’s Uldane!”

Disbelief was a like a slap in the face. “You must be joking,” Albanon said as he fought his horse to a prancing halt beside hers. From the moment they’d decided to go looking for Uldane, Shara had been pacing like a caged animal, consumed with worry for the halfling. She’d had them up before dawn to meet the Nentir ferryman on his earliest crossing of the day, ready to strike out for the nearest likely ruin to Fallcrest: a crumbling guard tower along the edge of the Witchlight Fens. He honestly hadn’t held out hope that they’d find Uldane in the first place they looked—although he supposed it wasn’t hard to believe that they’d find him in the middle of trouble. “We must be lucky!”

“No.” Shara turned her horse as she scanned the trees and reeds of the Witchlight Fens. “That’s our signal for danger. If he’s trying to warn us, he must be somewhere he can see us.…” Her eyes fixed on the top of a tree that rose above the other undergrowth a short distance away. “There.”

Albanon’s ears prickled. “Shara, if he’s trying to warn us—”

His words came too late. The warrior kicked her horse and the beast took off along the trail toward the tree. “—maybe we need to be careful,” Albanon finished to empty air. A curse rolled off his tongue and he turned to Kri.

The old man’s hand gripped the holy symbol of Ioun around his neck. His face was drawn and hard.

The prickling in Albanon’s ears seemed to grow even stronger. “Kri?”

“Go after her,” the cleric said through tight lips. “The Voidharrow is here!”

Albanon’s stomach dropped. The Voidharrow? Here?

Vestapalk.

So much for their plan of questioning Raid about his connection to the Voidharrow. If the dragon was already here, Uldane might not be the only one in need of rescue. Albanon kicked his heels hard into his mount’s side. The horse leaped into a gallop, racing along the trail. Albanon leaned low over his horse’s neck and willed Shara to look over her shoulder and see him, as if that would do any good. She’d just think he was following her charge. “Shara!” he hissed as loudly as he dared. “Shara!”

But she wasn’t going to hear him over the sound of her horse’s hooves, he knew, and raising his voice would just give them away—if the sound of their gallop hadn’t already. He dredged his mind for spells that might stop the warrior before she did something stupid. Short of blasting her horse out from under her with an arcane bolt, there was nothing.

Fear gave birth to nightmare scenarios in Albanon’s mind of Vestapalk rising up just as they reached the tree. The sounds of fighting had faded. Now there were only screams of pain and terror. Whatever battle had taken place was over. Just ahead of him, Shara drew her greatsword from across her shoulders and charged through the bushes with a scream of her own.

A scream that rose suddenly into an oath of dismay. Albanon’s heart skipped a beat.

The bushes loomed before him. Albanon clenched his teeth, fixed a spell of icy destruction in his mind, and spurred his horse through.

There was no dragon on the other side. He almost wished there had been.

For a moment, it felt as if his mind refused to believe what his eyes were seeing. The devastated camp. The blood and scraps of flesh all around, some from a butchered deer but more from brutally mauled lizardfolk, including one in the jaws of a massive crocodile. The few still living lizardfolk held captive by creatures with a hunched stance and extra arms—just like the kobolds in Andok Sur, but bigger and with plates of red crystal like armor grown across their shoulders. Albanon felt a sickness in his gut. The Voidharrow had infected them. Whatever they had been before, they were demons now.

Three lizardfolk writhed on the ground. He could already see the sparkling silver-red of the Voidharrow in their wounds.

And right before him, confronting Shara and looking almost as startled as she did, another even taller creature. Thick, gnarled hands held twin axes above a head that on one side was stretched into a weird countenance and on the other was burned and scarred but distinctly human and shockingly familiar.

Raid’s eyes fixed on Albanon and he smiled, his mouth stretching far wider than it should have. “And the eladrin,” he rasped. “Now everybody’s here. I knew you’d join me eventually.” He twisted his wrists, spinning the axes.

“Don’t try to fight him!” Uldane’s voice, terrifyingly weak, came down from above. Instinctively, Albanon glanced up into the tree and found the halfling clinging to the trunk high up among the branches. “Get out of here!”

Raid’s smile turned into a snarl and he whirled, kicking the tree hard enough to shake it. “Close your mouth and die, you—”

The instant he turned, Shara spurred her horse forward and slashed out with her greatsword. Caught by surprise and off-balance, Raid flung himself back. “Albanon, get Uldane!” Shara ordered over her shoulder.

She didn’t have a chance to say anything more. Faster than should have been possible, Raid sprang back at her, axes swinging in blurring arcs. Shara sent her horse dancing aside, then struck again to force Raid away from the tree.

Clenching his teeth, Albanon rode in as close to the fight as he could, but his horse wasn’t trained for battle the way hers was. The beast was skittish, its eyes rolling at the blood and sudden movements. He had to fight to keep it steady. Out in the camp, the armored creatures were looking between themselves as if unsure whether to abandon their captives and join Raid.

Albanon twisted and looked up. “Uldane, can you get down?”

The halfling nodded. His limbs trembled as he shifted from the branch he stood on and wrapped his arms around the trunk.

Raid let loose a howl and ducked past Shara’s horse. Albanon yelped and dragged on his reins, but he wasn’t Raid’s target. On the far side of the tree hung the partially slaughtered carcass of a deer. Raid slammed into it and kicked off like a street fighter, using the impact to bound away from Shara’s sword and out into the open. The carcass swung the other way—toward Albanon.

It was too much for the wizard’s already frightened mount. The horse whinnied and shied away, thumping hard into the tree. Agony blazed through Albanon’s leg as the beast bashed it into the hard wood.

Between the swinging carcass and the impact of the horse, the tree shuddered violently. High above, Uldane gave a feeble gasp. Albanon looked up to see the halfling lose his grasp and topple backward.

Sometimes during his training, Moorin had tried to distract him as he cast his spells. A loud noise, a sudden shaking, once a bucket of water dumped over his head. “You have to learn to hold your focus,” his master had told him. “It could save your life some day.”

His life or someone else’s. Albanon’s leg throbbed from knee to hip. His horse still fought him. Shara and Raid bellowed at each other and exchanged ringing blows. Thanks to Moorin’s lesson, though, the words of a spell rolled smoothly off his tongue. Uldane’s plunge turned into a gentle drift. Albanon wrenched his horse’s head around, bringing it back under control, then reached up and pulled in Uldane as if he were a floating feather.

The halfling’s skin was burning hot. Mud and dried blood caked his torn leathers. The stink of an infected wound rose from him. Fear gripped Albanon and he quickly scanned Uldane for signs of the Voidharrow—crystalline blisters, sparkling wounds, anything. It was almost a relief to see only angry, pus-wet wounds. Albanon swallowed and settled the halfling against his own body as best he could. Uldane’s eyes flickered, then opened wide, Albanon had to grab him. “Uldane!” he said “Easy. It’s—”

“Your horse!” Uldane grabbed for the front of Albanon’s robes with one fist as if he could drag the wizard closer than he already was. “Get your horse away from Raid.”

“What?” Albanon’s first reaction was confusion, but his ears were prickling again. Uldane knew things they didn’t. He gathered his reins and turned his horse, twisting around in the saddle to call back to Shara. “I have Uldane. Let’s—”

The words stuck in his throat. Between watching Uldane and struggling with his horse, he hadn’t paid close attention to Shara’s fight against Raid. He wished that he had. The warrior was still beating her sword against Raid’s axes, but the first blow that had sent Raid stumbling back had just been luck. Raid caught each of her swings and turned them away, defending himself with ease. He almost had a smile on his face, while Shara wore concentration like a mask. Albanon watched as she tried to guide her horse back with pressure from her knees. The horse responded, dancing back from the demon, but Raid stayed with her.

The moment she tried to turn and run, he would cut her down. He was toying with her.

Anger flared in Albanon. Maybe he could give Shara the opening she needed to break away—and give Raid some payback at the same time. He flung out his hand, speaking the words of a spell.

Raid saw him. His red eyes narrowed.

Albanon’s horse shuddered under him, then suddenly reared up and lashed at the air with its hooves. The bright bolt of Albanon’s spell flashed into the darkening sky like a silvery star. His heart racing, the eladrin cursed and hauled at the reins with both hands as he struggled to keep his seat in the saddle.

The horse slammed back down on to all four with enough force to rattle his teeth. That wasn’t the end of it, though. The beast kicked up with its back legs, bucking as if it had never been broken. Uldane, clinging to Albanon’s robes, almost flew free. Shara was struggling with her horse, too. Her face was white as she hung on with one hand, sword gripped tight in the other and waving wildly. Raid threw back his head and Albanon would almost have said that he laughed except that is sounded more like a roar of triumph.

It was cut short by a shout from behind Albanon. “By the Book of Insight, let the light of the gods rise against this abomination!”

As his horse thrashed back, Albanon caught a glimpse of Kri. The old cleric held his holy symbol in one hand and a harsh, unforgiving light played across his face. Even the cleric’s horse seemed to stand tall, tossing its mane and stomping one of its hoofs.

Where that hoof struck the ground, brilliant light glimmered—glimmered and spread, racing through the dirt and branching out like earthbound lightning that refused to fade. The web of light surrounded Albanon, and the wizard felt a sense of protection wrap around him. An instant later it flashed around Shara. And Raid.

The demon shouted and jumped away as if he’d been plunged into boiling water.

Almost instantly, Albanon’s horse calmed under him. It still fought the reins, its eyes rolling madly, but it was no longer actively trying to throw him off. Shara’s horse calmed as well and she wheeled it around to face Raid. He came to his feet, axes up and ready to meet her.

“Shara, no,” Kri said sharply. Raid hissed and jumped again, forced back as the blazing web of light slid ahead of Shara. Albanon looked over his shoulder to see Kri pressing his holy symbol gently forward, moving the web. The cleric’s wrinkled face was creased in concentration. “Come back to me, both of you,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

Albanon needed no further encouragement. Out in the camp, the four-armed monstrosities seemed to have figured out that they were needed and started forward, dragging their captives after them. The big crocodile snarled and moved in, too. There was a redness in its eyes that reminded Albanon uncomfortably of Raid—and if the demon had driven their horses wild, what could he do to the crocodile? The eladrin forced his horse to turn and canter back to Kri.

In his arms, Uldane stirred. “Shara, listen to him!”

Albanon heard her curse, then other hoofbeats joined his. Behind him, Raid hissed—a horrible, inhuman noise—then hissed again. Albanon glanced back and saw that he was trying to pace around the glowing web. Guided by Kri, the light just followed him. Raid stopped and glared at them. “Go,” he snarled. “Run. You can’t hold this spell forever. I’ll get around it. I will hunt you down.”

Kri’s face tightened. He jerked his head as Albanon and Shara passed him on either side, urging them both to the broken bushes and the trail beyond. Albanon rode for the gap, his horse becoming easier to handle the further he got from Raid, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the demon. He twisted in his saddle to watch him. Raid and Kri glared at each other, the cleric still as a holy icon, the monster twitching and flinching. His misshapen face changed slowly from snarl to grin. His gnarled hands shifted on the handles of his axes. He sank back in a crouch, ready to spring.

The web of light flickered and vanished. Raid leaped.

And Kri thrust his holy symbol high, a prayer rolling from his lips. “All-Knowing Mistress, bar his way!”

Light flared again, condensing out of the air in a storm of whirling, shining shards. Caught in the middle of them, Raid screamed in rage and pain. He stumbled back with blood running from a hundred cuts as the shards of light spread out into a long wall. Kri’s face tightened again and Albanon heard him whisper, “Aid me now, Mistress.”

The holy symbol seemed to shimmer in answer to his plea. The wall reacted, the shards of light whirling faster and shining bright as the flame of a lamp freshly filled with oil. Kri turned his horse instantly. “Ride!” he shouted. “Ride and don’t stop!”

A chill rose through Albanon. He twisted around in his saddle and kicked his horse into a gallop. Shara led the way through the bushes, but Albanon was close behind her and Kri close behind him. The trail spread out before them, dark with the night’s gathering shadows, but none of them slowed down. Albanon tightened his arms around Uldane, bent low, and rode as fast as he ever had.

Raid’s voice rose behind them, cracking and breaking with frenzied rage. “You can’t escape me. I’ll come for you—by the Voidharrow, I will come for you! I will not be denied!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When the first of the hulking, four-armed monsters had appeared at the Temple of Yellow Skulls, Tiktag had panicked and taken cover behind Vestapalk’s sleeping form, screeching for his master’s protection. The dragon, curled around the sack of golden skulls, had roused himself and inspected the creatures that stood before him, then given a satisfied nod.

“They will be worthy servants,” he’d said in his strange double voice—then lowered his head and closed his eyes.

Tiktag had been left stunned. “M-master?”

An eye had opened again to fix on the monsters. “Do not harm Vestapalk’s wyrmpriest,” he added before falling back to sleep.

That command seemed to be somehow relayed to each new brute that arrived at the temple, though Tiktag never heard the armored creatures utter anything other than inarticulate hisses, grunts, and roars. They ignored Tiktag while Vestapalk slept, recovering his strength after Raid’s transformation and twitching as if suffering strange and violent dreams. The kobold was certain he could have run up to one and unleashed his poisonous magic on it without consequence.

At least he might have been able to at first. When he’d crept out from behind Vestapalk, he found the first few brutes in his master’s army as unresponsive as golems. Over time, though, a strange thing happened: The creatures seemed to come to life. The longer they were around the temple, the more aggressive they became with each other. A feral alertness appeared in their eyes. They fought, sometimes just snapping, sometimes with heavy fists and tearing claws. They bullied each other and especially the slow-witted new brutes that appeared out of the wilderness, sometimes only half-transformed and still suffering from the illness of the Voidharrow. After half a day or so, though, the new brutes would acquire the same savage gleam in their eye and start pushing back.

Tiktag started to catch them looking at him as he might look at a skinny, slow-moving rat: good for nothing but torment. If not for Vestapalk’s command, he knew, he would be that rat.

What had happened to the days when he had stood beside his master and read auguries for him? What had happened to Tiktag, wyrmpriest to the mighty Vestapalk? What had happened to Vestapalk?

“Wrong,” Tiktag muttered to himself. “Wrong, wrong, very wrong.”

He crouched in a niche far back in the ruins, almost at the dark archway that led to the underground passages. Four days after Raid’s transformation and departure, more than a dozen hulking soldiers roamed the Temple of Yellow Skulls. The niche was Tiktag’s refuge, his hidey-hole. The four-armed monsters seldom came so far back in the ruins. They seemed to prefer haunting the edges of the ancient temple or lingering close to Vestapalk—the most aggressive ones, especially. Tiktag couldn’t help wondering if they stayed close to the dragon because they were aggressive or if they were aggressive because they stayed close to the dragon. Even asleep, Vestapalk’s very presence seemed to have an influence over the creatures. The weird crystal plates across their shoulders seemed brighter when they were around him, and the more of them that were around Vestapalk, the more brightly the red crystal liquid that oozed between his scales glimmered.

If this was the transformation that the Eye had promised Vestapalk, Tiktag wasn’t sure he liked it. He scratched his claws along his tail nervously. “Oh, master,” he murmured. “What have we done to you?”

Then he saw the drow.

If he hadn’t been looking right at the archway to the lower ruins, he might not have seen the dark elf. She stood in the gloom just within the arch, hardly moving, her white eyes scanning the outer ruins. Tiktag froze. He’d never seen a drow before, but clutch-guardians told stories of them. Killers. Slavers. Torturers. Tiktag might have been worried about what was happening to Vestapalk, but he had no desire to be either tortured, enslaved, or killed. He just prayed—silently—that his niche was deep enough to hide him from the drow’s eyes.

Apparently it was. After long moments of inspecting her surroundings, the drow slipped out of the archway. She moved like a shadow. Tiktag watched her glide silently from cover to cover until she disappeared in the direction of the courtyard where Vestapalk slept. Indecision ripped at Tiktag. What if she was an assassin? What if she meant to kill Vestapalk in his sleep? Should he try to warn his master?

In the stories, drow were never alone. The kobold’s gaze went back to the dark archway. Were those figures in the shadows beyond it?

Vestapalk had the brutes to defend him, he decided. His master was protected. Tiktag could serve him best by staying right where he was and watching for signs of more drow venturing through the arch. The first drow might have been only an advance scout, the herald of an attack from the depths.

But nothing else moved, and in only a short time the lone drow returned, hastening through the ruins as if eager to get back to her own hidey-hole. Her black skin had paled to more of an ash-gray and her mouth was set in a hard line. Tiktag counted forty heartbeats after she disappeared into the archway, then he crept out of his niche. There was no further movement from within the arch.

He ran hard for the courtyard. There were no signs of combat or trouble. No brute monsters lay dead or wounded. Vestapalk was still curled up asleep. Tiktag darted around two of the most glowering solders and slid to a stop beside the dragon. He had to fight to keep his voice from breaking. “Master! Master, wake up. There are drow in the temple.”

Vestapalk raised his head and opened his eyes. Tiktag flinched back.

Where the dragon’s eyes had been rimmed with red before, now they were entirely crimson. The same liquid crystal that shimmered between Vestapalk’s scales filled his eye sockets. Tiktag was certain that he saw it shift and resettle itself when Vestapalk blinked, as if the eye was nothing more than a thin, transparent film over an entirely fluid interior. Tiktag’s legs trembled under him, then gave out altogether. He collapsed before his master. Vestapalk tilted his head to look at him sideways.

“Wyrmpriest, you disturb Vestapalk’s rest.” His voice had changed, too. The weird ringing quality that had entered it with his transformation seemed even stronger. “What is it?”

Tiktag managed to find his voice. “Drow, master,” he said, and choked out a description of what he had seen. The four-armed brutes gathered around as he spoke, but Tiktag wasn’t certain whether it was because of what he said or because Vestapalk was listening to him. They all stared at him, monsters and dragon, so many burning red eyes in so many large creatures.

He’d never felt so small in all his life.

When he finished telling his tale, Vestapalk blinked slowly. “Some city or colony must lie below us. They want to know who has arrived on their doorstep. They’re curious. And afraid.”

The dragon rose to his feet. He had grown bigger while he slept, Tiktag was sure of it. Bigger—and somehow even more lean. The blisters that had swollen his limbs had burst, leaving behind menacing spurs of red crystal. He padded around the courtyard, Voidharrow oozing and dripping from his jaw. The brutes moved for the first time, stepping aside to let him pass. A couple shifted closer to Tiktag. Their looming presence was enough to force Tiktag off the ground. He trotted after Vestapalk, sticking close and trying to avoid the Voidharrow that spattered his trail.

“What are you going to do about the drow, master?” he asked.

“Do about them?” Vestapalk turned and paced back down the length of the courtyard. Tiktag had to run to keep up with him. “There is nothing that needs to be done. Let the drow lurk in the shadows. Let them fear Vestapalk. They should. There is nothing they can do to stop the age that comes.”

A tremor ran down Tiktag’s back and into his tail. “Did the Eye tell you so, Master?”

Vestapalk stopped immediately and swung his head around to look down at Tiktag. “The Eye?” he said, then turned his red gaze to the sky. For a moment, the ringing in his voice seemed even stronger than it had been. “The Eye … has served. There is little left that it can tell Vestapalk. Now it does what an eye should.”

Tiktag felt his legs starting to give way beneath him again. He clung to his staff to hold himself up. “Which is?” he asked.

“An eye watches. It is witness.” Vestapalk sat down on his hindquarters, tailed twined around his shrunken belly, and looked at Tiktag again. “Wyrmpriest. Tiktag. You have served, too. You have been loyal. Vestapalk called you a talon and said that a talon cannot be blessed. But a talon can be sharpened. You will serve me into the new age. Raise your face to your master, wyrmpriest.”

The tremor in Tiktag’s tail wrapped around to his belly. His hands gripped his staff so tightly they hurt. Only a few days before, he would have done anything to be granted Vestapalk’s blessing. Then he had watched Raid’s transformation. He had seen the brutes Raid had infected at the dragon’s command. He didn’t want to be like them.

It was easy to keep his face turned to the ground. It was harder to find the words that would appease Vestapalk. “Master,” he said, “I am not worthy. Do not expend your strength on me. I am your servant—I seek nothing greater.”

“Tiktag.” Vestapalk’s voice was thick. The kobold could imagine the concentrated red liquid gathering on his master’s tongue. “Raise your head.”

The words carried the magic of command. Tiktag squeezed his hands around his staff and tried to resist. “You are too generous, master!” he yelped. “You’re still weak. I won’t let you do this.”

Around him, the four-armed brutes started to shuffle and growl, as if in reflection of Vestapalk’s displeasure at his reluctance. Tiktag squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the command that would finally force him to raise his head to Vestapalk’s blessing.

It didn’t come, and after a moment, Tiktag realized the growling of the brutes wasn’t directed at him. He cracked an eye open and looked around. The creatures were all turning to look toward the outer ruins. Vestapalk had raised his face as well, his attention drawn to something new. Tiktag swallowed. If something else had captured Vestapalk’s attention, perhaps this was his chance to escape. He slid cautiously to one side.

Vestapalk’s tail came curling around him. “Do not go, wyrmpriest,” Vestapalk said without looking at him. Tiktag froze as the watching ranks parted to permit the approach of more soldiers. Eight of them, several carrying two struggling lizardfolk, a slim green-scaled darter and a big blackscale. Striding at their head was Raid.

He stopped before the dragon, not sparing even a glance for Tiktag. “Vestapalk!” he called. “I bring more warriors for your horde, and here”—he swept a long arm in front of his terrified captives—“the first of those individuals worthy of commanding your horde.”

The dragon rose to his feet once more and moved forward without saying anything. The scales of his tail made a dry rasp as it unwound from around Tiktag. A little voice inside whispered urgently to the kobold, reminding him that while eyes were on Raid and the lizardfolk, they wouldn’t not be on him. This was his chance to run.

And when Vestapalk noticed he was missing? The brutes would probably be dispatched to hunt him down. Raid as well, and Tiktag knew the transformed human would use his claws on him. He would be infected with the Voidharrow as surely as through Vestapalk’s blessing.

He stayed where he was and tried to keep himself from trembling as he watched Vestapalk inspect Raid’s lizardfolk prisoners. Raid guided his attention mostly to the big blackscale, praising the strength and prowess he had displayed in battle. However large and strong the lizardman might be, though, it seemed to Tiktag that he looked ready to faint with fear. Vestapalk examined him closely, pushing Raid out of the way to stroke the blackscale with one long talon.

Then, quick as a whim, he hooked his claw into the lizardman’s belly and ripped.

The blackscale’s scream as his guts burst out through his scaly hide was terrible. It ended in a bubbling wheeze as Vestapalk’s claw snapped his ribs and ruptured his lungs. The dragon jerked back and flicked away the scraps of flesh that clung to his talon. A murmur of interest passed through his hulking minions. Those holding the dying lizardman glanced at each other. One showed its teeth and growled, yanking the corpse close like a dog ready to fight for a bone. Raid stared, then swung around, wide mouth open to protest.

Vestapalk snapped huge teeth in front his face before he could even speak. “Vestapalk told you to bring him exceptional individuals,” he snarled. “That one was big, but nothing more.” The dragon lowered his head to look into the eyes of the greenscale. Although clearly as frightened as the blackscale had been, the other lizardman stood his ground, facing Vestapalk as if ready to spit at him. “This one is exceptional. He could become one of Vestapalk’s exarchs.”

He straightened his neck and glanced at the soldiers holding the greenscale. “Hold him for now,” he said, then he looked at the other soldiers. “Collect posts and pillars. Find strong vines and bring them here. There will be others.”

The soldiers scattered, trundling off on muscular legs to carry out their master’s command. Vestapalk turned to Raid. “Vestapalk doesn’t care about ‘worthy.’ Worthy is for the gods. Vestapalk wants commanders who will serve him well and without fear. Go back out into the Vale. Bring me more like that one.”

Anger burned on the human side of Raid’s misshapen head. He glared at Vestapalk as if the dragon’s reprimand had shamed him. Vestapalk’s eyes narrowed slightly but he didn’t move.

Finally, Raid bowed his head. Briefly. “Yes, Master,” he said. His gaze stayed down for no longer than it took to utter the words before he looked up again, though. “There was something else. We were confronted.”

“Confronted? Someone dared attack you and you still only managed to bring Vestapalk a coward?” The dragon turned to stalk back to where Tiktag waited.

Raid’s face tightened. “The ones who attacked us fled from me. One of them was a priest. He used holy light against me.”

Vestapalk paused. “Holy light?”

There was curiosity in his voice. In any other creature, Tiktag might have even said there was concern. Raid didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve had prayers to the gods turned on me before,” he said. “When I was just Hakken … before you blessed me with the Voidharrow.” His face wrinkled. “This was different. It hurt more.”

“Then you deserved it. Learn from this lesson.” Vestapalk looked skyward and Tiktag felt a shiver at the blankness that drifted across his face. That the dragon listened to the Eye again, even if just for a moment, was a comforting familiarity. “There are those who know about the Voidharrow—or at least believe they do.” He looked back to Raid. “How did this priest find you?”

“I think it was a coincidence. He was traveling with people I knew, friends of one of those who helped me recover the skulls. Apparently that friend wasn’t as dead as I thought. Somehow he escaped the temple. He was hiding near the lizardfolk camp. The others must have thought they were rescuing him.”

The chill that had run along Tiktag’s spine and tail earlier returned. The halfling. Raid was talking about Uldane. So that’s why the halfling had been lurking around the temple ruins. And Tiktag had let him escape. More than ever, the wyrmpriest wanted to slink away in to the shadows, to find the deepest, darkest hiding spot he could and jam himself into it. Close your mouth, he thought at Raid. Don’t say anything more!

But Raid didn’t. His face twisted. “They laugh at me. They still doubt my strength. I will hunt them down and show them what I can do. They won’t laugh then. I don’t know the priest—he used his prayers to keep me back and I had prisoners to return to you or I would have gone after them—but I know the others.” He squeezed his fists until blood trickled between his fingers. “Albanon. Uldane. Shara … they will be mine.”

A long hiss broke from Vestapalk as he whirled around. Tiktag wanted to cower. Even Raid had the sense to flinch in alarm. “Shara?” the dragon spat. “Uldane? You’re sure these are the ones?”

The confidence with which Raid carried himself seemed to break at last. “Uldane was the one who escaped from the temple,” he said. “He’s the one who helped retrieve the golden skulls.”

Vestapalk’s hiss rose into a rumbling—rose and kept rising as his body convulsed with rage.

No, Tiktag realized, not rage. Vestapalk was laughing. The red stuff between his scales flared like embers. His strange liquid eyes glowed. His claws clenched and loosened, digging gouges into the ground of the courtyard. Raid looked to Tiktag in confusion but the kobold only felt the same thing himself.

Long devotion to the dragon won out over his fear at what Vestapalk had become. Tiktag moved closer and asked, “Master? Are you—?”

Vestapalk’s laughter ended in a long, hissing draw of breath. “If this is no doing of the Eye’s, then destiny itself favors Vestapalk,” he said. He glanced at Tiktag. “Wyrmpriest, go make sure Vestapalk’s brutes follow his instructions. Inspect any vines they bring back. Make sure they are strong.”

“Master?” asked Tiktag, his confusion only growing—but Vestapalk had already turned his attention to Raid.

“Shara is a human female and Uldane is a halfling male, yes?” the dragon asked his lieutenant. “And this Albanon—a dragonborn? A tiefling?”

“An eladrin,” said Raid.

Vestapalk nodded, his mouth pulling back to bare his teeth. “Yes. A wizard. Vestapalk remembers him.…”

Neither of them paid any further attention to Tiktag, as though he wasn’t there at all. If Tiktag had felt small under the combined gazes of Vestapalk and his creatures, he felt even smaller at being ignored. He moved away and fear crept back over him. Fear and the urge to blame Raid for stealing Vestapalk’s attention from him. But Raid was only part of the problem, wasn’t he? He was only a symptom of Vestapalk’s transformation. The signs that he and Vestapalk had read together in the guts of animals, and that the dragon had seen in his visions of the Eye, were wrong. The Eye had promised transformation, but whatever the Voidharrow was turning Vestapalk into, it wasn’t something that he was meant to be.

Tiktag clenched his teeth and looked back at the dragon. “I will find a way to save you, master,” he murmured under his breath. “Even if it is from yourself.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ioun, All-Knowing Mistress … Ioun, who writes the Book of Insight … Ioun, lady of Kerath-Ald where all knowledge lies.…” Kri swung a small censer in time with his invocation, spreading a haze of fragrant smoke that seemed to glow with its own gentle light. “Ioun, font of lore, your servant begs your aid: Lend your holy strength to Uldane Forden. Take his fever, make whole his body, and rouse his spirit.”

Stretched out on the bed before the old cleric, Uldane groaned and writhed suddenly. His arms thrashed and his legs kicked—coming perilously close to striking the censer. Biting back a curse, Albanon grabbed for the halfling’s ankles at the same time as Shara seized his hands. Kri gave them both a harsh glare, but didn’t for an instant hesitate in his chant. “Ioun, All-Knowing Mistress.…”

Uldane relaxed under Albanon’s grip, and for a moment the wizard felt the same sense of panic he had when they had fled through the night beside the Witchlight Fens. Between one heartbeat and the next, Uldane had gone limp in his arms. Albanon had felt certain his friend had died and yet they didn’t dare to stop for fear of Raid’s pursuit; they’d ridden for miles more before they could even slow to check on him.

But that had been on the back of a galloping horse. If Uldane hadn’t died then, he wasn’t going to die in his own bed in the Shining Tower.

At least, Albanon hoped he wouldn’t.

Albanon looked up at Shara, only to find her already looking at him. She nodded and he knew she was thinking the same thing as him. Between them, Shara and Kri knew a fair bit about healing. Once back in Fallcrest, they’d ransacked the tower’s supply of healing herbs. The cleric’s prayers were useful for healing the wounds of battle, but against exposure and infection, they were less effective. “Let the body do its work,” he had counseled. “That’s the best healing.”

After a day of watching Uldane burn with fever, his wounds festering and his body growing weaker as they sat by his bed, even Kri had relented. “There’s a ritual I know,” he’d said. “A direct invocation. There’s no guarantee it will succeed—”

“We’ll take that chance,” Shara had said.

Had they waited too long?

Uldane groaned again. This time Albanon was ready. He held on to Uldane’s legs. The halfling had surprising strength for someone so small and so sick. Even Shara struggled to hold his arms. Kri’s chant rose in volume, filling the dim, smoky room. “Ioun, font of lore, lend your holy strength to Uldane Forden! Take his fever! Make whole his body! Rouse his—”

“Aahhhh!” The shriek that burst out of Uldane seemed to lift him entirely off the bed. Every muscle in his body contracted at once, bending him into an agonizing arc. He remained stiff for three long heartbeats, his eyes wide and rolled so far back in his head they showed only white, then the seizure ended as abruptly as it had come over him. He collapsed back to the bed, trembling and shaking.

Kri lowered the censer and nodded. Albanon released Uldane’s legs—cautiously. Shara let go of his arms. Kri’s hand went to his holy symbol in silent tribute to his god, then he reached out to lay it against Uldane’s forehead.

The halfling jerked bolt upright at his touch. “Vestapalk!” he yelped. “Vestapalk is alive!”

“Hush!” Shara dropped down onto the bed and gathered him into her arms. “Hush, Uldane. We know.”

Uldane relaxed into her embrace like a child waking from a nightmare. Tears squeezed out of his eyes. They shone in Shara’s eyes, too, as she looked at Kri. “Thank you,” she said.

Kri’s mouth just tightened into a thin line. “I’ll have my thanks when he can tell us what he saw.”

Uldane was out of his bed before nightfall. By the time the moon had risen, it was all but impossible to tell he’d been wounded. A slight gauntness was the only sign that he’d even been sick, and Uldane set about remedying that with gusto. He cleaned out the tower’s pantry and sent Albanon jogging down to the Blue Moon in search of more food.

“I feel like I haven’t eaten in days!” Uldane said as he tore into one of the roasted chickens the eladrin brought back.

“You probably haven’t,” said Shara, sitting beside him at the table in the tower’s kitchen. “The fever will have taken a lot out of you, too.”

Splendid snorted. “You’re forgetting that he always eats like this.” The pseudodragon hopped across the table to glower at Albanon. “And you, going off without me. Look at what happens!”

The refrain was familiar. Splendid had muttered some variation of it since they’d arrived back at the Shining Tower bearing Uldane, except that respect—surprisingly—for Albanon’s worry over his friend had kept her voice quiet. Now that the halfling was healed, it seemed everything was back to normal. “You said you didn’t want to come,” Albanon said yet again. “And we needed someone here in case Uldane came back on his own.”

“You’re right. Someone needs to look after you. If I’d been there, your leg wouldn’t be mashed to a pulp.”

Uldane actually stopped eating and looked up at that. “You got hurt rescuing me?”

“Just a bruise,” said Albanon. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Splendid’s voice rose into a squeal and she turned to Uldane. “Under his robe, his right leg is black and purple from his hip down.”

Heat rushed to Albanon’s face. Before Uldane could say anything, he added, “From when my horse bashed me against the tree you were hiding in.”

The halfling broke into a grin—a grin that faded quickly as his gaze shifted past Albanon. Shara’s expression sobered as well. The wizard twisted around.

Kri stood in the doorway behind him. “I have been patient,” he said.

“Now? But we were just having fun,” said Uldane. Albanon could hear the attempt at levity in his voice, but there was something else under it: fear. He turned around to look at the halfling. While Uldane’s face was as bright and smiling as ever, his eyes were dark and haunted.

“Now,” said the cleric. He stepped into the kitchen. “Here, if you want to. Eating, if you want to. I can’t wait any longer, though. I shouldn’t have let you lie ill as long as I did. I need to know what happened to you—and to Raid.” He glanced at Shara and Albanon. “Have you told him what we found in Andok Sur?”

Shara scowled at him. Albanon answered for her. “Kri, he’s still recovering—”

Kri ignored her and looked at Uldane. “We went back to the necropolis where you fought Vestapalk,” he said bluntly. “We didn’t find him, but we found a tribe of kobolds in the process of transforming into the same demons Raid had with him.” The cleric dragged out a chair and joined them around the table, not taking his gaze off the halfling. “Now what did you see? Where did Raid take you?”

Uldane drew a slow breath. Shara put her hand over his. Uldane shook it off. His face had gone pale but his jaw was set and his eyes met Kri’s. “Raid told us,” he began, “that he wanted to look for the treasure of the Temple of Yellow Skulls.…”

Albanon had never thought of Uldane as a storyteller before. Usually his tales ended up taller than an ogre and woollier than a dwarf’s chest, if his attention didn’t wander off entirely during the telling. This time, though, he stuck to his story. Even the most unlikely parts had the ring of truth. All of them listened as he described the descent into the tunnels below the ruined temple, Raid’s opening of the hidden inner temple, and their battle against the elementals there.

When he described Raid’s treachery, Shara’s hands squeezed into fists. “Bastard!” she spat. Uldane barely blinked. His face like stone, he continued the story of his escape, of following Uldane back through the temple with every intention of putting a dagger into him only to discover Raid facing off against an eerily altered Vestapalk in the ruins.

“It was strange,” he said. “Vestapalk looked like he was sick. He was bleeding around his scales and eyes and he had blisters on him. He still looked strong, though, and even bigger than he did when we fought him. Raid challenged him and I thought Vestapalk was going to take him out with one bite, but then they said something to each other and Vestapalk let Raid up. Raid got out one of the skulls and offered it to Vestapalk.” Uldane shivered. “And Vestapalk … inhaled it.”

Albanon blinked. “He inhaled it?”

“Like he was breathing it in. Something came off the skull and Vestapalk sucked it in like smoke from a pipe. But I think it was more than that.” He wrinkled his face. “The skulls made this kind of wailing, like they were frightened. The one that Vestapalk breathed from screamed, then all of the skulls went quiet.” He sat forward. “I think Vestapalk inhaled part of the demon that was imprisoned inside that skull.”

Across the table, the color drained from Kri’s face.

“Kri?” Albanon asked. “What is it?”

The old man ignored him, all of his attention on Uldane. “What happened to Vestapalk?” he asked.

“He roared and started thrashing around like he was in pain,” said the halfling. “I didn’t see much more than that. The kobold wyrmpriest that was with Vestapalk when we fought him before came out of nowhere and surprised me. He used some kind of poison magic on me—that’s when I ran.” Uldane slumped back in his chair. “The last I heard of Vestapalk, he was still roaring, but it sounded as if he’d just won a fight.”

“And Raid?” asked Kri. “What happened to him?”

Anger crossed Uldane’s face. “I didn’t stop to find out. The next time I saw him was when I was trying to hide from the lizardfolk and he was already … like you saw him. He attacked with those four-armed monsters—I never saw them before—and some feral dogs that seemed to be under his control. Raid sent them in first, then he followed. They tore through the lizardfolk like they were nothing.” He looked up Shara. “That’s when I saw you coming and tried to warn you.”

“We could have handled them,” the warrior said confidently.

“No, you couldn’t have. I may have been delirious, but I saw you try to fight Raid.” Uldane shivered again. “If Kri hadn’t been there or Raid’s monsters had been able to join in, you’d be as dead as the lizardfolk.”

“He didn’t kill all of them,” Albanon said. An image of the three lizardfolk he’d seen writhing on the ground came back to him. “Some of them he wounded.”

Kri’s gaze darted to him, sharp like daggers. “Tell me.”

Albanon tried to hold his voice steady as he described the lizardfolk’s injuries, the glint of crystal against the raw skin. Uldane frowned at his words.

“Raid’s monsters knocked some of the lizardfolk out,” he said. “That’s why Raid followed them into the fight: he stopped first and deliberately scratched them with his claws.”

“Deliberately?”

“He wasn’t tucking them into bed.” Uldane flexed his fingers and raked the air.

The legs of Kri’s chair squealed on the floor as he stood abruptly and left the table. He didn’t look back, but Albanon caught a glimpse of his expression as he strode silently out of the kitchen. The old man’s face was as grim as if he’d just witnessed a death.

Shara looked startled. Uldane’s eyes went wide. “What did I say?”

“The lizardfolk … what Raid did.…” Albanon found his thoughts and his words stumbling over each other. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Uldane, was there anything else? Do you remember anything strange that Raid might have said to you? Anything about the Elemental Eye or something called the Voidharrow?”

Uldane’s eyebrows went up. “He did say something to one of the lizardfolk. ‘The Voidharrow will take you. You will serve.’ “He looked from Albanon to Shara and back. Panic crept into his expression. “What is it?” he asked, his voice rising. “By the gods, what’s going on? What happened to Raid?”

“Shara, tell him about the Voidharrow.” Albanon rose and went after Kri.

He almost expected to find the cleric back in the library, but Kri had gone all the way to the top floor of the tower. With his hands clasped behind his back, Kri stood staring out of the tall windows at Fallcrest below and the sweep of the Nentir Vale beyond. He didn’t move as Albanon entered or acknowledge him as the wizard took a place beside him.

Albanon let him remain silent for a time before he said, “Raid is the Gatherer that Vestapalk left Andok Sur to meet. Vestapalk infected him with the Voidharrow and now he’s deliberately infecting other beings with it.”

Kri stood still for a moment longer, then his head dipped down. He let out his breath softly. “Yes.”

A chill wrapped itself around Albanon. “What about the golden skulls from the temple? Do you think Vestapalk really drew the essence of a demon out of one?”

“A demon prince,” Kri corrected him. He turned away and looked back out the window. “The Voidharrow carries the taint of the Abyss. Perhaps Vestapalk wishes to add the power of the skulls to that of the Voidharrow.”

“Demon princes are powerful beings.”

“Yes,” said Kri. “Very powerful.”

Albanon swallowed. “What happens now? You said the small amount of Voidharrow accidentally released by the Order wiped out a village. If Raid is deliberately spreading the Voidharrow …”

His words trailed off. Kri glanced at him, then out the window once more. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, yet harsh. “Look at Fallcrest, Albanon, and remember what you see. I fear that it’s all about to change.”

The eladrin looked down on the town that had been his home for seven years. It was market day and Fallcrest’s green was bustling with people. If none of this had happened—if Nu Alin had not murdered his master, if the vial of the Voidharrow had not been stolen—he might be down there with them.

“Why is Vestapalk doing this?” he asked quietly. “What does he want?” He glanced at the cleric. “How do we stop him?”

“I don’t know,” said Kri. “Not exactly.” His face tightened, deep wrinkles growing even deeper. “Raid is the key. He’s the danger now. He’s the one actually spreading the disease.”

Albanon pressed his lips together. “We need to tell someone about this. If there’s a danger to Fallcrest, the guards need to be on alert. The Lord Warden needs to know.”

“No,” Kri said sharply. “What do we tell them? That a dragon in possession of a source of tremendous power threatens their town?”

Albanon raised his eyebrows. “That’s what I was thinking. Kri, we need help.”

“Nobody can know about the Voidharrow. Not yet. Why do you think the Order of Vigilance kept it a secret? Imagine the panic. Imagine the greed—do you think the adventurers who sought the treasure of the Temple of Yellow Skulls for so many years did it just for the gold?” Kri shook his head. “We’re on our own for now.”

“We have friends we trust,” said Albanon. “We can send word to Roghar and Tempest in Nera and Falon and Darrum in Nenlast.”

“And how long will that take?”

“We defeated Vestapalk before.”

Kri gave him a long, hard glare. “When Vestapalk was just a dragon. He’s more than that now.” He shook his head again. “We need to know more. Forget Vestapalk for now. We need Raid and we need him quickly. He has the answers to our questions.” The cleric turned away from the window to one of the stone-topped tables in the study. His pack lay on it. Reaching deep inside, he produced a scroll case, then selected one parchment from the sheaf within. He laid it out flat on the table so that Albanon could see it. “Does this look familiar?”

Albanon looked and nodded. The creature depicted on the parchment resembled Raid’s new form in almost every way. It had the same long limbs and gnarled joints, the same wide-stretched head and gaping mouth—save that its head didn’t carry the vestiges of humanity on one side that Raid’s did. The creature in the drawing carried no weapons and wore no clothing. It hunched over on all fours, supported by its long arms, though it looked like it would be able to stand on two legs if it desired. The artist had colored the drawing: yellow and orange for the hide, bright red for the multiple slit eyes clustered on its face and the fan of crystals that rose across its lower back.

The picture was old. “Where did this come from?” Albanon asked.

“The archives of my Order,” said Kri. “This drawing and others like it were made as a record of events in the village that Dravit Nance destroyed. We were surprised by Raid before. This time we can be prepared.”

A spatter of red-brown marred the parchment. “There’s blood on the drawing.”

“The Order of Vigilance does not have a peaceful history.”

Inspiration struck Albanon. “Kri, what about the Order of Vigilance? They already know about the danger of the Voidharrow and if they have access to magic like you and Moorin, they can be here quickly.”

Expression seemed to drain out of Kri’s face. “That … isn’t possible.”

The old man sounded less certain of himself than he ever had before. Albanon glanced at him. “I know you said the Order was small but surely—”

“The Order is very small,” said Kri harshly. “I am the last of it.”

Albanon blinked and stepped back. Kri remained where he was, leaning on the table as if it was all that was keeping him upright. “The last … but you said the other members were responsible for recruiting people to follow them into the Order.”

“I didn’t say they were successful.” Kri rubbed his forehead. “After the Voidharrow was released into the village, the Order underwent a crisis.”

“Whether to destroy the Voidharrow or not?”

Kri’s lips tightened. “Yes. And no. I didn’t tell you the whole truth about Dravit Nance, Albanon. He didn’t release the Voidharrow in an effort to destroy it. He released it in order to witness its effects.”

Albanon stared at him. “He released it deliberately?”

“When the other members of the Order discovered what he’d done, they tried to stop it, but there was little they could do except make a record and scour the village. Dravit had infected himself first—some among the Order speculated later that he had gone mad, perhaps under the influence of the Chained God. It took the strength and lives of several members to defeat him. The survivors were faced not just with the question of what to do with the Voidharrow but how to deal with Dravit’s treachery. In the end, they separated. A small order became even smaller.”

He spread his hands. “That was another reason I was coming to visit Moorin—the Order was just the two of us. The third to last of us, Raven Shirai of Colmane, died half a year ago. I was with her at the end. Now I’m all that remains.”

Frustration gnawed at Albanon’s guts. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth from the start?”

“Because I was afraid of how you’d react. Because perhaps Moorin hadn’t told you about the Order because he knew how you would react.” The cleric took up the drawing of the demon and returned it to the scroll case. “It changes nothing now. The only help we get from the Order of Vigilance will come from its histories and research.”

“But—” Albanon started again, Kri just gave him a scowl. The eladrin blew out his breath and stepped up to the table. “If that’s what you think and Moorin thought, then neither of you really know me. You said I would make a good member for the Order.”

Kri paused and looked up at him. “A good member of a dead Order.”

“I still want to be a part of it. What Dravit did is in the past. I can’t let what he did to that village happen to Fallcrest. I want to carry on Moorin’s work. I want to fight Vestapalk and help to contain the Voidharrow.”

Kri laughed bitterly. “Albanon, it’s too late to volunteer for that. You’re already in the middle of it.” But then he gave a grim smile and nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Welcome to the Order of Vigilance.”

Albanon felt a rush of pride amid the lingering fear of what they faced—then a sharp disappointment as Kri casually turned away to put the scroll case back in his pack. “That’s it?” said the wizard. “Shouldn’t there be an oath or something?” Kri snorted.

“We’ll get to that later,” he said. “For now, try not to die.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Raid’s brief return to the Temple of Yellow Skulls left him feeling bolder. Maybe that boldness came in speaking with Vestapalk. Maybe it came in seeing how the brutes he had transformed for his master had taken dominance in the ruins. However it came, when Vestapalk talked of a new age coming, Raid felt as if he could see the future. After he left the temple ruins with his three personal minions, he turned north toward the village of Winterhaven.

When he’d been planning his expedition to the Temple of Yellow Skulls, Raid had studied maps of the Nentir Vale and dismissed using Winterhaven as his base of operations in favor of the larger center of Fallcrest. But with his new form came different goals. The hills and isolated dales around the village were a perfect hunting ground. Small farms were tucked down into the little valleys and also the lodges of hunters. Raid and the brutes descended on both, tearing through farmers and hunters—but leaving them alive where possible. Vestapalk wanted the Voidharrow to spread. As he crouched over bloody bodies, waiting for the disease to take hold, Raid dreamed of the day when he would be able to unleash his killing instincts.

Farms and lodges weren’t the only opportunities to present themselves. A camp of orcs became Vestapalk’s minions, as did a den of kobolds. A war party of hobgoblins provided sport. Only a couple remained alive to infect, but Raid made certain that those who escaped the Voidharrow by dying did not slip comfortably into the Raven Queen’s realm. Farms, lodges, camps, caves—Raid left them all empty behind him. Some of the transformed brutes he sent back to Vestapalk. Some he kept with him.

He found servants for himself as well. Hearing wolves howl one night, he left his four-armed followers behind and slipped out into the darkness. On his own, he could move silently. His new form could see perfectly by even the dim light of the moon. Once he found the pack, he waited and let the pack find him. When he felt them watching him, he unleashed his power against them. From then on, red-eyed wolves padded after him and obeyed his commands. In camps and on farms, there were often other beasts, all of them helpless before his power. Most he used as he required, then gave them to the wolves or the soldiers. As much as he relished spreading the Voidharrow on Vestapalk’s behalf, there was something far more satisfying in spreading his own taint to the beasts of the world.

It was his part in the new age, he realized one night as the wolves snapped and snarled around him. The beasts were his domain. They were his to twist and bend against the order of the old age. Through their corruption, he would help bring in Vestapalk’s new age. And they would never, ever defy him. He started allowing a few of the animals he encountered to run free, the better to sow chaos.

He tried infecting one of the wolves with a scratch from his claws, just to see what would happen. The abomination of fur and fangs that resulted had not lived long.

Of course he didn’t neglect his task of singling out those exceptional individuals who might suit Vestapalk as exarchs. The dragon had taught him a lesson—he stopped looking just for those who were big or strong or fast and started watching for those who managed to fight back against his attacks. A dragonborn taken at one of the hunting lodges near Winterhaven. A farmwife who came at Raid armed only with a frying pan. There were others. He didn’t bother counting. Nor did he give up entirely on choosing big and strong. When his wolves located an ogre napping in the afternoon heat, he made certain to take the creature alive.

He sent it back to Vestapalk with two newly transformed brutes and one of his own as guards. His three minions had changed after the visit to Vestapalk. They were more aggressive, more fractious. More free willed. Raid almost suspected they were developing their own characters and sense of will. He wasn’t sure he liked that, but at least he could trust them with jobs like taking his prisoners back to the Temple of Yellow Skulls. Especially since he couldn’t easily go back himself.

Before he’d left, Vestapalk had given him new instructions. “Stay out. Don’t return to Vestapalk. Make signs of your presence known—the ones who know of your existence will understand. Haunt the roads. Don’t make it too difficult for them to find you.”

“I know where they are,” Raid had growled. “I want to hunt them down. I want to hear their screams.”

The dragon’s eyes had narrowed and his mouth had curled. “You’ll still hear their screams—and the sounds will be sweeter because they’ll know they’ve been outmatched.” And Vestapalk had laughed.

Raid would be both trap and bait, and after a time, he realized that he liked that idea. When he was done hunting the hills around Winterhaven, he turned back to the southeast and followed the road to Fallcrest. He took travelers off the road—one or two, never enough to put an end to traffic altogether out of fear—and sometimes looped back on his own path to strike a second time in the same spot. He waited.

Patience was rewarded. About two days outside of Fallcrest, he crouched in the trees alongside the road and watched a peddler and his woman—their faces conveniently hidden—fuss over the dead horse before their wagon.…

The first rumors reached Fallcrest only a couple of days after Uldane’s recovery: Farms around Winterhaven had been left bloody and uninhabited. The town guard in Fallcrest wasn’t overly concerned. Winterhaven had its own small guard and a volunteer militia, enough to investigate and deal with bandits and raiders.

Albanon knew in his guts that neither bandits nor raiders were behind the attacks. “It’s him,” he told Kri. “It’s Raid.”

“Possibly,” the old cleric agreed. “But we need to be certain.”

Shara provided certainty. She returned from a visit to the Blue Moon with information from scouts passing through town. “There are hunters missing in the Gardbury Downs south of Winterhaven. Other hunters have noticed strange things, too—unusual tracks, fewer goblins and kobolds around than usual. One reported seeing bulky figures from across a valley that looked like they were wearing red armor across their shoulders.”

“Raid’s demons,” said Albanon, and Kri nodded—but slowly.

“He’s moving around too much. We need to know where to find him.”

A few days later, news came that travelers were disappearing along the King’s Road to Winterhaven. “Now we go,” said Kri.

They slipped out of town and across the river while the Fallcrest Guard was still figuring out what to do. Gold from Kri’s pack had bought the peddler’s wagon, the horse to pull it, and a few other things besides. Their role would be stranded travelers, surely a tempting target for Raid. Shara and Uldane’s knowledge of the area made choosing the place where they would lay their trap easier: On the edge of the rugged Downs, the road passed between thick forest a dozen paces back on one side and a steep slope on the other. If Raid wanted to try and sneak up on them, he would only be able to approach from one direction. And the steep slope would serve its own purpose as well.

Albanon had thought that the slow ride out to their chosen location—the old nag drawing the wagon at a leisurely amble, the possibility that Raid might come upon them before they were ready for him—was the most nerve-wracking part of their plan. He quickly discovered that he was wrong.

Waiting for Raid once they were in position was far more nerve-wracking than traveling. If someone had told him just two weeks earlier that he’d be standing along the road hoping to draw the attention of a marauding demon, he would have laughed at them.

And unfortunately, they’d had to kill the horse. As old and swaybacked as the beast was, they couldn’t risk that Raid might turn it against them as he had Shara and Albanon’s mounts at their first meeting. Kri did the deed, placing his hands on either side of the horse’s head and murmuring a prayer to Ioun. Light so intense it seemed to light up the horse’s eyes from the inside had flashed and the beast had gone down. The horse looked so peaceful it might have dropped dead of old age—if you could ignore the smell of cooked meat.

Albanon pushed the oversized hat that hid his face and ears back just enough to wipe his forehead. “How long should we wait?” he asked to fill the silence.

“As long as we need to,” said Kri. He bent over the dead horse, moving around it as if his attention could convince it to rise again. He’d taken to the role of old peddler with remarkable ease.

Which left Albanon to play the role of wife, in spite of his suggestions that Shara was more naturally suited to the part. His objections had been ignored. He plucked at the shapeless dress that covered his robes as Kri’s smock and breeches covered his golden chainmail. “What if another traveler comes along before Raid does and offers to help us?”

“We tell them someone has already come by and taken our loyal son to fetch aid in Winterhaven.”

“They’re not going to believe that if they get a close look at me.”

“A man my age can’t be picky about his women,” said Kri. “I certainly wouldn’t chose a wife that talks us much as you. Be quiet and listen for the signal.”

Albanon sighed, rubbed his forehead again, and glanced up at the carrion vulture that had been circling ominously over the horse’s carcass since early afternoon.

It had departed. For a moment, Albanon was glad of it. Then he wondered what the bird’s absence might mean. “Kri, the vulture’s gone.”

The cleric stiffened. His hand dipped inside his smock to touch his hidden holy symbol. Albanon heard breath hiss between his teeth. “Raid’s here!” he snapped at the same moment a harness bell jingled from inside the wagon. An instant later, the trees on the far side of the road erupted with roars and howls and thrashing bodies. Albanon whirled.

Raid led the attack, racing in with axes held high, his too-wide mouth open to show too many teeth. Three fierce wolves ran at his side, foam flying from their jaws. Two of the four-armed demons thundered along behind, roaring with inhuman voices that left chills running up and down Albanon’s spine.

In truth, it was a smaller force than they’d feared it might be. That didn’t make his bowels feel any less loose. Remember the plan, he told himself. Remember the plan!

Right on cue, the arched canvas cover over the wagon flew back, flung away by Uldane. Shara stood, lifted a cask over her head, and threw it hard at the paving stones before the charging creatures. Even as it shattered, splashing lamp oil across the road, Uldane kicked at a latch inside the wagon box. The side of the wagon swung down and three more casks went rolling out.

Then it was his turn. Albanon’s staff lay inconspicuous at his feet. He flicked it up with his toe, caught it in midair, and slammed the butt of it back into the ground as he screamed an arcane word.

A gout of flame burst up from the ground where the first cask had shattered. The spilled oil ignited with a loud woomf—then the blaze spread to the other casks, blowing them apart in spectacular bursts of greasy, smoky fire. The howls of the wolves turned into yelps of alarm as they tried to avoid tumbling into the wall of burning oil. The four-armed demons stumbled to a stop, their charge broken. Raid pulled back, too, glaring over the fire. “You!”

“Did you miss us?” asked Uldane with an easy smile. He hopped up onto another cask at the back of the wagon. Albanon seized the precious moments to tear away his disguising dress and hat. Kri already had his smock off and his morningstar, hidden behind the dead horse, in his hands. Shara drew her sword and stepped forward to the edge of the wagon.

“Raid!” she shouted. “I hear I made the right decision in not trusting you—or is murdering unsuspecting allies the only way you know how to fight?”

“Can’t be,” Uldane called in response. He turned and slapped his side where the worst of his wounds had been. “Because he can’t even manage that!”

For a moment, Raid froze.

Albanon held his breath. They’d tracked Raid’s activities through rumors and hunters’ tales, but they’d quickly realized that they needed a way to fight him. A way to separate him from his animals and hulking minions. They’d found it in Uldane’s description of Raid’s reaction, in Jewel’s story of her encounter with him, in their own encounter with Raid the demon. All they had to do was make Raid angry.

And survive his wrath.

When it came, Raid’s roar of fury was almost deafening. “I will not be mocked!” Eyes glowing like embers, he leaped through the flames and landed with the ends of his long hair smoldering. Shara jumped down to meet him. Greatsword met twin axes in a clash of metal.

The wolves and four-armed monsters milled in confusion on the far side of fire, then the wolves darted one way around the spreading blaze while the demons came around the other. Kri caught Albanon’s eyes and gave him a grim smile. Divide and conquer. Albanon returned the smile—then raised his voice in a spell as Kri raised his in prayer.

Brilliant light flared around the cleric’s holy symbol and lanced out at one of the demons. The hulking creature roared in pain as light clung to its flesh and seared into its eyes. Blinded, it reeled back, colliding with the other demon.

Albanon took the wolves. With a flick of his fingers, he sent a spark of blue light darting in front of them. The spark burst in midair, puffing out into a pale mist that engulfed the first of the beasts. The other two plunged into the mist, then immediately darted out again with renewed yelps of fear, their fur silvered with frost. The wolf that had been engulfed wasn’t so fortunate—it staggered and collapsed under the killing cold.

Raid snarled in frustration and threw himself into his attack on Shara. The warrior twisted to one side, beat back an axe, and called, “Kri?”

The cleric swung around. “All-knowing Mistress, aid her!”

Radiant light burst from Shara’s sword, bright enough that for a moment Raid squinted and turned his head away. Shara pressed her moment of advantage, forcing him back against the wagon—then leaped clear. “Now!” she shouted.

Splendid rose up from the bed of the wagon, the defensive invisibility that had shielded her falling away. She hissed and dove for Raid, the stinger at the tip of her tail lashing out. Albanon’s belly tightened—this was the critical moment in their plan. Splendid’s poison wouldn’t be enough to disable Raid, but it ought to be enough to distract him; at the same moment she attacked, Uldane darted out from underneath the wagon with a rope in his hands and grabbed for Raid’s legs.

Raid couldn’t have said from which direction he first sensed movement—below or behind—but his first instinct was to turn around. Sunlight flashed on the wings and scales of the little drake that rose from the wagon and on the dripping stinger on the creature’s tail.

He drew on his power without even really thinking about it. For an instant, he felt the drake’s mind and its personality. The beast was far more intelligent than even the wolves he bound to him. But it was still just a beast.

The drake’s hiss turned into a wail. It pulled out of its dive toward him and instead climbed into the air, shaking its tiny head as it fought his power. Shock crossed Albanon’s face. “Splendid!”

Something brushed Raid’s leg. He looked down.

Uldane looked back at him. The rope in the halfling’s hand was already looped around one of Raid’s ankles. The other end of the rope disappeared under the wagon.

Which, Raid realized abruptly, was poised somewhat precariously only a pace or two from the edge of the steep slope at the side of the road. The ties to the dead horse’s harness had already been cut. It would take only a strong push to send the wagon over the edge and bouncing down the slope.

The wagon and anything tied to it. Raid narrowed his eyes.

Vestapalk had told him to wait until Shara and the others tried to attack him. The dragon had told him to be a patient hunter. The dragon had promised him the chance to hear their screams.

Raid could make them scream on his own. “Enough,” he growled. “Enough!” He threw back his head and roared, “Come!”

The instant that Raid turned and Splendid wailed in mid-air, Albanon knew they’d made a mistake. They were so used to talking with Splendid that she seemed like one of them. But she wasn’t, was she? They’d killed an old nag of a horse to keep Raid from using it against them—but made the pseudodragon a central part of their plan. Had they just assumed she’d be immune to Raid’s power over animals?

“Splendid!” he cried, then turned to Kri. The old man looked as startled as he felt. Albanon grabbed him. “You broke Raid’s spell on our horses. Do it again!”

Before Kri could do more than blink and open his mouth, though, Raid snarled. “Enough. Enough!”

Albanon spun back to the demon. Uldane was still crouched at Raid’s feet, the job of tying him to the wagon interrupted. Shara seemed frozen, sword drawn back but not yet swung.

Then Raid raised his head. “Come!” he roared.

Across the road, the tree line seemed to explode. Leaves and branches flew in a green flurry as half a dozen more of the four-armed demons burst out of hiding. An equal number of wolves charged around them. On the other side of the fire, the two demons that had emerged with Raid roared with renewed frenzy and lunged across the now-guttering flames.

Determination wiped surprise from Kri’s face. He turned and thrust out his holy symbol. “By the glory of Kerath-Ald, disperse!”

White light brighter than the sun flared from the symbol. Several of the charging demons were caught in the radiance and shrieked in pain, but the two lunging across the fire bore the brunt of it. One of them staggered back, skin smoking like leather left too close to a fire.

The other, the one that had already been struck by Kri’s light, managed to take one last step against the radiance. Then it burst into flames entirely and fell sideways, splashing into the burning oil.

Shara threw herself at Raid, greatsword whirling in a deadly blur of steel. “Run!” she shouted over the chaos. “All of you, run!”

“Yes!” bellowed Raid. “Run! Give me the chance to hunt! Didn’t I promise that I would come for you?” He blocked Shara’s blow effortlessly with one axe. The other swung low, aimed at the rope around his leg—and Uldane. The axe sheared through the rope but the halfling flung himself under the wagon. He popped up on the other side with a knife in his hand and aimed at Raid.

He didn’t get a chance to throw it. Screaming like a storm wind, Splendid dropped out of the sky straight at him. Uldane yelled and dropped back under the wagon. Splendid swirled and twisted on the air, furious and savage. Her eyes, when Albanon caught a glimpse of them, were rimmed in red.

The eladrin turned in place, overwhelmed. Raid’s wolves padded, snarling, around the fading flames, held back for the moment. Their eyes, red like Splendid’s, were fixed on him. He raised his staff defensively, earning a snarl and a snap from one of the beasts.

The demons likewise held their distance, but their eyes were on Kri. The cleric had let his holy symbol fall back against his chest and now gripped his morningstar with both hands. His lips moved in prayer—not invoking his god’s fury but merely her mercy.

“Do we run?” Albanon asked him.

“To where?” Kri asked back, without looking away from the creatures circling them—then his face tightened. “Push the wagon.”

“What?”

“Get the wagon moving. I’ll watch your back. Once it’s moving, get in and ride it down the slope. Get Uldane and Shara in, too. I’ll keep the demons back.”

Albanon glanced at the slope. Possible death escaping—or certain death fighting? Then another thought struck him, He looked back at Kri. “You’ll die here.”

The cleric just thrust out a leg, kicking him toward the wagon. Wolves and demons clustered closer, sensing weakness. Kri swept his morningstar through the air. “In Ioun’s name, back!” he bellowed.

Uldane was still under the wagon, scampering from side to side as he tried to avoid Splendid’s darting strikes. On the other side of it, Shara and Raid turned around and around each other. Sword and axes clashed in hash rhythm. Both demon and warrior bled from shallow wounds, but Albanon knew all it would take was one mistake and the battle would be over. In his gut, he was afraid that Shara would be the one to make that mistake. Her swings were coming slower, her movements dragged. Even the holy light that Kri had cast about her sword seemed to dim with each swing.

Albanon made his decision. He turned to the wagon. “Uldane! Get ready to move!”

The halfling let out a curse. Albanon ignored it. He lowered his shoulder and charged the front of the wagon.

Agony speared through Albanon’s shoulder. The wagon rocked backward less than a pace, enough to bring a second curse from Uldane and a shriek from Splendid. The pseudodragon left off hunting the halfling to dart at Albanon. He ducked and Splendid whirled overhead screaming, two targets now dividing her attention. Albanon rubbed his shoulder and gasped. He and Kri had practiced moving the wagon before they had brought it out of Fallcrest, but it had always been the two of them.

“Slow and steady,” urged Kri, shifting backward in the wake of the wagon. The demons and prowling wolves kept watch on them. “You just need to get it moving.”

The wizard ground his teeth together, put his shoulder against the wood, and started to push. Splendid let out another shriek and dove for him.

A knife skimmed just past her. “Hey, you flying lizard!” shouted Uldane. “Come get me!”

Albanon twisted his head and saw the halfling clinging to the other end of the wagon, another knife flashing in his hand. Fear for Splendid—even though she was trying to attack him—leaped in Albanon. “Uldane, don’t hurt her!”

“Tell her not to hurt me!” He waved his arms and ducked as Splendid swept down at him.

Shara had spotted the moving wagon now—Albanon saw her glance toward them, then attempt to bully Raid back a bit. She’d guessed what they were trying to do, he realized.

But so had Raid. The hideous creature’s eyes flashed and he shrieked suddenly in a rough tone that sounded less like a human voice and more like something reptilian.

Splendid wheeled around. Raid feinted and pushed Shara away, then pointed one of his axes, giving the pseudodragon a target. Albanon’s heart jumped as the axe seemed to settle on him.

Then his heart jumped again as the axe moved on to Kri. Splendid hissed and darted at the cleric’s back.

Kri was their hope if they wanted to escape. Albanon flung himself away from the wagon and into the pseudodragon’s path. Splendid screamed with savage fury at his interference. Her claws scratched at him and her sting pierced him like a thorn. He grimaced and grabbed her, holding her tight as she tried to get away. Her sting jabbed him again and again.

“Albanon!” called Uldane frantically. The eladrin looked up past Splendid’s thrashing wings.

The wagon was still moving—and gaining speed as it headed toward the slope. Uldane stood in the wagon box, looking back helplessly. Shara, momentarily separated from Raid, looked from the wagon and the halfling to Albanon and Kri. “Go!” Albanon shouted at her.

Shara didn’t need any more encouragement. Her legs stretched like a deer as she raced for the wagon and threw herself inside.

Her weight and speed added to its momentum. One moment the wagon was hesitating on the edge of the slope—the next it was over the edge and speeding down. Uldane’s screams rolled up behind it.

Raid’s frustrated roar rose in counterpoint. Kri half-turned, trying to keep demons, wolves, and Raid in sight, and still look down at Albanon as he struggled with Splendid. “You idiot,” he said. He took one hand from his morningstar and made a sign over Splendid.

The pseudodragon’s struggles ceased immediately. She shook her head, the red fading from her eyes. “Albanon? Albanon, what have I—”

“Splendid, go! Find Shara!” He flung her away. Splendid rose into the air with a wail, circled once, then streaked away after the wagon. Raid’s eyes followed her, then came back to Albanon and Kri. The rumbling of combined snarls rose from the demons and wolves. One of the wolves darted forward. Kri flicked his free hand at it and a beam of light drove it back. The rumbling snarls grew a little louder.

Splendid’s poison burned through Albanon like a fever. He pushed himself up on to his hands and knees. Kri’s hand came down to him. “Get up. We’ll die on our feet.”

Inspiration came to Albanon. He took Kri’s hand, focused his will against the pain of the poison, and spoke a spell. Kri drew a sharp breath of surprise and nearly snatched his hand away.

“One of us has to live,” Albanon said. He pulled his hand free from Kri’s. “Keep Raid away from Shara and Uldane,” Albanon said.

The cleric’s expression hardened but he said nothing as he stepped away from Albanon. The wizard twisted to watch him. There was an extra bounce in Kri’s movement. He pushed off from the ground and with virtually no effort leaped almost ten paces.

“No!” bellowed Raid. He dropped his axes and ran at Kri, his big, gnarled hands grabbing for the old man.

He was too late. Kri jumped, bounding easily down the slope of the hill out of reach of the demon. He disappeared from Albanon’s sight, but a moment later the glow of his barrier of light flared, bright even in the afternoon sunlight. Raid roared again and Albanon felt a moment’s relief. With Kri away, Shara, Uldane, and even Splendid would be safe as well.

But Albanon wasn’t. A wolf growled close at hand. A demon hissed. Albanon turned to look up at the beasts and monsters surrounding him. To his surprise, he felt angry rather than scared. He sat back on his heels and glared up at them all. A spell rose in his mind.

“I hope you like your food hot,” he said, “because that’s how you’re going to get me.” He spread his arms, the arcane syllables of the spell sizzling on his tongue—

Heavy hands grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and hurled him backward on to the ground. Stunned, Albanon stared up at Raid. The demon stomped a foot down into the middle of his chest, driving the air out of his lungs, then dropped to all fours and bent close over him. His teeth clashed less than a hand span from Albanon’s face. One hand rose over his head. Claws flashed in the sun, something red and crystalline caked across their ragged tips.

The Voidharrow.

Now fear seized Albanon. He tried hard to keep it from reaching his face. A swipe of those claws and Raid could tear his life out. A scratch and he would be infected with the Voidharrow’s disease. Albanon knew which he preferred. He clenched his teeth and snarled, “Kill me!”

The raised hand paused. Raid’s red eyes narrowed and searched Albanon’s as if he saw something in them. His wide mouth curled into a cruel smile.

“No,” he said, He looked up at the nearest of the four-armed monsters. “Bring him to Vestapalk.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Vestapalk’s brutes didn’t eat. If they got their claws on raw meat, they gorged on it, but Tiktag had never seen one simply take a bit of food like any other living thing might have. They consumed, but they didn’t seem to need to eat. Tiktag had even seen one of them trying to devour a tree. He suspected that the creature had stopped only because the tree didn’t scream, struggle, or bleed.

Any beast larger than a mouse that showed itself in the ruins of the Temple of Yellow Skulls became fodder for the soldiers—leaving nothing for Tiktag. Vestapalk didn’t even seem to think about food. Tiktag suspected that his master had passed beyond the need for food, sustained somehow by the Voidharrow.

The need to fill his own belly drove Tiktag into the woods to forage. The first time he left the ruins, he was so hungry that he didn’t even realize until he was back that none of the brutes had come in pursuit of him. He’d assumed that Vestapalk would send someone to retrieve his wyrmpriest if he strayed. He felt a certain anguish that his master had apparently passed beyond the need for his servant as well. He probably could have left and no one, not even Vestapalk, would have noticed. He could have fled the temple without any consequences.

Or at least without consequences to anything but his own sense of loyalty to Vestapalk. Perhaps his master had passed beyond him, but Tiktag hadn’t passed beyond the dragon. He’d sworn that he’d free his master from whatever the Voidharrow had done to him. He still held hope of finding a way. Stubborn pride held him in the ruins. Except when he needed to eat.

He was in the woods on the evening that Raid returned.

Near the ruins, a lone rabbit had escaped the soldiers’ interest. Tiktag stalked it with the patience of a hunter. He was almost close enough to lunge for it when a hand came down and wrapped around the back of his neck. His yell startled the rabbit. It went darting away while Tiktag was lifted into the air and turned face to misshapen face with Raid.

“You’re still here?” Raid asked with a sneer.

Anger overcame the wyrmpriest’s fear. “I serve Vestapalk,” he said.

“Vestapalk doesn’t need you.” Raid opened his hand and let Tiktag fall.

The wyrmpriest caught himself before he tumbled to the ground and glared at Raid. In the days since he had vowed to save Vestapalk from himself, he’d watched the dragon closely, looking for something that might turn his master back the way he had been. Raid and his fierce new appearance were just reminders of his failure to find any hint of what he should be doing to help his master. That Raid should even think he deserved a place in the dragon’s service was infuriating.

“I have been with Vestapalk since before his transformation,” Tiktag said defiantly. “I have watched over him when he was weak. I stand by him because of who he is, not what he can offer me.”

Raid laughed without humor. “You think you know who he is?”

“He is my master. He is my dragon.”

“He’s more than a dragon now, just as I’m more than a man. You have no place with him anymore, kobold.”

“I have more place here than you do.” Tiktag lifted his head. “You should not be here. Vestapalk commanded you to stay away and lay a trap for his enemies.”

A smile touched Raid’s face. “I did.” He gestured and a mixed band of red-eyed wolves and four-armed brutes moved out of the trees.

Two of the brutes pushed someone along with them. A hood made from a sack covered his head, blinding him. His hands were tied behind his back and he stumbled as he walked. The mud and grass that stained his blue robes from knees to chest showed where he had fallen. Many times. He staggered with exhaustion.

The eladrin who had fought Vestapalk. Raid gave Tiktag another mocking sneer and turned, leading his troop into the temple. Tiktag shifted back as they passed. A sickening sensation rose in him. He had found nothing to help his master, but Raid had managed to bring down one of those who had themselves defeated Vestapalk.

Tiktag blinked. Vestapalk’s transformation had begun after his defeat. After his wounding by the human woman, Shara. If anyone would know about the Voidharrow and what it had done to his master, it would be one of her allies.

If Tiktag got a chance to talk to him before Vestapalk took his own revenge.

The kobold raced after Raid, running to keep up, his hunger as forgotten as the rabbit. “Raid!” he called, trying to claim his attention. What he’d do once he had it, Tiktag had no idea, but it would keep him from presenting his prisoner to Vestapalk for a few more moments, at least.

Too late.

Vestapalk’s growing horde looked up as Raid and his monstrous troops entered the ruins. A growl rose from the creatures, escalating into a kind of barking chorus. Raid raised his arms like a hero. The chorus boomed louder. Tiktag’s calls to Raid were lost in it. And where Raid passed, the gathered brutes closed in and followed. Tiktag had to push his way through. Vestapalk’s command still held—no brute had ever threatened Tiktag—but they didn’t defer to him, either. He resorted to dodging between their legs to get ahead.

He managed to push free of the crowd just as Raid entered the ruined courtyard.

Vestapalk’s head was already up. His eyes narrowed sharply at the sight of Raid. Unlike Tiktag, though, the dragon didn’t bother questioning Raid about his unexpected return—his nostrils simply flared and his head swept from side to side as he tested the air.

“I smell an eladrin,” he said, double voice rumbling and chiming at the same time.

Raid dragged his prisoner forward. “Master, I give you Albanon,” he said, and tore off the hood.

It felt like Raid had run him halfway across the Nentir Vale.

Albanon knew it couldn’t really have been that far. He could distinguish night from day beneath the hood Raid had put on him, and while the demon set a punishing pace, dawn had only come once. Albanon’s feet and legs burned, though. Exhaustion was a grindstone slowly wearing him down. Every pause was a moment of relief. And of terror that it might be his last. Blinded by the hood, he had only his ears to tell him what was happening. With nothing to hear but the grunts and growls of Raid and his demon warriors, that was no comfort at all. Raid didn’t even try to talk to him. Not that it would have been much of a conversation—Raid had also forced a gag into Albanon’s mouth to keep him from casting spells.

He certainly didn’t tell the eladrin where they were going, but somewhere during the stumbling, mind-numbing journey, Albanon figured it out. When the ground under his aching feet changed from earth to hard stone and the sounds around him took on the slight echo of walls or something like them, he knew for certain that the next stop really would be his last. They’d entered the ruins of the Temple of Yellow Skulls.

And they weren’t alone. A terrible sound rose around them, beating at Albanon’s weary mind. He’d thought that he was too tired to be frightened anymore. He realized abruptly that he was very wrong. The throats that made the barking, roaring noise weren’t human—at least not anymore. His own captors responded, confirming his fears.

Demons. A lot of them. How many people and beings had Raid infected with the Voidharrow?

The creatures pushing him along stopped. The noise of the crowd paused as well. Something big moved, scraping over stone. Albanon heard a deep snuffling, then—

“I smell an eladrin.”

The voice was strange, as if it were actually two very different beings speaking through one mouth. Albanon didn’t have a chance to listen further. Raid’s heavy hand seized him and dragged him to his side. The demon’s other hand grabbed the hood. “Master,” he cried, “I give you Albanon.”

The hood came off suddenly, so suddenly that after a day of its stifling gloom, even twilight seemed brilliant. Then something shadowed the last of the sun. Albanon gasped into his gag and jerked back against Raid’s grip, exhaustion washed away.

Vestapalk loomed over him. And as much as Albanon had imagined the dragon’s transformation based on Uldane’s description, it seemed his imagination had failed him completely. He should have looked into his nightmares.

The dragon had grown huge, towering over him. His body was even more gaunt than Uldane had described. Red-silver crystals flashed like spurs on his limbs and in twisting veins on his folded wings. It seemed to Albanon that the dragon’s skull had changed, too, becoming longer and narrower. There was something like a predatory bird about him now—no, Albanon realized, like an insect, hard and almost alien.

The liquid red crystal of the Voidharrow all but oozed out of him. It squeezed up between his green scales and stained them red. It dripped from his jaws. It filled his eyes—replaced his eyes, leaving them shifting pools of crystal.

The … dragon? Demon? Albanon wasn’t sure if Vestapalk was fully one or the other, but his mind wanted to say “dragon” because the alternative was too terrifying. The dragon didn’t look pleased. He bared teeth that were shockingly white against so much red.

“You have one. Where are the others? Where are Shara and Uldane and this priest who defeated you before? Did he defeat you again?”

Raid scowled. “They escaped.”

“They defeated you.” Vestapalk sounded amused. Raid’s scowl deepened.

“They fled rather than face me!” snapped Raid. Vestapalk’s eyes narrowed. Raid seemed to rethink his tone. “But they’ll come to us, Vestapalk. Their type always do. They’ll try to rescue him.”

Albanon wasn’t so certain of that. Shara and Uldane would want to, and deep inside he prayed that they would at least make the attempt. But would Kri let them? He admired the old cleric’s knowledge and cunning and his devotion to the Order of Vigilance. He had a strong feeling, however, that devotion to the Order’s mission took precedence over anything else in Kri’s life. It wouldn’t have taken the others long to realize that he hadn’t died on the road. They’d had more than a day to catch up to Raid and his demons and attempt a rescue. But they hadn’t.

Vestapalk seemed to recognize the same thing. “Why haven’t they tried to rescue him already?”

“Whether they do or not, we gain.” Raid thrust Albanon forward. “Look at him. He fights us. And he’s the first spellcaster I’ve captured. Isn’t he … exceptional?”

Something in the way Raid said “exceptional” left Albanon feeling queasy even beyond his terror. Vestapalk’s head came down. Swirling liquid eyes stared into Albanon’s. Hot breath blew over him. Albanon fought off his terror, trying to deny Vestapalk the satisfaction of seeing him afraid. The dragon hissed and drew back, then stretched out a claw like smoky red glass and stroked it across his belly. His eyes didn’t leave him.

Albanon couldn’t stop the trembling that shook his legs, but he fixed his gaze on Vestapalk’s strange eyes and glared defiance at him. If the gag hadn’t been in his mouth, he might have spit at him.

Vestapalk grined sudenly and laughter rolled up from his belly, as dry and hard as his flesh. His claw slammed back to the ground. “Yes!” he said. “Yes, he is exceptional. Well done, Raid. A wizard—he will serve very well. Put him with the others.”

Before Albanon had time to do more than wonder what others the dragon could mean, Raid had him by the arm again. The demon paused before he led Albanon away, though. “Vestapalk,” he said, looking up, “how many more do you need?”

“As many as you can provide.” Vestapalk cocked his head. “Why?”

“Hunting grows scarce. Perhaps I should wait before I go back out. Otherwise if you want me to find more exceptional individuals for you, I will need to go where there are more people. Into Winterhaven. Or Fallcrest.”

Albanon’s gut leaped in new fear. Fallcrest? He could only imagine Raid sweeping through the town. A groan escaped him—a groan that the demon must have misinterpreted as protest, because his free hand swept around to crack across Albanon’s face.

The blow was enough to put Albanon’s already exhausted mind into a spin. Splotches of darkness threatened to rise up against him, but he was quite certain that he saw Vestapalk smile slyly at Raid. “You don’t want to leave the ruins,” the dragon said. “You want to be here when Albanon’s friends try to rescue him.”

Raid hesitated, then nodded silently. Vestapalk laughed again and settled back, curling his tail around a leather bag that held the hints of gold. “Granted! Now take him away, then prepare to welcome his friends!”

The grin that split Raid’s face stretched almost from ear to ear. He thrust an arm into the air and howled. The crowd of four-armed demons roared in response, the sound rolling through the ancient ruins and through Albanon’s throbbing head. This time when darkness rose, it was all too easy to let himself slide into it.

Tiktag waited until night had fallen completely before he made his move. Lugging a heavy skin of water, he strode up to a pair of Vestapalk’s brutes and addressed himself to one of them. “Water for the new prisoner,” he said boldly.

The brute just looked back at him and blinked its beady red eyes as if a fly had come buzzing around its head. The other brute gave no reaction at all. Tiktag waited a moment, then added, “I’m going into the pit.”

Still nothing. He edged forward and down the ramp that lay between the two creatures.

What the pit—deep as five kobolds, large enough to make a very spacious den, with the narrow ramp at one end and carvings of dancing fiends adorning its crumbling walls—might have been used for when the ruins made up a temple, Tiktag had never figured out. For Vestapalk, however, it made an excellent place to keep his special prisoners.

Two more brutes moved around the pit. Unlike the guards at the top of the ramp, they glanced at him immediately. One of them bared teeth in a snarl of challenge. Tiktag had heard Vestapalk give them their orders: guard the prisoners and do not allow them any opportunity to escape. The prisoners were well-bound but the brutes took their charge seriously. Tiktag had seen them fight one of their own kind if it wandered into the pit. The kobold almost faltered but braced himself. Remember, he thought, you do this for Vestapalk. He puffed out his chest and met the brute’s gaze. “Water for the eladrin. Raid commands it. Challenge me and you challenge Raid. Don’t make me summon him!”

The brute seemed to consider that. Its lips closed over its teeth and it moved aside.

Tiktag scurried on among the prisoners Raid had collected for Vestapalk. A human woman cowered in a corner with wild fear on her face, eternally under the starvation-sharpened gaze of a heavily bound ogre. The greenscale lizardman who had been Vestapalk’s first prisoner huddled against a wall, his scales dulled. Another human lay nearby, gaunt and gray as if trying to will himself to death rather than face his fate. A dragonborn. A hobgoblin. Two orcs. A halfling, bound up to his neck. An old dwarf. A third human. Enough moonlight entered the pit that all of them looked up to watch Tiktag as he moved through the pit, searching for the only prisoner that interested him.

Raid had dumped the eladrin at the pit’s far end. Albanon sat slumped, the hood replaced over his head. His chest rose and fell in irregular, twitching rhythms. Tiktag looked over his shoulder at the wandering brute guards, then set down his water skin and lifted the hood slightly. Albanon was so lost to exhaustion that he didn’t even move.

Tiktag slapped him sharply. Albanon jerked back to wakefulness and the kobold grabbed his face with both hands. “Call out or struggle,” he said, “and I take your eyes.”

He pressed the sharp claws of his thumbs against Albanon’s lower eyelids for emphasis. He felt the lids flicker and widen in response. Albanon stiffened, but he didn’t try to move. A sense of relief rushed through Tiktag. “Good. Now you answer my questions.” Keeping one hand under an eye, he slid the other down to loosen the gag in Albanon’s mouth. The fabric was tight and he had to fight to get it out from between Albanon’s cracked lips.

The first words out of the eladrin’s mouth, however, startled him. “You’re Vestapalk’s wyrmpriest!”

The words were little more than a groan, but Tiktag flinched, dropped the gag, and jammed both thumbs back under Albanon’s eyes. “Quiet!” he spat. “Quiet!” He glanced over his shoulder but no one seemed to have noticed. He looked back to Albanon. “Yes, I am Tiktag. Don’t draw the attention of Vestapalk’s brutes.”

“Brutes?” Albanon’s voice was a creak. His blue eyes flicked from side to side as he took in the pit, the other prisoners, and the hulking figures that moved among them. Tiktag felt him shiver. “The … things with four arms—”

“Vestapalk’s creatures,” said Tiktag. “Raid builds him a horde. This is what comes of what you did to him!”

Albanon’s gaze came back to him. “What I did to him?”

Tiktag dug his nails into the eladrin’s flesh until Albanon gasped in pain and blood welled up. “Do not pretend! Vestapalk sought a transformation into something great, but after your human friend wounded him, it all went wrong. What you saw isn’t what he was meant to be. Tell me how to turn him back!” Albanon sucked in air and tried to pull away, but Tiktag pressed close. “Tell—”

“A guard is coming!” Albanon gasped.

Tiktag’s heart jumped. He released Albanon and grabbed for the water skin before he even looked around to see if the eladrin was telling the truth or just trying to distract him. It was no distraction. One of the brutes had turned and was coming their way, its red eyes fixed on them. Tiktag hastily pulled the stopper from the skin and splashed water over Albanon’s mouth.

“You see?” he called to the brute. “Raid’s orders. Water for the prisoner.”

The guard stopped and stared at him for a moment longer, then turned away. Tiktag sighed and looked back to Albanon. The eladrin was lapping frantically at the water that poured from the skin, straining to reach the neck. Tiktag pulled the skin away, but paused and studied him. “You warned me.”

Albanon sat back, chest heaving, and licked his lips. Blood from the wounds under his eyes mixed with the water running down his face. “Did Raid really order you to bring me water?”

Tiktag narrowed his eyes and thought about how best to answer that question. “No,” he said finally. “Raid is no friend of mine.”

“We have that in common, then.” Albanon looked at him with desperate eyes. “Tiktag, what happened to Vestapalk wasn’t our doing.”

Anger flared in the kobold’s chest. “You tried to kill him.”

“He tried to kill us!” Albanon squeezed his eyes closed and grimaced, then said, “Do you know about the Voidharrow?”

Tiktag twitched. A little voice inside told him that he shouldn’t be talking to Albanon—he should be forcing the wizard to answer his questions, not the other way around. But then so much of what had taken place recently was not what it should have been. He swallowed and brushed the little voice aside. “How do you know about it?”

“It was stolen from my master. When Shara wounded Vestapalk, it got into his body. It’s some kind of disease, an infection. It’s what’s transforming him—and Raid. Did Vestapalk bite or scratch Raid?

The wyrmpriest shook his head as he recalled the silver-crimson drops of venom falling from Vestapalk’s jaw to Raid’s forehead. “No bite. No scratch. He anointed Raid. Vestapalk made him his exarch.”

“His exarch?”

Albanon looked sickened. Tiktag hesitated, wondered for a moment how much more he should tell the eladrin, then added, “Vestapalk will anoint you, too.” He swept a hand around the pit. “Raid gathers for him: exceptional individuals to become other exarchs, commanders for his horde. All of you will serve.”

Albanon’s eyes opened even wider in shocked silence. The kobold leaned closer to drive the wedge of a whisper into his fear. “Save yourself. Tell me how to undo what the Voidharrow did to him. I want my master back!”

But Albanon’s mouth only opened and closed for a moment, then he slumped down. “I don’t know if it can be undone.”

“What?” Heedless of whether any soldier might see him, Tiktag struck Albanon. “You just said you put the Voidharrow into him!”

“By accident, not on purpose. We really don’t know anything about the Voidharrow.” Albanon’s expression tightened. “Except what it does. Vestapalk, Raid, the brutes—they’re not what they used to be. The Voidharrow has turned them into demons.”

The anger that Tiktag had felt melted into confusion and he sat back from Albanon. “Demons? No, that’s not … Vestapalk can’t be a demon. The visions and omens sent by the Eye promised he would be transformed—”

“The Eye,” said Albanon. “The Elder Elemental Eye?” Tiktag blinked and nodded. Albanon grimaced. “The Voidharrow came into the world under the guidance of the Eye. Tiktag, this is the transformation that the Eye promised Vestapalk. This is what was supposed to happen to him.”

Tiktag stared at him. His guts felt as though they had been ripped out. His heart felt as though it had fallen though the hole where his guts had been. If all of this had been the Eye’s plan for Vestapalk all along, then his mighty master had just been a pawn.

“Why?” he asked. “It can’t be. I read the omens from the Eye, too. Vestapalk would take a new form and a new age would come to the world.”

Albanon’s eyes opened wide and he sat up. “A new age? What kind of a new age?”

“An age of chaos—an age that Vestapalk would rule in his new form.” Tiktag curled his tail around his body and scratched at the scales. “This is wrong. The omens said nothing about demons!”

The color had drained out of Albanon’s face. “Did the omens say anything else about this new age, Tiktag?”

Tiktag clenched his jaw and found himself trying to shake his head and nod at the same time. “No. Yes. Not the omens I read, but when Vestapalk woke after his transformation had begun, he said that the Voidharrow”—Tiktag tried to recall his master’s words—“that the Voidharrow would transform him and he would transform the world.”

“Transform the world,” Albanon repeated. “Moon of the Feywild, that’s why he’s spreading the disease of the Voidharrow.” He looked at Tiktag sharply. “Do you know what he’s planning to do next?”

Tiktag left off scratching his tail. “I don’t know what he plans anymore. Raid wants him to use the power of the golden skulls to restore the temple of the Elemental Eye. I don’t think he will. Vestapalk doesn’t talk about the Eye as much. He says it served its purpose and its only role now is to watch. He only talks about the Voidharrow now.”

Albanon wrinkled his nose, then asked, a little more softly, “Do you know when he’s going to try turning the Voidharrow against his prisoners?”

The wyrmpriest shook his head again. “I think he wants Raid to gather more first.”

“Well, that’s something.” Albanon let out his breath in a sigh, then looked at him. “Tiktag, my friends are trying to stop the Voidharrow from spreading. They need to know what Vestapalk has planned. I don’t know if they’re coming to rescue me, but if they do, Raid’s going to be waiting for them. He’ll kill them. Or capture them and infect them with the Voidharrow, too.” He dropped his voice to the barest whisper. “Will you help me escape?”

Tiktag froze at the suggestion. “I serve Vestapalk,” he said—but as soon as the words left his tongue, he knew that his heart was no longer behind them. He had stood by Vestapalk as the Voidharrow ravaged him, only to have his master turn to other servants. He had stayed with Vestapalk when it seemed his transformation was a curse, only to be ignored. It was blasphemy to admit it, but deep inside he knew that what Albanon had told him about his master was true. The Voidharrow had turned Vestapalk into something other than a dragon.

Hadn’t Raid taunted him with the same words?

Vestapalk might rule over the age that was to come, but it would be an age without room for wyrmpriests and kobolds.

Unless Tiktag accepted the blessing Vestapalk had once offered him and became like his master. He had followed Vestapalk into the gaze of the Elemental Eye. Why not continue to follow him? Because he had seen what Raid had gone through. Because he didn’t want to become like Raid or the brutes. Or Vestapalk.

But to defy his master and help Albanon escape.… Tiktag looked up at the eladrin.

The sudden angry roar of a brute in the distance broke into his dilemma.

Albanon’s head snapped up. Tiktag’s twitched around to search for the guards patrolling the pit—and found them all looking in the direction of that first angry roar. More roars were spreading through the night, rousing the other prisoners as well. The brutes ignored them.

“Tiktag!” Albanon whispered urgently. He twisted around to present his bound hands. “Help me! Those are my friends coming for me!”

Suspicion gnawed at Tiktag’s guts. “No,” he said. As Albanon gasped and gaped at him, he grabbed the gag and shoved it into the eladrin’s mouth, then jerked the hood back over his head. Albanon let out a muffled protest. Tiktag put his mouth close to his hood-covered ear. “Unless your friends are attacking from the heart of the ruins, those aren’t them.”

Another roar broke over the ruins, louder than any other. Tiktag didn’t recognize the words, but he knew the voice. Vestapalk had been roused to anger. The prisoners in the pit went still and silent. The brutes, however, answered with roars of their own and, without a backward glance, went racing for the steep ramp.

Tiktag hesitated for only an instant—then leaped to the rough wall behind Albanon and dug fingers and toes into its rough surface, scaling it faster than a hatchling. Who would dare attack Vestapalk? The distraction might have been a good time to try freeing Albanon, but not if it meant facing an unknown enemy in the process. At the top of the wall, Tiktag dove for the nearest shadow and pressed himself into it. He scanned the darkness, and when nothing moved nearby, darted away from the pit. He stuck with the low cracks and narrow crevices of the ruins, using his small size to his advantage, as he headed for Vestapalk’s courtyard.

It was a good decision because there were other creatures in the shadows. Tiktag spotted the first of them just moments after leaving the pit behind. Black skin, white hair, dark swords—the drow that Vestapalk had so casually dismissed had come to call.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The ruins rose up before Nu Alin, dark stone against a moon-silvered sky—at least through the eyes of Apech the minotaur. To Nu Alin’s own senses, they blazed with the glory of the Voidharrow. A shiver of excitement passed through him. To be back in the presence of the Voidharrow after spending so long in pursuit of its power was intoxicating.

And not even during the first few moments of his rebirth from the husk of Albric had its presence been so powerful. It nearly blinded him, like squinting into the sun. Wherever the Voidharrow had taken root, it was thriving.

For a moment, Nu Alin even felt something that he hadn’t known in a very long time: shame. It had been his responsibility to recover the Voidharrow and deliver it to the appointed place at the appointed time. He’d failed in that. Somehow the Voidharrow had still reached its chosen host, not because of his efforts but in spite of them.

He clenched Apech’s teeth and thrust the thought back, locking it away as he had locked away the minotaur. He refused to wallow in self-doubt. This was not a time for regret. It was a time for triumphant celebration. Nu Alin lifted Apech’s head. He was the Herald. He had brought the Voidharrow into the world. He was its greatest servant and he would stand before it in the age to come!

Confident once more, he strode into the ruins. With the Voidharrow so near, he no longer had the same clear sense of it that had guided him across the Nentir Vale. No matter—it was in the ruins and he would find it. There would be signs to mark the way.

He saw the first just steps into the ruins. Still as a statue among the tumbled heaps of ancient stone stood another of his kind.

Not exactly another of his kind, of course—from the moment the Voidharrow had claimed him, Nu Alin had known that he would be unique among its servants—but certainly another who had been transformed by the Voidharrow. As tall as Apech, but broader and more muscular, with four strong arms and armor across its shoulders, the other could have put up a challenging fight if it chose to. It didn’t. Nu Alin had a sense that the creature was more muscle than mind, a mere warrior in the service of the Voidharrow. Recognition flickered in it tiny eyes as it sensed him within the minotaur’s body. It lowered its head in submission to the greater power.

He moved on. His extended senses picked out more of the hulking brutes scattered amid the nearby ruins, positioned in such a way that suggested a more agile mind at work. The Voidharrow had created something greater than just minions, then. He recalled the wondrous moments after Albric and his followers had first joined with the Voidharrow, the incredible explosion of forms and powers that had manifested—

He was so caught up in his memories that the first enraged roar caught him by surprise. It came from deep among the ruins. All of the brutes around Nu Alin turned as one and looked toward the sound. Another roar followed, then another and another—the sounds of the attack on the Voidharrow’s, Nu Alin guessed, but not dying as quickly as they were intended to. Rage rose inside him. Who would dare attack them here at the heart of the Voidharrow’s power?

Then another roar broke over the ruins, far louder than the first and far more compelling. There were no words in its strange double tone—half bestial, half strangely crystalline—but there was a command. Attack! Kill! Destroy!

The brutes around Nu Alin bellowed in response and broke into a lumbering run, charging for the heart of the ruins. The commanding roar swept Nu Alin up as well. It flooded his being with ecstasy and sent him racing alongside the brutes—then ahead of them, his desire for speed shredding Apech’s flesh.

Strange bursts of purple light flashed among the darkness, outlining four-armed soldiers and flashing briefly on the smaller figures that whirled around them. Nu Alin recognized the graceful, deadly movements of drow. The dark elves wove a lethal dance around the larger soldiers, evading heavy blows with ease and thrusting deep with sharp blades. Here and there, monstrous spiders joined in the attack.

The spiders seemed to have more success against the brutes than the drow. Stabbing blades and flashing lights only appeared to anger the hulking figures. The spiders, some as large as the Voidharrow’s warriors, closed and grappled with their opponents, matching six limbs with eight. Nu Alin reached the edge of the fighting and watched a spider force a bellowing brute to the ground so that a pair of drow could finally finish it.

A growl rumbled out of his throat. He lowered Apech’s massive head and poured his own speed and strength into a charge. The drow turned at the sound and leaped out of the way, but the big spider wasn’t so lucky. Nu Alin crashed into it. Apech’s horns crunched into the creature’s abdomen and warm goo cascaded over him. The spider squealed and struggled, the legs that not been broken by Nu Alin’s charge lashing at him with tips as hard and sharp as swords. Nu Alin twisted and lifted. The spider was heavier than he’d expected, but he got it into the air and flung it away, Apech’s horns ripping its abdomen further.

The spider went tumbling across the ground until it hit a ruined wall. With only three of eight legs still working, it scrambled to escape, dragging its collapsed and oozing abdomen behind it. Nu Alin whirled on the two drow. Both looked shaken, but one held a slim crossbow in her hand. She steadied it and took aim.

Nu Alin saw the flicker of the bolt as it leaped from the weapon—then Apech’s vision vanished in sudden, searing pain. An excellent shot, through the eye and into the brain. The minotaur’s body staggered and grew heavy. Nu Alin kept him upright, a puppet of dying meat, and turned him toward the drow. He clenched his teeth and sent his liquid crystal form bubbling out around the shaft of the crossbow bolt.

One of the drow turned and fled instantly. The other, the one who had killed Apech, dropped another bolt into her crossbow and took aim again.

Nu Alin crossed the space between before she could squeeze the trigger. A blow from his host’s left fist shattered her right arm. Apech’s right hand seized her by the throat and squeezed. White eyes opened wide in an instant of agony before Nu Alin crushed the life out of her and tossed her corpse aside. With Apech’s body so much dead meat around him, he might have taken her as a new host, but in the middle of battle there would be many other opportunities. He extended his senses, searching for the nearest suitable host—and discovered something unexpected.

For the amount of chaos they were causing, there were far fewer drow than there should have been. There were plenty of spiders, to be sure, but less than a dozen drow, and from what he could tell, they were only trying to torment the soldiers, not kill them in earnest. The dim-witted brute warriors hadn’t realized they were being toyed with.

Nor, it seemed, had another presence he felt not too far away, raging like a barbarian and invested with a far greater portion of the Voidharrow’s strength than the brutes. Another exarch. Nu Alin felt the presence’s power pulse and flow, turning the spiders around him against their drow masters. Perhaps the other exarch possessed the agile mind that had positioned the soldiers, though clearly it was not agile enough to recognize a distraction. Nu Alin turned, pushing his senses against the pervasive brightness of the Voidharrow’s power.

And he found what he was looking for: Other groups of drow moving through the ruins, away from the chaos. The drow were looking for something. The Voidharrow?

Apech was of no further use to him. Nu Alin forced himself out of the minotaur’s corpse, shedding it like the shell that it was. The pressure of the world on his naked form was painful. Flowing like silvery-red water through the moonlight, he went after the nearest group of drow.

They argued, as drow usually did, in voices that they probably thought too low for other ears to hear but that Nu Alin’s strange senses caught with ease.

“For the last time, Ivriashalal, trying to kill the dragon is just suicide,” said a male in long robes embroidered with shimmering webs and arcane patterns. “If we steal the sack of skulls, we can flee. The dragon can’t follow us below ground.”

The drow who answered was female, with spiders decorating her armor and a whip on her belt. A priest of the drow’s spider god, Lolth, Nu Alin suspected. “But the creatures that serve it can follow, and now that we’ve attacked, it knows we’re here. It must die,” she said. Even whispering, there was nothing soft about her voice. “Looking for your skulls was only part of this expedition, Larcees. The dragon has taken a lair in the entrance of a potential route between the surface and the Underdark. Our duty is clear. The plan will not be altered. Be thankful I give you the chance to take your precious skulls as well.”

Larcees looked indignant. “They’re not just ‘my precious skulls.’ They’re legendary. The power in them could be …” His face twisted in frustration and he looked to another male, this one wielding a jagged greatsword shrouded—to Nu Alin’s senses—with the dark energy of a warlock’s fell power. “You tell her.”

The warlock looked at him like he was insane. “I think you’re both wrong. We need to go back to the City of Palls for proper reinforcements—not just a commandeered border patrol and a pack of spiders.”

Both Larcees and Ivriashalal bristled at the suggestion. “We do it now,” said the priest. “The glory—”

“And the skulls!” added Larcees.

“—will be ours, Quarhaun.”

The warlock just rolled his white eyes.

The Eye looked kindly on him, Nu Alin thought. He’d stumbled on to the leaders of the attack. The drow spoke strangely accented Elven, which he understood, though their words were a mystery to him. Skulls? A dragon? He grasped what the drow intended readily enough, however—and saw the flaw in their intentions. As intelligent as they considered themselves, they clearly had no real idea of what they faced. It had been a dragon’s roar that had sent the four-armed soldiers and Nu Alin racing into combat. If the Voidharrow had truly taken possession of a dragon, what a world the next age would see!

But first he needed to return to a host, and a drow would serve very well. Not one of the bickering leaders, though. He picked out a female in the rear of the skulking party who carried two swords and looked like she knew how to use them.

Nu Alin took her much as he had taken Apech, though far more quickly. He slithered ahead of the party to the end of a ruined wall, then as the drow passed, he reached out and seized his chosen host. One pseudopod covered her face to prevent her from crying out. Two more seized her arms and bound them to her side. A fourth, anchored to the wall, dragged both her and Nu Alin out of sight. It only took a moment for Nu Alin to take possession of her body. He was not gentle. When he locked the drow into the back of her mind, she was screaming with pain and terror.

He stepped out from the shadow of the wall only a few paces behind the rest of the party—just far enough behind for one of the others to look back, scowl, and murmur, “Keep up, Eklabet!” before turning away again.

Nu Alin smiled to himself and hurried to catch up.

The sounds of the battle deep in the ruins followed them, the screams of drow beginning to match the roar of soldiers. Nu Alin caught a hardening of Ivriashalal’s expression and the look of concern that passed between Larcees and Quarhaun. “We should hurry,” Larcees said to the priest.

“We can do nothing until the others are in position. And if the dragon thinks his creatures have the upper hand, so much the better,” Ivriashalal answered. But she did glance over her shoulder. “Are we close, Diue?”

“Just ahead,” said the drow who had looked back for Eklabet. She moved forward to point the way to cover. Nu Alin found himself looking out, along with the others, on a wide courtyard amid the ruins.

A dragon paced the courtyard—and once again, what Nu Alin saw through his host’s eyes and what he saw with his own senses were very different things. Eklabet saw a green dragon, strangely lean and disfigured by some disease that left its scales reddened and oozing.

Nu Alin saw his new master, full of strength, power, and the Voidharrow. It was all he could not to break down with joy, to draw his swords and slaughter the pathetic lesser beings around him in a bloody offering to the one who would begin the new age.

The dragon’s head swung toward him—then immediately away, and Nu Alin could almost believe he had felt his presence touch him. A message seemed to shiver through his being, much like the visions Albric had once received from the Elemental Eye. Stay your hand.

Nu Alin forced Eklabet’s grip to slip from her swords. None of the other drow seemed to notice. “He saw us,” muttered Larcees.

“If he saw us, we’d be dead,” said Quarhaun. “What’s wrong with him? I’ve never heard of a dragon that looked like that.”

“He’s sick,” said Ivriashalal. “All the more reason to put him down.” She pointed at a bulging leather sack around which the dragon paced as if it contained his entire hoard. “The skulls?” she asked Diue.

The warrior nodded. “I saw him toying with them on one of my scouting trips.”

Larcees’s eyes fixed on the sack. He rubbed his palms on his robes. “Are the others in position?”

Diue rubbed a hand over a bracer on her right forearm. Nu Alin saw a flicker of sparks, dimmer than fireflies, where her fingers passed, then she nodded. Ivriashalal’s eyes narrowed. She nodded in turn to Larcees, who stretched out his hand, curled his fingers into an arcane gesture, and spoke a low, hissing word.

The dragon roared in fury as ghostly light flashed around him, coalescing into webs with strands thick as rope. Phantom spiders skittered through the webs and swarmed over the dragon. At the same moment, bands of other drow dashed from their hiding places around the courtyard. Swords and white eyes flashed in the moonlight.

“Now!” said Larcees. “The skulls!” He led the dash from their own hiding place toward the waiting leather sack. The others followed him and Nu Alin followed them. A sense of amusement at their earnestness flittered through him, but he held his tongue just as he had stayed his hand.

They were about ten paces out into the courtyard when the dragon’s fury faded into sudden silence.

Tiktag scrambled into a hidden niche in a hollow wall just in time to see the drow’s spectral webs snare Vestapalk. For a brief moment, Tiktag dared to hope the dark elves might actually succeed in putting an end to the dragon’s schemes. As Vestapalk thrashed against the webs, drow burst from hiding around the courtyard with their swords at the ready.

Then Vestapalk’s roaring ceased and Tiktag knew hope had been a fantasy.

The drow didn’t even have a chance to halt their charge. Vestapalk spun to face the nearest band of drow, and the thick strands that had seemingly held him in place tore like dusty cobwebs. His chest expanded as he inhaled, his head snapped forward, and he unleashed his deadly breath upon the dark elves.

Tiktag had seen his master attack enemies with his breath many times, choking them with a cloud of poisonous gas. What spewed from Vestapalk’s throat and mouth, however, startled the kobold at least as much as it did the drow.

Instead of roiling green-yellow gas, fine red mist sprayed out, flashing and glittering in the moonlight. Some of the drow fell back, some of them leaped ahead, as they tried to escape the cloud. It was already too late, though. The first drow to go down dropped to his knees, clutching at his throat. The second one simply collapsed, twitching and shuddering. One by one, all of the drow caught by the cloud fell to the ground before they’d taken five steps more toward Vestapalk.

Vestapalk didn’t even pause. He leaped into the midst of the next band of drow, hurling them aside with raking sweeps of his claws. An instant later, he swung to another band and breathed out a second spray of the Voidharrow. The drow tried to scatter but most weren’t quick enough and more went down.

Some among the first group to suffer Vestapalk’s breath were shambling and stumbling back to their feet. Other drow called out to them—until they saw what Tiktag, from his hidden perch, had already seen. The drow’s white eyes were already turning crystal red. Hideous plague blisters were already swelling on their skin. The Voidharrow had them. Tiktag shuddered and bit down on his tongue.

Closest to him, the band of drow that included the caster who had attempted to snare Vestapalk broke down in a frightened scramble of waving arms and incomprehensible Elven shouts. It looked almost as if they might come to blows, then the group split apart. The spellcaster ran, like a lone madman, for the sack of golden skulls; all of the others turned and sprinted back for the edge of the courtyard. A female in ornate armor barked something at one of the others, who pulled a bolt from her belt as she ran, dropped it into a small crossbow, then loosed it into the air.

It rose with a piercing shriek in some kind of signal. Instantly, any drow still stupidly trying to make a stand against Vestapalk turned and fled.

The dragon himself whirled to look for the source of the sound. Tiktag saw his eyes, almost seeming to glow from within, dart between the larger group of fleeing drow and the lone drow running for the skulls. Those glowing eyes narrowed and Vestapalk lunged across the courtyard to snatch the spellcaster up in his jaws. He shook him once, then hurled his body across the courtyard at the fleeing group.

The savaged corpse splattered across the stones in front of them. The entire group swerved like a flock of startled birds to race right at Tiktag’s hiding spot. Out in the courtyard, Vestapalk gathered himself, preparing to pounce.

His pursuit of the drow wasn’t over, Tiktag realized. And it would take the dragon right through his hidden perch. Terror broke over the kobold, and he flung himself out of his hiding place, fleeing along with the drow. He didn’t even try to glance back as stone crashed and crumbled behind him, and Vestapalk let loose another furious roar.

The spiders fell to Raid’s power as surely as any other beast he had encountered. He turned them against the drow, sending them crawling through the ruins of the temple to hunt the dark elves wherever they tried to hide. Where the drow tried to make a stand, Raid fought them himself. Slim swords were no match for his axes. The heavy blades carved dark drow flesh, and drow screams were sweet in his ears. Raid snarled his rage at these creatures that would dare to challenge Vestapalk—that would dare to challenge him!

He was so lost in the battle that at first he barely even registered Vestapalk’s own roars of fury, but they finally roused something inside him. Raid let his axes fall and looked around. If he was fighting their drow attackers, who was attacking his master? And where were all the drow that had drawn the attention of Vestapalk’s warriors?

A diversion. They’d been tricked.

“To Vestapalk!” he shouted at the nearest brutes. They turned to follow him through the ruins and any others they passed fell in behind, the command passing through their ranks in some mysterious silent communication.

It didn’t seem Vestapalk needed their aid, however. The dragon roared again, a roar this time accompanied by the furious crashing of stone. Dust from ruins that stood for centuries rose into the air as Vestapalk plunged through them. He was chasing something, Raid realized, and grinned in anticipation. The hunt was a strategy he knew well, and while he might prefer to hunt alone, he knew how to hunt in a pack. He led the soldiers in the direction of Vestapalk’s pursuit, ready to cut off the dragon’s prey.

They came together across the pit where Vestapalk had been keeping his prisoners.

Raid reached the pit first. Down in the shadows, the prisoners huddled, too terrified to escape, even if they hadn’t been bound. Just moments later, there was movement in the ruins on the other side as a handful of drow emerged—along with Tiktag, his eyes wide in a frenzy of panic.

Why the kobold should have been anywhere near the drow left Raid confused. The drow seemed as surprised to see him as they did Raid and the brutes. One of their number didn’t hesitate, however. Putting her companions—a female in the armor of a priest of Lolth, another warrior with two swords on her hips, and a male wielding a jagged black greatsword—behind her, a lithe drow warrior turned before the pit and raced around its edge.

The sight of the greatsword, a warlock’s blade, drew up a memory in Raid. These were the very drow he’d seen below the temple. With a hiss and a gesture, Raid sent brutes around the ends of the pit to box the drow in, but the running warrior was faster than them. She disappeared into the shadows before they could reach her. The others weren’t so lucky. The brutes cut them off. The priest stared after the escaped warrior and screamed a word, maybe a name. “Diue!”

Scarce moments later, Vestapalk burst out of the ruins. Dust and chips of stone clung to his flanks; behind him, a trail of fresh destruction marked the path back to the courtyard. His eyes were shining and his teeth were bared in a snarl that put fear even into Raid. He came to a stop just paces from the edge of the pit and loomed over those he had been chasing.

Tiktag gave a squeak of despair and threw himself on the ground at Vestapalk’s feet. “Master, let me go! I was caught between you and them. This is—”

He didn’t get a chance to complete his plea. Raid saw the priest glance from kobold to dragon.

Then she stepped forward and grabbed Tiktag by the back of his neck and put a knife to his scaly throat. “He serves you?” she spat up Vestapalk. “Let us go or he dies!”

Vestapalk blinked. His snarl faded … into a grin. “Do you take Vestapalk for a human, drow?” he asked. “Threaten him. Kill him if you wish. It gains you nothing.” He took a lazy step forward.

Raid watched realization of her own error come over the priest’s face. If she as a drow cared so little about a mere kobold, why should a dragon care anymore? She didn’t release Tiktag, but her black face turned ash gray as she turned, looking for another way out.

She should have looked to the warlock with her. As she panicked and the second warrior stood apparently frozen with fear, Raid watched him turn to consider opportunities to escape. His eyes fell on the pit.

Try it, Raid urged him silently. Jump in and be trapped.

Then he saw what the drow had. The brutes that had gone around the end of the pit in an attempt to stop the fleeing warrior had left the steep ramp clear. The three drow could drop into the pit and come running out behind the brutes’ lines if they were lucky and fast. Raid cursed and leaped for the end of the pit.

The warlock was quicker—and apparently believed in making his own luck. Before Raid took two paces, the drow pointed his greatsword at the priest and called out a harsh invocation.

Brilliant white fire seemed to condense out of the air, dripping and running over her body like candle wax. The priest screamed in shocked agony—turning Tiktag loose as she convulsed—and even though the warlock had thrown the spell, all eyes went to the living torch that was the burning priest. Even Raid found himself stumbling, distracted by the screams and the simple act of treachery. One drow would have a better chance of flight than three. In the moment of chaos, the warlock turned and jumped for the pit.

A hand grabbed him in midair and whirled him around, slamming him into the ground with bone crunching force and sending his black blade spinning away. The second drow warrior drew a shortsword, knelt on his chest, and held the blade above his head.

Not even drow moved that fast. Raid felt a strange sensation, a sort of unexpected familiarity. The drow was far more than she seemed—and indeed when she looked up at Vestapalk, thin veins of red crystal shone around the corners of her eyes. The words that came out of her mouth sounded strained, as someone or something else spoke through her mouth. “Nu Alin greets you, Master of the Voidharrow.”

Vestapalk looked down on her, then his jaws curved into an amused smile of recognition. “Our meeting has been slow in coming, my Herald.”

The drow inclined her head. “The inevitable can be delayed, but not prevented, Master.” The shortsword slipped down a little farther. “How would you like this one killed?”

Vestapalk’s head dipped down to inspect her wheezing captive. His eyes narrowed. “I would not,” he said. His voice rose. “Raid! Take this one prisoner. He struck well. I judge him to be exceptional.”

Raid shouted acknowledgment across the pit, but Vestapalk’s attention had already moved on to Tiktag, cowering in the dirt. “Wyrmpriest,” the dragon rumbled, “I know you had nothing to do with this. You warned me about the drow”—Tiktag sagged visibly with relief—“and you will be rewarded. This time I will not listen to your excuses. You will be blessed.”

The kobold twisted bolt upright. “Master, no. I don’t—”

Vestapalk’s eyes narrowed. “I do not offer my talons a choice when I use them.”

Tiktag shuddered—and to Raid’s surprise, suddenly jumped to his feet and ran for the shadows. Vestapalk hissed slightly. One of the soldiers lunged and grabbed the wyrmpriest, easily lifting him off the ground. Tiktag wailed once in fear, then relaxed in wracking, terrified sobs. Vestapalk turned away from him to inspect the drow priest.

The liquid fire had guttered out, leaving Lolth’s servant charred and twitching on the ground. She managed to lift her head and look up at Vestapalk. The dragon’s expression tightened.

“You attacked Vestapalk,” he said, “but only because you follow commands, nothing more. You were a pawn for another and that is the most exceptional thing about you. Carry a message to your spider god for Vestapalk: Tell her what you saw and how you fared. Tell her to be afraid.”

The priest cried out and tried to struggle away, but Vestapalk put one forefoot on her head and shifted his weight.

Her skull made a wet crack as the dragon crushed it. The sound was almost lost, though, in the cry of anguish from the shadows where the first drow warrior had disappeared. “Ivri!”

Raid’s head snapped up and he gestured for the nearest brutes. “Find her!”

“No,” said Vestapalk. He lifted his foot and scraped the mess of the drow priest’s life from the bottom of it. “She is gone. They are all gone.”

Raid felt a flush of anger at having his order contradicted. “They could be back.”

“Yes,” Vestapalk agreed, “they could.” The dragon walked to the edge of the pit and, leaning over the drow he called his herald, looked down at his frightened prisoners. “Vestapalk has lingered here long enough. These few will do after all. If they do not survive, you will gather more elsewhere.” He glanced up at Raid. “Prepare them. Vestapalk will have his exarchs.”

The flush of anger became a burn. “But what about Shara, Uldane, the priest—they have defied us!”

“Vestapalk will not delay triumph for revenge,” the dragon growled. “Not again.” He glared at Raid. “Prepare those who will be my exarchs. Their time comes at dawn.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Albanon heard everything. Not all of it made sense. Most of it terrified him. There were screams and noises that his imagination turned into horrible things—which in reality were perhaps just as horrible as he imagined them. When he’d heard Nu Alin greet his master, he almost vomited inside his hood. Nu Alin. Moorin’s murderer. Here.

And perhaps the worst thing was that Tiktag had been captured, too. Unless Kri, Shara, and Uldane intended to perform some incredible, fantastic, last-minute rescue, they were never going to find out what he’d learned. An eternity seemed to pass in darkness with nothing but the sounds of demons and the other prisoners moving around him, until eventually he could make out the lightening of the sky through his hood.

Dawn came. Rescue didn’t.

But his captors did. Albanon heard the heavy, shuffling tread of their feet as they entered the pit and began taking the other prisoners away. Some prisoners struggled. He heard snarls of Goblin and curses in Dwarven. The ogre put up a fight. Its bellows and howls set off a flurry of responses from the remaining prisoners.

The demons—brutes, soldiers, warriors in Vestapalk’s horde, whatever Tiktag had called them—answered with growls and the thump of fists against flesh. The ogre’s bellows turned into cries of pain. The other prisoners fell silent, but the rain of blows continued, a savage beating that might not have stopped at all if not for a shout from above.

“Don’t kill them!” snapped Raid’s voice. “Vestapalk needs them alive. Just get them up here.”

The beating ceased, replaced by groans and scraping as the ogre was dragged away. Another prisoner started to sob. They were the next taken. Albanon leaned back against the wall of the pit, fear knotting in his stomach. When the brutes came for him, would he fight or weep? He tried to summon up the fiery defiance that had swelled in him after the ambush on the road.

It remained just out of reach. Hands bound, mouth gagged, eyes blinded by the hood, he knew no magic that would help him.

The eladrin clenched his jaw, biting into the gag. Would Moorin have let such a thing stop him? He’d died fighting Nu Alin. Would Kri? He’d been willing to sacrifice himself to Raid to give Albanon and the others a chance to escape the demon’s ambush.

If the wizard he had called his master and the cleric he’d come to see as his mentor could give so much, so could he. He might never have the chance to take the oath of the Order of Vigilance, but at least he could conduct himself as if he had. He might not have his magic, but he still had his body and his wits. Kri—and Moorin—would be proud of him in the end.

Big hands grabbed him and dragged him to his feet. Heavy claws sank into his flesh. Albanon forced himself to breathe, to accept the demon’s grasp as it shoved him across the pit. An idea formed in his mind. The ogre’s mistake had been in lashing out. Down in the pit, it had been surrounded. But if it had waited until the brutes had led it out of the pit.…

His feet found the steep angle of the ramp. Albanon took a deep breath and started to climb. How long was the ramp? He tried to guess when they were a third of the way up. Half the way up.

Three-quarters of the way.

Albanon lurched forward, tearing himself out of the brute’s grasp and at the same time kicking back at where he hoped the creature’s legs were. Incredibly, he connected. His boot crunched into something that felt like a shin. The thing gave a yelping snarl as it hopped back—a snarl that turned into a full, frustrated yelp as it fell on the steep ramp, pulled backward by the weight of the crystal armor across its shoulders. Albanon didn’t hesitate for a moment. He raced up the ramp, yanking at the hood with his bound hands. If he could just get it off, he’d at least be able to—

Something hooked his legs out from under him. The gag soaked up a gasp as Albanon tumbled briefly through the air and smashed head first into solid stone. Bright blotches swam around his vision; a thin ringing filled his skull along with biting pain. He groaned, and this time he did vomit thin bile into the hood.

Hands that were more delicate than the brute’s but strangely no less strong pulled him to his feet. The fouled hood came off. Albanon stared into the face of a female drow.

A female drow with silver-red cracks pulsing around her eyes. Albanon had seen those cracks around Tempest’s eyes once. Fear churned his stomach a second time.

One of Nu Alin’s hands shot out and clamped around his throat, choking off air and bile alike. Albanon convulsed in agony as his lungs heaved and sucked down the vomit. The drow’s eyebrows just rose like thin, white spider legs. Nu Alin smiled. “The wizard’s apprentice. I thought I recognized your presence. I owe you for your attempts to trick me when we met before.”

The drow’s arm barely seemed to twitch, but suddenly Albanon was flying again. This time his shoulder took the impact of his landing. He ended up on his back, staring up at the rose-tinted sky of morning—until Nu Alin strode over, grabbed a handful of his robes, and hauled him half-upright. A hand ripped Albanon’s gag off violently. The drow’s face bent over his and she opened her mouth.

In place of a tongue, a thick tentacle of red crystal curled out. Albanon’s head spun so badly he could barely think, but his gaze was drawn to the writhing appendage as it drooped toward his own gaping mouth. He tried to close his lips. The drow’s other hand grabbed his jaw and forced it wide.

An inarticulate scream rose out of Albanon’s chest. He struggled, but Nu Alin’s strength held him easily. The demon’s fluid form oozed further out of the drow’s mouth. It brushed his cheek, scraping across the skin and into his mouth—then it was gone, sucked back into the drow. Nu Alin chuckled and straightened.

“No,” he said in the drow’s voice. “That won’t be your end. My master has something much more painful planned for you.”

Nu Alin hauled him to his feet and dragged him through the ruins. Albanon was dimly aware that with his mouth free and his vision clear, he finally had the opportunity to cast a spell. His mind still reeled with pain and the shock of the demon’s torment, though. He tried to gather his will and felt the magic slip through his thoughts.

Focus, he told himself. Focus! You can’t die like this!

They emerged into the courtyard where Raid had first presented him to Vestapalk. Brute demons clustered around the edges of the open space, jostling each other like children at a market fair. Vestapalk crouched in the center of the courtyard, liquid eyes closed but head weaving back and forth as if the dragon was listening to voices only he could hear.

Between dragon and demons were the prisoners from the pit. Thick wooden posts and ancient stone pillars had been dragged into the courtyard and forced down between the age-worn paving stones. To each was bound one of the prisoners: humans, orcs, goblin, lizardman, ogre, halfling, dwarf, another drow.…

One post remained empty. Nu Alin pushed Albanon to it.

“Not there, Herald,” said Vestapalk without opening his eyes. “That place belongs to a special servant.” The dragon’s mouth crooked. “Put him with the drow. Brothers shouldn’t be separated.”

Nu Alin turned without comment and hustled Albanon toward the post where a drow male was bound, presumably a survivor of the previous night’s attack. The drow’s white eyes narrowed at their approach. “Eklabet!” he called in Elven with a wheedling tone. “Eklabet, I don’t know what’s come over you but if you can hear me—”

“She can hear you,” said Nu Alin in the same language. “She just can’t do anything about it.” He gestured and a brute lumbered forward to hold the drow while Nu Alin swiftly tied Albanon beside him. Nu Alin stepped back and grinned. “Like reflections in a mirror,” he said, then turned and moved to Vestapalk’s side.

Albanon stared at the drow. It was indeed almost like looking in some magical mirror that rendered white to black and black to white: the drow’s dark skin to his pale, white eyes to his blue, bone-white hair to silver. The drow scowled back at him and said, still in Elven, “You wear a wizard’s robes, eladrin, but I’m guessing that if you can’t save yourself, you’re no good to me.” He rested his head against the wood of the pillar. “Quarhaun.”

It took a moment for understanding to penetrate Albanon’s battered mind. The drow was offering his name. “Albanon,” he said in return.

“Is it too much to hope that a band of eladrin feyknights are waiting for just the right moment to rescue you?”

Albanon thought of Shara, Uldane, and Kri. They weren’t exactly knights, but they were his only hope. But no. He knew Kri. They wouldn’t be coming for him. They wouldn’t risk it. He put them out of his mind. “We’re on our own.”

The drow’s face curled into a sneer. “We?” he said. “The only thing ‘we’re’ likely to do together is die.”

Albanon couldn’t hold back a shudder. “We’d be lucky to die.”

Quarhaun twisted around to look at him, eyes wide, but just then Raid strode into the courtyard—and Albanon knew immediately who the final post was meant for. Tiktag scuttled along in front of Raid, shepherded by the demon. The kobold’s scaled face was tight with terror. He met Albanon’s gaze and almost immediately looked away. Albanon could understand his anger. If he hadn’t tried to enlist Tiktag in his escape, the kobold might not be among Vestapalk’s prisoners.

Then again Tiktag had threatened to blind him and had almost killed Uldane. That took some of the edge off his sympathy.

“What do you mean by ‘we’ll be lucky to die?’ “Quarhaun demanded.

Albanon felt a half-mad grin twist across his face. How bad must things be, he thought, if I’m counting a kobold and a drow as the closest I have to allies? He turned to face Quarhaun. “Vestapalk is going to turn us into demons.”

The drow blinked.

“Demons?” said Vestapalk’s weird double voice. The dragon’s eyes were open and staring at them. “Demons,” he repeated, rolling the word on his tongue as if savoring it. “Beings of the Abyss, perhaps, but so much more than demons.”

“Your exarchs, then.” Albanon surprised himself at the angry challenge. “A demon is still a demon.”

“You might be Vestapalk’s exarchs—if you survive.” The dragon rose. Two strides brought him looming over Albanon and Quarhaun. “Nu Alin has told Vestapalk how the Voidharrow first entered the world. Some of these things Vestapalk already knew because the Voidharrow sings in his veins and the Elemental Eye whispers in his ear. Some of them he did not know. Some the Eye did not wish him to know and tried to keep from him.” He lowered his head to look into Albanon’s eyes. “You are the heir to those who tried to prevent the coming of the Voidharrow and then sought to guard it. They never understood what they faced. The gods would not speak of the Voidharrow, would they?”

Albanon’s anger faltered. “How did you know that?”

“The gods deny the Voidharrow—but they created it. When they chained Tharizdun, they created it. Why was Tharizdun imprisoned?”

It took Albanon a moment to realize that Vestapalk actually expected a response. As he fumbled for the answer, Quarhaun spoke first. “Because Tharizdun created the Abyss.”

The dragon’s gaze flicked to the drow. “With a seed of evil, yes? But when a seed exists, does it ever exist alone?”

Albanon glanced at Quarhaun, hoping he would answer this question as well. Quarhaun just looked back at him. Vestapalk hissed at both of them. “No! No seed exists without a source. Tharizdun planted the seed of the Abyss, but the gods planted the seed of the Voidharrow.” He reared back and his double voice rose. “Vestapalk is the Eye. Vestapalk is the Progenitor. Vestapalk is the Voidharrow Incarnate!”

His liquid eyes narrowed and his voice dropped. “Vestapalk is the end of this age and the beginning of the next.” He turned away.

“Master!” Tiktag, now tied to the last post, tried to reach out but his hands were bound close. “Don’t do this,” he begged. “I have served you well. I’ve read the omens at your side—”

Vestapalk flashed enormous teeth at him. “You read the omens, but you didn’t see their true significance. Even Vestapalk failed in that. But you are loyal, Tiktag. Embrace your transformation and it will be rapid. Not all are as favored as you.” The dragon stepped back to the middle of the courtyard, his tail whipping the air, and looked around at all of his various cowering and bold, weeping and defiant prisoners. “You will serve,” he said. “You will all serve.” He raised his voice. “Herald! Gatherer!”

From the far side of the courtyard, Raid and Nu Alin came forward. The face of the drow that Nu Alin inhabited was alight with anticipation. Her flesh bubbled and bulged obscenely, and Albanon could imagine Nu Alin’s fluid form churning within. Raid’s hideous face betrayed nothing, but he carried over his shoulder the leather sack that Vestapalk had previously coiled around. They both stopped in front of the dragon. There were no gestures of submission or respect. Raid simply swung the sack down from his shoulder and opened it.

Uldane had described sinister whispers and frightened wailing when Raid had opened the sack of golden skulls before. Nothing he’d described had prepared Albanon for the sound that filled the courtyard. No physical throat could have produced that noise. He heard it less with his ears than he felt it in his mind and in his soul. It tore at him, a cacophony of rage and fear and madness. The sound ripped an answering cry out of him. Quarhaun groaned. Prisoners around the courtyard whimpered and yelled and bellowed in agony. Even Nu Alin and Raid, even the unresponsive brute demons, looked uncomfortable.

Only one being in the ruins seemed unaffected by the noise. Vestapalk looked down into the bag. “Wail and cry,” he said. “Vestapalk has listened and heard all of your threats. You were defeated long ago. You are nothing. You are captives, Vestapalk’s to do with as he pleases!” He slapped the sack with the back of a forefoot and the wide leather neck slumped over. Perfect golden skulls, gleaming in the light of dawn, rolled out to clatter across the stones of the courtyard. Nu Alin and Raid darted around to gather and return them to the sack, but Vestapalk plucked one from the ground. Pinching it between two talons, he held it up before his eyes and stared for a moment into its metallic sockets.

Then his chest expanded as he inhaled. Against the background of the screaming skulls, one voice rose in a shriek. The gleam of the gold seemed to rise from the skull in Vestapalk’s grasp, streaming through the air and into the dragon’s mouth. The bright shine of the skull faded. The crystalline shimmer of the Voidharrow grew.

When the shriek had sunk to a whisper, Vestapalk sighed and let the skull drop. It hit the ancient stones of the courtyard with a hollow clang that sounded far more like iron or lead than gold. The rage of the skulls shifted, became more like fear. Vestapalk didn’t hesitate. “Another, Gatherer.”

Raid held up a second skull. Vestapalk didn’t bother contemplating this one; he simply drew breath. A second shriek faded to an agonized whimper. “Another—”

His lean, corded body shuddered abruptly. Pain flickered across his face and he snarled at the dulled metal of the skull in his grip. “Do not fight Vestapalk!” He thrust the spent skull at Raid and Nu Alin. “Two more. Quickly!”

Nu Alin pushed two skulls into his grip and Vestapalk drew on the essences of both at the same time. The shimmering flow of power was stronger this time. Albanon thought he could almost see inhuman faces, distorted by incredible agony, in the streaming light. When Vestapalk finally let the skulls drop, he didn’t sigh—he gasped like a laborer releasing a burden. His expression twisted. His tail, stretched out behind him, writhed and beat against the ground. He shuddered again and a low groan broke from his throat. He twisted his neck, snapping it back and forth. Raid looked at Nu Alin in concern, but the Herald just stared up at Vestapalk and smiled.

Slowly Vestapalk’s neck straightened and his heaving chest eased. The wail of the skulls faltered. Vestapalk reached out and folded the sack shut with one talon. “You have waited centuries,” he said. “Wait a little longer. Your power will return and Vestapalk will take it again.” He sighed and stretched, then looked around the courtyard to Albanon.

And the eladrin felt a shudder run through his own body. Power radiated from Vestapalk. His eyes swam, sparkling like running water, flashing like fine rubies. The Voidharrow dripped off of his scales like sweat and ran from his jaw like rain. The dust and stone where it dripped twisted and seethed as if alive. He smiled and spoke, dragon voice almost entirely hidden beneath a crystalline ringing.

“This is what you and your kind tried to prevent—but could not.”

Vestapalk turned to Tiktag. The kobold whimpered and tried to duck away, but Raid had bound him too well. The best he could do was tuck his face into his scrawny shoulder. “Tiktag,” said the dragon, his voice thick, “look at Vestapalk.”

Tiktag’s head came up slowly, unwillingly. Vestapalk bent over him. His tongue emerged from his mouth, a single drop of the Voidharrow pooling on its tip. With the tenderness of a parent, Vestapalk brushed his tongue across Tiktag’s forehead, smearing it with the Voidharrow.

Then Vestapalk moved away to his next prisoner, the human woman. His tongue ran around his jaws, gathering up the Voidharrow. “Look at Vestap—”

His words were lost in the scream that ripped out of Tiktag. The kobold’s head slammed against the post at his back as blisters erupted through his scales. Blood—true blood, not silver-red Voidharrow—oozed from his mouth and nostrils.

The largest blister swelled in the center of his forehead where Vestapalk had anointed him. As Albanon watched, the skin split and red crystals burst out of the center of his forehead like pus forced out of an infected wound. Tiktag’s eyes rolled back in head and his scream became one plaintive, tortured word. “Massterrr!”

Terror broke over the courtyard like a rock thrown into a looking glass. Prisoners who might have grown numb to fear struggled like animals to escape their bonds. The four-armed brutes that crowded around the courtyard answered their cries with mocking roars and shrieks. Vestapalk, however, seemed entirely absorbed in the ritual anointing of his captives—his features were tight with concentration, his every movement focused and deliberate. The chaos didn’t touch him. When the human woman didn’t raise her head to him, he just stared at her until Nu Alin stepped in, seized her head with drow hands, and forced it back hard enough to wring a cry from her lips. Raid shouted at the brutes, bringing some forward to restrain the struggling prisoners. Others came of their own accord to surge around the captives as if taunting them.

At Nu Alin’s side, Quarhaun cursed and thrashed, wrenching at the ropes that bound them together. Every time he pulled, the bonds dug deeper into Albanon’s flesh, but the eladrin hardly noticed as he stared at Tiktag. The kobold writhed like someone wracked with fever but with strength far greater than Albanon would have expected.

Strength great enough to snap limbs and joints. Tiktag jerked suddenly against his bonds and Albanon watched one of his legs twist sideways. Hip pulled from its socket. The kobold threw back his head, but if he screamed it was lost in the greater din of the courtyard.

Albanon forced his eyes away, but it seemed as if there was nowhere to look. He might have stood in the middle of a plague-house. He stared at the human woman, who now stood with all of her limbs locked stiff as blisters swelled against sweat-slicked skin. He stared at the lizardman that Vestapalk had turned to after, long strips of scales peeling away as he struggled in his bonds. At the old dwarf, his thick beard slipping from his face in wet clumps to reveal raw flesh beneath. At the ogre, the goblins—at all of the prisoners as the dragon made his way around the courtyard, anointing each in turn with the Voidharrow.

The disease began the same way in each: with blisters, the flush of fever, a sheen of sweat. Then crystals sprouting, like a crest or a birthmark, where Vestapalk’s tongue touched. The prisoner screamed or bellowed or cried out as joints cracked, bones stretched, and muscles swelled. Skin split, revealing changes in color and texture.…

Albanon forced his gaze above the nightmare scene. He needed to look at something else, something beautiful and familiar, before his mind shattered and he succumbed to despair. He lifted his eyes above Vestapalk’s horde, above the ruins, to the rising sun.

And to the small form briefly silhouetted as it ran across the top of a ruined wall.

Uldane?

His mind had to be playing tricks on him.

No, Albanon realized. No, it wasn’t! As if feeling his gaze on it, the figure paused for a moment and gave him a barely visible nod, then darted on into the shadows.

They’d come for him. Where Uldane was, Shara wouldn’t be far behind, and possibly Kri as well. His heart rose. They’d come to his rescue after all.

As fast as his heart rose, though, it fell even faster as a much larger, much closer figure put itself between him and the sun. Vestapalk looked down at him.

Albanon swallowed as he stared up at the dragon. Quarhaun stopped struggling and spat an oath in Elven. Vestapalk smiled at both of them. “The demons of the skulls feed the power of the Voidharrow,” he purred. “What would take hours or days if one of Vestapalk’s horde wounded you will be rapid. You have caused Vestapalk problems, but he has great hopes for you. You have been truly exceptional. You will serve well.”

His tongue flicked once and Quarhaun gasped. It flicked again and Albanon felt something warm like spit on his forehead.

Then the Voidharrow shoved itself under his skin and dug down into the bone beneath.

Agony closed Albanon’s throat. He wanted to scream but couldn’t. He squeezed his eyes shut. It almost seemed as if he could feel the Voidharrow moving through him, seeping into his veins, worming its way into his brain. Dull aches formed in his joints and spread along his bones. Fever swept over him in a wave of fire, the onset of disease compressed into moments. Albanon became aware of strange patches of numbness on the surface of his skin. The blisters, a part of him realized. The numbness didn’t last long—if it had, it would have been a mercy.

Pain condensed on his forehead. He felt the crystal crest of his rebirth tear through the skin. A scream finally forced its way out of his throat. His eyes flew open and would not close again.

He would have endured the pain of the Voidharrow for an eternity if he’d just been able to shut out what he saw before him.

“Albric and his followers were in the throes of the plague when the heroes caught them—still partly mortal beings, already changing into something else,” Kri had said of what the founders of the Order of Vigilance had witnessed long ago. “They became grotesques.”

Tiktag was growing—or at least he was growing tall. As Albanon watched, his flesh turned thin and stretched over his bones. Spines broke through the skin of his shoulders, pushing up and out, then splitting in two to reveal a fine crystalline membrane between them. Wings, Albanon realized distantly. But still Tiktag thrashed as the Voidharrow worked upon him.

Beside the kobold, the human woman’s body shriveled as her skull swelled. The bones of her cheeks and jaw cracked apart, then flexed in segments, like the limbs of some hideous insect. The lizardman thrashed arms and legs grown long, better suited to crawling on all fours than walking upright, but his movements were slower now, as if the Voidharrow had taken too much of his strength from him. As Albanon watched, he gave a last twitch and his long limbs went limp.

The old dwarf, however, groaned as a second pair of arms and plates of red crystal forced him to hunch forward—a brute demon, Albanon realized, but with a fierce, mad brightness in his face that the other brutes lacked. The ogre, already big, got even bigger, its hands spreading until they were broader than shields, its legs growing into fleshy pillars. Long, pointed crystals erupted across its shoulders and its eyes all but shrank until they disappeared in a featureless head. The ogre bellowed almost as if the changes were a release.

Maybe it was. Both of them had changed more quickly than either Tiktag or the woman. Vestapalk’s words to Tiktag came back to Albanon. “Embrace your transformation and it will be rapid.”

Or, the eladrin thought, resist it and perhaps the transformation would be slowed. Uldane, Shara, and Kri were out there. Maybe there was still hope. Fight it, Albanon told himself. He tried to dredge up all of the anger he felt toward Vestapalk, toward Raid, toward Nu Alin. Toward the Voidharrow, the ultimate cause of everything that had befallen him. Fight it. He forced the words out of his lips. “Fight it.” He twisted his head toward Quarhaun and spat the command at him as if to back up his own will. “Fight it!”

The drow’s black skin was lined with veins of liquid red crystal. His bones stood up against his flesh. His teeth, set in a grimace, bore a translucent sheen. The curse he snarled at Albanon through them was vile.

“Fight!” Albanon urged again—perhaps too loudly.

Vestapalk whirled on him. His head dipped and he peered at Albanon intently. A new pressure seemed to enter Albanon’s mind, shouldering past the pain on waves of the Voidharrow. For an instant. Albanon felt Vestapalk inside him. He screamed again.

The presence vanished. Vestapalk hissed. “Fighting,” he said, “will only make the pain last longer. You serve the Voidharrow now. You serve Vestapalk.” He straightened. “Herald! Prepare to leave.”

Nu Alin crossed the courtyard and took up the sack containing the golden skulls. Albanon saw Raid’s eyes go wide and watched him turn on Vestapalk. “The skulls are mine! I am the One Who Gathers!”

The dragon snapped at him. “The skulls are Vestapalk’s,” he said. “You are still the Gatherer. Increase Vestapalk’s horde.”

“What about the temple of the Elemental Eye?” Raid seemed angry. “The Chained God said that the power of the skulls would allow his temple to rise again.”

“The Chained God,” growled Vestapalk, “does not have the power he thinks.” His liquid eyes narrowed. “Who do you serve, Raid?”

The demon hesitated. “I serve Vestapalk. I serve the Voidharrow.”

“Then if you wish greater power, seek it out and claim it.”

Raid stiffened. “What? Where?”

Vestapalk’s mouth just curved into a harsh smile, then he threw back his head and roared. The brutes roared along with him. So did the demons that had once been a dwarf and an ogre.

And gods help him, a part of Albanon wanted to roar, too. To spit his anger at the sky. To inflict his wracking pain on the rest of the world. To embrace this torture and let it sweep him away.

Vestapalk’s roar faded into a triumphant snarl. “A new age begins!” he spat. “And you—you, Vestapalk’s minions and his exarchs—will carry it across this world. Prove yourselves. Go forth and destroy. Spread the Abyssal Plague!”

He turned in the center of the courtyard, liquid eyes raking those around him. “And if you can return to him again, your reward will be power even greater than what grows in you now.”

Power. The idea rose up out of Albanon’s pain and, for a moment, pushed it back. If he gave in, he realized, the agony would end. Pain distorted his vision, stretched it out as if he was peering down a dim tunnel, but he couldn’t have missed the satisfaction that crossed Vestapalk’s face as the dragon looked at him one last time.

Then Vestapalk bent down just enough to allow Nu Alin to vault on to his back. The demon settled his drow body, along with the sack containing the treasure of the Temple of Yellow Skulls, into the hollow between the base of the dragon’s neck and his wings. Vestapalk stood again and looked down at Raid. “When the plague has run its course, release those who survive. Let Vestapalk’s exarchs make their way to him.” Raid’s misshapen jaw tightened, but he nodded.

Vestapalk looked to the sky, gathered himself, and leaped. Vast wings that shimmered like sheets of crystal spread out to beat against the air, pulling his lean form higher. The dust that swirled up should have stung Albanon’s eyes, but against the agony of the Voidharrow it was nothing. Pain was like a claw raking through his flesh. It was a razor dragged across his mind. It was ice in his veins, freezing the blood into jagged shards that cut him as they grew. His shoulder cracked and popped as something inside him forced its way between bone and muscle. Dark shadows swirled over him,

Among them, Vestapalk banked in the air and looked down at those below.

“The new age has begun!” the dragon bellowed, then turned and started to climb. Like a flood of hulking flesh and red crystal, like children chasing a peddler’s cart, brute demons raced from the ruins to follow him.

Albanon wanted to follow the dragon. He needed to follow the dragon. The urge was a hunger almost as great as his need to inflict pain and destruction upon the world.

The demon’s need to inflict pain and destruction, he told himself. Albanon strained as he tried to push back against the Voidharrow. Maybe his resistance showed on his face, because suddenly Raid was before him. A fist slammed hard into Albanon’s face, then another into his belly.

The blows hurt far more than Albanon would have expected, as if his bones had turned thin and fragile beneath his skin. He choked and felt blood flow from his mouth, trickling slowly down his chin. Too slowly. Raid stepped close and one thick, rough finger swiped across Albanon’s skin. The demon held it up for him to see.

Silver strands mixed with the red.

Raid’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “You mocked me, Albanon. You defied me.” His hand shot out and wrapped around Albanon’s throat. “Now you’ll be like me.”

Anger—maybe his, maybe the demon’s—rose in Albanon. Getting a word past Raid’s grip was hard, but he managed it. “Never,” he choked.

Raid’s eyes opened wide with fury. His free hand drew back for another blow.…

The voice that rang across the ruins brought Raid spinning around and hope leaping into Albanon’s tortured soul. On the far side of the courtyard, Shara stood atop a low heap of rubble beneath the wall where Albanon had spotted Uldane. The halfling stood to one side of the warrior, Kri to the other.

Shara held a crossbow in her hands. The moment Raid turned, she raised it, sighted along the stock, and loosed the bolt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It was a bold gesture, but a useless one. The courtyard was just a little too far across for even perfect aim to have any chance of hitting a target. The bolt landed short and went skittering across the stones at Raid’s feet. He stared down at it, then up at Shara and her companions. Rage twisted inside him. Again! They dared to defy him again!

This time would be the last. No orders from Vestapalk held him back. “Kill them!” he howled. “Kill them now!”

Most of Vestapalk’s brutes had gone off in pursuit of him, obedient to the same need to follow that had tugged at Raid. Some had remained behind, though, and their tiny-eyed heads snapped around at his orders. Nostrils flexed and they moved, lumbering at first under the weight of their crystal armor, but more quickly as they gathered momentum. Not quick enough. Snarling, Raid drew his axes and raced into the lead. He could already imagine his blades biting into the flesh of the woman warrior!

His prey stood their ground, the priest reaching behind himself and producing a second crossbow that he passed to Shara. Once again, Shara raised the weapon and loosed a bolt.

The surprise as the missle punched into his chest was almost as sharp as the pain of impact. Raid staggered and stared for an instant at the feathered protruding just below his right shoulder. He hadn’t charged so far. If she hadn’t been able to hit him the first time, she shouldn’t have been able to—

She’d aimed short. Shara had taunted him by aiming short. He snarled and tore the bolt from his flesh, ready to charge again. But now Uldane had a crossbow, too, and Shara was aiming for a third time. Brutes were passing him, but it seemed that the warrior had only one target in mind. Raid dove to the side.

Fire flared in his leg and he rolled over with a second bolt buried deep in his thigh. He roared, not so much so with the pain of the injury but the humiliation of it. This was something that would happen to Hakken—it did not happen to Raid! He swung his axe at the trio, urging the brutes onward as he hobbled to his feet. “Forward! Attack!”

The priest had the first crossbow reloaded and back in Shara’s hands, but there was a wave of hulking figures between Raid and Shara now—he felt a certain satisfaction in the frustration on her face as she tried to sight on him and couldn’t. His breath hissed between his teeth and he snapped the shaft of the bolt off short. The brutes closed in.

At the last moment, Shara twisted and loosed again, then again with a reloaded crossbow from Uldane. Two brutes bellowed, though neither went down. Shara and Uldane leaped down from the rubble.

The priest, however, stood, spread his arms, and bent his head in prayer.

A bad feeling flashed through Raid. He’d seen this before. “No!” he roared. “Take him! Take him now.” Too late.

Shards of light condensed from the air before the priest, spreading out in a long wall that flashed with blinding intensity. The brutes stumbled and tripped over each other as they came to a halt before the wall. Raid’s rage ripped through him in a wordless howl. The nameless priest and his prayers were taking on some of the hatred Raid had reserved for Shara and Uldane. He shoved at the backs of the hesitating brutes. “Go through! Go through or I’ll tear you apart myself!”

They seemed to react more to his anger than his threats. Snarling as if his rage was contagious, the first of the creatures leaped through the wall. Snarls turned to hisses of pain as the light scorched their flesh, but they made it to the other side. Others made bold by their example, leaped to join them.

Fully half a dozen of Vestapalk’s warriors had passed through the wall before there was a sudden groan and crash from the other side.

Those brutes that remained on the courtyard side of the wall jumped back, Raid among them. A moment later, a single large, weathered stone rolled through the wall of light—and a moment after that, the light itself vanished to reveal half a dozen brutes writhing under fallen rocks. The ancient wall that had stood over the low heap of rubble had collapsed. It had been helped: Ropes left stretched on the ground and a long heavy stick marked where a key stone had been shifted to bring the wall down. Raid cursed.

And while the remaining brutes stood and stared, one of them bellowed and clutched at a crossbow bolt that sprouted suddenly from between its two left arms. Raid whirled and caught the flash of red hair as Shara ducked back among the ruins. Raid cursed again. “After them!”

The brutes jumped to obey his command, scrambling like hounds over the rocks that had buried the others. Raid almost followed them, but a nagging doubt pulled him around. He turned to look back at Albanon.

There was no hope for him—the plague was advanced. Some of the other prisoners hung limp in their bonds, freed from the Voidharrow by death, but Albanon was still moaning and groaning as his body fought the plague. Shara and the others had come to the temple ruins for a reason. He had them on the run, but they might still try to rescue the wizard.

Raid hesitated, then reached out and grabbed the last two brutes in the courtyard, pulling them around and pointing at Albanon. “Watch him,” he said. “If anyone comes for him, stop them.” His belly tightened with an idea, and he added, “But don’t kill them. Wound them.”

Shara and the others owed Vestapalk new minions. All it would take was a scratch.

The two brutes growled acknowledgement. Raid turned and plunged after the others, snarling the same order—wound, but don’t kill. The creatures had fanned out through the nearby ruins in their search for Albanon’s would-be rescuers. They weren’t having much luck. Raid watched brutes react as a bolt came hurtling from over a wall, stinging one of them. They converged like dogs on a piece of meat, but when they reached the wall, there was no one there. Their quarry had moved on. Another bolt cracked against crystal shoulder plates. The brutes reacted again.

Raid paused for a moment, then slipped his axes back into the holsters at his waist and dropped to all fours. His new form made it easy. Like a wolf on the prowl, he padded through the ruins, swinging wide around the milling soldiers. Again he caught the flash of Shara’s hair as she darted for a new cover.

Still staying low, he moved to get a better look at her position. She crouched behind a fallen column, peering just over top of it to watch as the brutes slowly spread out once more. Uldane crouched beside her, intent on cranking a second crossbow to reload it.

There was no sign of the priest. Raid smiled to himself. Another distraction. No wonder Shara was only peppering the brutes with the crossbow. It would take more than a couple of bolts to kill any one of them, but she and Uldane weren’t trying to kill them, only keep them busy. The priest would be going for Albanon.

The guards he’d left to watch the eladrin would make that more difficult. Raid could lead his stupid charges in closing around Shara and Uldane, then go and collect the priest.

And if the priest somehow succeeded in freeing Albanon? Raid hesitated—then reached out with his power, chittering a summons under his breath.

When they’d retreated in the night, the drow had left something behind.…

Shara rose to a crouch, braced the crossbow on top of the fallen column, loosed the bolt, and dropped down again. A snarl from another one of the four-armed demons was proof that she had hit. Uldane couldn’t help smiling as he handed swapped crossbows with her. “Perfect record!” he whispered.

“Just move,” she said tersely.

Uldane had their next cover chosen. As the monsters came charging for the fallen column, he led Shara behind a long stretch of heaped rubble to a section of wall split by a narrow crack. “Good?”

“As long as we keep leading them away, anything is good,” she said. She peered through the crack, then ducked back. “Where’s Raid?”

“I haven’t seen him. Do you think he stayed in the courtyard? He looked too angry to stay.”

“We need to find him.” Shara looked up at the wall. “Can you climb this? Keep your head down but see if you can spot him.”

Uldane nodded. He scanned the wall for hand and foot-holds—the ancient stone offered plenty of both—picked his route and started up.

He was just above the level of Shara’s head when the warrior’s hand grabbed his belt. “Uldane!”

There was urgency in her voice. He glanced down and found her looking out into the ruins on their side of the wall. He twisted his neck around to follow her gaze.

Three spiders bigger than he was perched on the rubble not ten paces away. There was a distinct red tint to their clustered eyes. Raid had found new friends.

He started to climb down. The biggest of the spiders let out a low, threatening hiss. He froze.

“What are the demons doing?” asked Shara.

Uldane leaned over—slowly—until he could peer through the crack in the wall. The hulking creatures were spreading out around the hiding place they’d just abandoned. He held back a curse. If they had to fight the spiders, the demons would hear and close in from the other side. Raid, wherever he was, had them trapped. “The demons are looking for us again. What are we going to do?”

Shara pressed her lips together. “I can take the spiders,” she said. “You hide. Keep drawing the demons away from the court—”

A scream cut her off. Two screams, rising from the direction of the courtyard. And as horrible as it had been listening to the terror and agony of Vestapalk’s prisoners as the Voidharrow had infected them, somehow this was worse. The spiders shrank back, seeming startled by the sounds as well.

Uldane glanced out through the crack in the wall. The demons were all staring in the direction of the screams—and beyond them, he finally spotted Raid.

Heading back to the courtyard.

He drew a breath and dropped away from the wall. “New plan,” he said. “Raid’s on the move.”

Shara gave a grim smile. The crossbow rose and she squeezed the trigger. The bolt buried itself in the head of one of the spiders and the creature leaped back, squealing and twitching. The other spiders froze for an instant, long enough for her to drop the bow and draw her greatsword. “Back to the courtyard?”

Uldane nodded. “Back to the courtyard.”

The spiders hissed again and came at them. Shara whirled and shoved Uldane along before her. “Go!”

The screams caught Raid off guard. There was something strange about them, something that ran across his nerves. The screaming of Vestapalk’s prisoners as they become his exarchs had been sweet. This was different.

Shara and Uldane, even the priest, vanished from his mind. Panic filled him. He lengthened his stride and raced for the courtyard.

The two brutes that Raid had left behind watched Albanon as if he might leap to the attack at any moment. Albanon stared back at them, breathing slow and hard against the building burn of the Voidharrow in his body.

He tried to focus past the pain. Was there anything he could do to fight the changes that the Voidharrow wreaked upon his body? Probably not, but by the moon of the Feywild, he could fight it in his mind and soul. Memories of happier days seemed increasingly distant, but he dragged them up with grim determination. Memories of Moorin and his apprenticeship in the Shining Tower. Memories of Splendid teasing him, usually in good humor. Memories of his first adventures with Shara and Uldane. Memories of his other friends, Falon and Darrum. Erak and Roghar. Tempest. Memories of Kri and of the cleric’s tales of the Order of Vigilance.

His friends were close. All he had to do was fight the Voidharrow—and the pain—a little longer. He tried to imagine what Shara and the others were doing.

He certainly didn’t imagine the small form that came plummeting from the sky to whirl around the two guards.

“You!” shrieked Splendid. “Lummoxes! Muscle-bound clods! Think you can catch me?”

One of the demons swatted at her. She darted nimbly between waving arms to perch on its crystal shoulder plates. The brute snorted and tried to grab for her but its arms couldn’t quite reach. The pseudodragon ducked, then lashed out with her stinger. The demon roared and spun in pain. Splendid launched herself back into the air. “Do I have your attention now? Come and get me!”

She swirled once in the air above the courtyard, skimming low enough that Albanon was certain he saw a look of horror and sorrow in her eyes when she looked at him—then she was speeding off into the ruins with Raid’s guards snorting and snarling as they chased her.

“Pseudodragons are remarkable creatures,” said an accented voice from behind Albanon. “Loyal beyond death. It takes a lot to get them to change that loyalty.”

Albanon tried to twist his head around. “Kri!”

“Don’t move or I might cut you.” Something pulled at his bonds—a knife, Albanon thought—and they began to loosen. “We have to hurry. There isn’t much time.”

The cleric sounded grim.

“For Shara and Uldane?” Albanon asked.

“No,” said Kri. “For you.”

The last bonds parted and Albanon almost fell. His legs felt numb. He hadn’t realized how much the post had been supporting him. He felt Kri try to catch him, but he shrugged the old cleric off. “Don’t! The Voidharrow—”

The words came out pinched and harsh, grating along Albanon’s throat. He barely recognized his own voice—but what there was of it stuck in his throat as he caught sight of the hand with which he tried to hold Kri back. The fingers had all but fused together. He no longer had a hand, just a crystal-tipped … spike.

Terror rose in him. He felt the pain. He’d fought the Voidharrow. But he hadn’t been able to see the changes that the Voidharrow had wrought in him before. Until now. He raised his other hand. It was almost a spike as well. His legs, his feet—he tried to tear at his robes to see. The demon that Vestapalk had planted in him rose like a fever. His breathing became harsh.

Kri grabbed his arms. “Albanon, calm down! I need to try and stop the Voidharrow.”

Calm. Albanon took another breath and fought back against the demon. It seemed like he had been fighting so long that it was second nature, but how long had it really been since Vestapalk had brushed the Voidharrow across his forehead? The sun was still barely a hand span above the horizon. He spun, staring at the other captives in the courtyard.

He couldn’t call them captives anymore. If they still lived, demons stared back at him. They stood quiet, like sleepers newly woken, spent in the aftermath of their transformation. Dead or alive, the familiar forms of orcs, goblins, humans, ogre, dragonborn, all of them, were now alien … things. Albanon looked to the demon that had been Tiktag and a wedge-shaped head with a single glowing eye looked back at him.

A whisper came from the tiny mouth below that eye.

“Fight.…”

Albanon twisted around to Quarhaun.

It was no longer like staring in a mirror, that was certain. The drow looked like a black skeleton twined about with veins of crystal. Like the brutes, he now bore a second pair of arms, though his were spindly and rose from gaping sores on his chest. His original arms dangled almost to his knees. His mouth had changed, become a tooth-filled circle like a lamprey’s. But his eyes … they were tinged with red now, but they were still the wide, round eyes of a drow.

And they stared at him with desperation.

Albanon turned back to Kri. “Both of us,” he said. “Help me and him.” He nodded to Quarhaun.

Kri blinked. “A drow? But—”

Albanon lunged at him. “Do it!”

The old cleric gasped and looked down. Albanon followed his gaze—and flinched. The crystalline point of his fused fingers dimpled the golden chainmail over his belly. Albanon staggered back. Kri touched his stomach as if in wonder that he hadn’t been stabbed, then nodded. “I’ll try.” He grabbed Albanon and dragged him over closer to Quarhaun. “Do you remember in Andok Sur? When I cleansed you after the kobold wounded you? This will be worse.”

Keeping a hand on each of them, he tipped his face back, closed his eyes, and murmured the words of a prayer.

Searing white light seemed to burst inside Albanon. It burned him, not in the way that the Voidharrow had burned, but as if the sun had suddenly risen inside of him. The light shone into every part of him, into the secret corners of his mind and the darkest recesses of his soul. It stripped him bare, scouring the impurities from him. Burning away the Voidharrow.

A scream rose from his throat, but it was his voice. Pain pierced him, but it was clean pain, untainted.

But just like the transformation of the Voidharrow, it seemed to go on … and on … and on. His throat became raw. His eyes felt like they would steam in their sockets. His body seemed to tear itself apart.

When it ended, he would have staggered, but every muscle in his body was locked and rigid. His head was back. His back was arched. His fists were clenched.

His fists.

Albanon forced open his eyelids and stared down at two hands with long, graceful fingers and thumbs. He looked up and saw Quarhaun, once again his dark reflection, clinging to the post for support. “By the gods!” Albanon gasped. “Kri, you—Kri!”

The cleric knelt on the ground, trembling with weakness. Albanon squatted down and wrapped his arm across the old man’s back, drawing him up. Kri’s breath hissed between his teeth. “That took more than I thought.” He jerked his head. “Get us out of here—”

A howl of fury and disbelief interrupted him. “No!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Albanon turned so quickly that Kri almost slipped from his arms. Raid glared at them from across the courtyard. “This isn’t possible!” the demon roared. An arm came up, pointing an axe at them. “I will not be denied. This time … this time you will die!”

Quarhaun scowled and stepped forward. “He talks too much,” he said in Elven. His eyes narrowed and his hand stabbed out, throwing a crackling blast of dark energy at Raid.

The demon twisted to the side with incredible speed. The bolt went sizzling past him. Quarhaun’s eyes opened wide in surprise and he flung another bolt. Raid spun away from that one, too.

A murmur passed through those prisoners that still lived as if the fight was finally rousing them from their stupor. Albanon’s gut clenched. Half a dozen prisoners appeared to have survived the plague. Could the Voidharrow really have made them all exarchs as powerful as Raid? If even a few of them were, he and his friends were in trouble. He shook Kri. “We need to leave now.”

The cleric’s head came up and he glanced around. His weary face cleared instantly as he grasped the danger of the awoken prisoners. “All-Knowing Mistress be merciful!”

But he wasn’t the only one. A grin passed across Raid’s face. “Your god has no place here now.” He darted to the closest prisoner and slashed at its bonds. The big brute that had been the old dwarf stretched four muscular arms and lumbered forward. Tiny red eyes fixed on Quarhaun. The drow cursed and loosed another churning blast.

The demon simply hunched down, tucking head and arms beneath the crystal plates across its back and shoulders. Quarhaun’s bolt hit the plates, crackled across them—and dissipated. Quarhaun gaped in astonishment.

But there was more movement on the edge of the courtyard as Shara and Uldane came charging out of the ruins. Shara saw Raid and the new demons and almost stumbled in astonishment. Uldane didn’t stop at all. His hand flicked and a pair of bright steel daggers flashed at Raid. The demon batted one aside with an axe. The other found his shoulder. He snarled in pain. “Stop them!” he ordered and the big brute demon lunged.

Shara blinked and brought her greatsword up to meet the demon’s grasping claws. Thick gray hide sliced off in a chunk. The demon snatched back that hand, but raked at Shara with three others. She threw herself to the ground to avoid them then scrambled up and continued on across the courtyard with Uldane.

Right behind them, more than a half dozen brute demons along with three massive spiders came pouring out of the ruins.

Raid roared with delight as soldiers and spiders swarmed around him. He gestured with his axes at the remaining bound prisoners. “Release them all!” As the demons moved to obey, Raid seemed to chitter at the spiders and they came crawling around the edge of the courtyard. Quarhaun cursed again and immediately turned to face the ruins behind them.

“What is it?” Albanon called to him. “Are they that fast?”

“No,” said Quarhaun, “but we brought more than just three spiders with us last night.”

Albanon twisted around and peered into the ruins. The light of the morning sun left shadows sparse, but he could count at least four more eight-legged forms lurking within what shadows there were. He cursed. No escape for them through the ruins.

Shara and Uldane stumbled to a stop beside them. Uldane threw his arms around Albanon’s legs. “You’re better! It worked.”

Kri just pushed himself away from Albanon and scowled at both the halfling and the warrior. “Why did you come back? You were supposed to be leading them away.”

“Forgive us,” said Shara caustically. “When the screaming started and Raid headed back, we thought you might need help.” She nodded across the courtyard. “We wouldn’t have brought demons if we knew you already had your own.”

Albanon watched the new demons—Vestapalk’s new exarchs—as they stepped out of their bonds and moved their bodies for the first time. Each was distinct, but there were similarities between many of them. Most were lean and hard; a couple were, like the brutes, massive and powerful. The demon that had been an ogre was unique in its size. Others were unique in their utter strangeness, no longer even bipedal but insect-like, crawling on multiple crystalline legs. All of them glittered with the silver-red crystals of the Voidharrow.

Of them all, however, only the soldier demons showed any inclination to mix with others, whether of their own kind or not. The rest inspected each other, standing apart or at best circling each other like suspicious dogs. One or two of them hissed and growled, spines of red crystal rising over their shoulders and spines.

Raid didn’t seem to notice. Like a victorious general, he stood before the motley collection of demons and exarchs, almost twenty of them in total, and raised his axes high. “You have seen the beginning of a new age,” he bellowed at Albanon and the others. “It will be the last thing you see!” The axes came down. “Attack!”

The other demons didn’t move. Raid whirled in shock. “You! Obey me!” He glared at the demons and thrust an axe at Albanon again. “Attack!”

Some of the brutes Raid had commanded before shifted and looked around almost uncertainly, but they didn’t move. The demon exarchs only looked at Raid and between themselves. A few drew back a pace, opening up space around them.

“What are they doing?” Uldane asked in a whisper. “Why aren’t they attacking?”

“They’re challenging each other,” said Kri. The old cleric’s hand rested on his holy symbol. His eyes were wide in astonishment. “By the Book of Insight, Vestapalk made a mistake. He made too many leaders. Demons will only follow the most dominant among them.”

Shara adjusted her grip on her sword. “Even if they’re fighting each other, I don’t want to be in the middle of a demon battle.”

“Neither do I,” agreed Kri.

The ogre demon lifted its blind head, nostrils testing the air. A gravelly growl rolled out of its throat. Other demons around it tensed. So did Shara and the others—but the massive head just turned, looking away to the west. Other demons turned that way as well.

In the direction Vestapalk had flown. Albanon’s heart seemed to skip as a memory from the nightmare of his transformation came back to him. A powerful need, a desperate yearning, an almost undeniable urge.

An urge that might still save them. Before any of the others could move, he stepped forward and raised his voice. “Vestapalk commanded that you follow him! Obey him! Find your master!”

Demon eyes turned to him, unworldly gazes that made Albanon’s skin crawl. Raid spun around. “You! What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Kri echoed Raid. “Albanon, no! If the exarchs get out into the world, they’ll only spread the plague faster.” The cleric grabbed Albanon’s hand.

Albanon shook his off. It took all of the eladrin’s effort not to glance at either Raid or Kri. He kept his attention on the other demons, watching their reaction. And after a heartbeat, they looked away from him to each other, then once more to the west after the dragon.

He had them. The certainty of hope rose in him. “Vestapalk has the power you need,” Albanon shouted. “Find him. Claim your power!”

He had almost been one of them. He knew what they felt. He knew what they would do—and he was right.

The ogre demon broke first, turning and charging west like a juggernaut. An unfortunate brute got in its way and was run down. The other exarchs turned, too, scattering, each taking its own path in pursuit of the call of the Voidharrow.

Kri let out a shout of protest and turned accusing eyes on Albanon—just as Raid cried, “No!” and grabbed for the retreating demons. They snapped at him and slipped aside, moving on without a second glance. Only one seemed inclined to linger: the slight, wedge-headed winged creature that had been Tiktag backed slowly away, single eye moving from Raid to Albanon and back. Raid ignored it as he tried to draw back the others.

“Obey me!” he said. “Follow me. This is my destiny!” His clutching hands found some of his brutes and hauled them back. “You will stay. And you. And you. And”—Raid paused, chest heaving, then turned to glare at Albanon—“you. This is your doing. You’ll pay for this!”

He threw himself across the courtyard.

Swept up in his rage, the soldiers he had clawed back came with him. A cold calm descended on Albanon. From twenty demons to four. Even if one of them was Raid, it was better than he could have hoped for. “Fight!” he snarled at the others, then swept a hand before him and spoke a word of magic. A bright blue spark darted at Raid, bursting around him in a cloud of swirling mist.

The demon didn’t even slow. He burst from the mist with frost clinging to him, silvering his chest, face, and hair. But then Kri was beside Albanon, chanting a prayer, and Quarhaun was beside the cleric, stabbing out with both hands. Bolts of blazing light and crackling darkness ripped at Raid.

And still he kept coming. His axes swept down.

Shara caught them on the blade of her sword as Uldane darted in behind to stab with daggers at the demon’s gangly legs. Raid roared and hopped, then leaped back. As the remaining three brutes rushed in to take his place, Raid let out a chittering call.

It was answered from the ruins. Cursing, Quarhaun spun again, put his back to Albanon’s, and called out an ugly incantation. Albanon felt a chill breeze on his neck and heard a thin, fluttering wail. Some of the chittering from the ruins became squealing, but not all of it and not enough.

Spiders behind them. Demons before them. The cold calm Albanon had felt began to unravel. He swallowed and cast a spray of flame at two of the brutes. One of them screeched, but the spell wasn’t enough to force either of them back. Raid roared with battle-crazed joy.

“I will not be rejected. I will not be denied. I am Raid. Challenge me and die!”

The call of the Voidharrow was strong. Far stronger than he had ever expected. A hundredfold stronger than his loyalty to Vestapalk. Or what had once been his loyalty to Vestapalk.

It took effort but Tiktag pushed back the call.

He’d thought he could save his master, but Vestapalk had never been in danger. The dragon had embraced his transformation. The only one Tiktag had failed to save was himself. He had tried to fight the Voidharrow when he realized Albanon and the drow were doing the same thing, but he’d been too late. The part of him that was Tiktag hung above the maw that was a demon.

How much longer did he have? For now, he was still here. For now, he was still Tiktag. He could still fight.

I do not want this, he screamed into the silence of his mind, I do not want to be like Vestapalk! I reject him. I reject the Voidharrow!

“I will not be rejected. I will not be denied. I am Raid. Challenge me and die!”

Tiktag’s head snapped up at the words. Raid stood like a giant, confident and strong. Albanon, Shara, and Uldane fought back to back with the drow and the human priest, surrounded by brutes, spiders, and Raid. They were like him, Tiktag realized, holding their own but only until they fell. More like him than he could ever have hoped to be like Vestapalk.

The first time Tiktag had seen Raid, a part of him had hated the man’s strength. His ability to challenge even Vestapalk. Tiktag remembered wondering if he’d ever be able to challenge a dragon himself.

But he had done that, hadn’t he? He’d resisted Vestapalk and the Voidharrow. He was stronger than he thought.

And he wasn’t finished fighting yet.

Albanon’s gut dropped as the demon that had been Tiktag moved for the first time.

What had it been waiting for? Thin crystal wings spread and blurred as it leaped into the battle. Something unfurled from behind the demon’s shoulder—long, lashing, grasping tentacles. Albanon’s gut dropped even further.

Until the tentacles wrapped themselves around Raid’s arms. The bigger demon cursed and turned, but Tiktag pulled back, hauling him off balance.

And for the moment, out of combat.

Albanon caught the flicker of a glance from Tiktag’s single eye. As Shara and Kri—Uldane had joined Quarhaun holding off the spiders—blinked at the sight of one demon fighting another, the eladrin clenched his jaw. “Don’t let up!” he shouted. “He’s helping us!” Wishing he had his staff now, he conjured a bolt of silvery force from the air and hurled it at the nearest brute. The thing staggered back, briefly dazed.

Shara seized her opportunity. She swung hard, putting all of her weight behind a sweeping upward cut. Her greatsword sliced into the demon’s stomach, tore through its chest, and sheared up into its head. The creature’s skull might have been thick and armored above, but from below it was soft and vulnerable. The force of the blow snapped its head back. Shara’s sword grated along the inside of its skull plate. The demon toppled instantly.

Raid snarled in anger. He yanked hard on the tentacles restraining him and Tiktag, smaller and lighter was dragged through the air. One tentacle let go of Raid’s arm and slapped at his face. The larger demon roared and snapped sharp teeth at it.

Kri’s expression turned grim. He raised his holy symbol. “Let the light of the gods rise against our enemies!”

Earthbound lightning burst between the stones of the courtyard in the same glowing web that Kri had turned against Raid once before. The remaining two brutes screamed as it crawled up their legs, drawing smoke from their flesh. Again, Shara took hold of the moment. This time her sword whirled out flat, opening the demon’s belly. The brute bellowed in agony as it sank to its knees. Albanon took the second demon: A thin blue ray darted from his finger and caught the demon right in the throat just as it was raising its head to bellow.

The cry died inside it. Frost blossomed around its throat. The demon clawed at it, but succeeded only in raking deep gouges in its own frozen flesh. Its jaw opened and closed helplessly. Teeth clenched. Albanon sent another bolt of force right into the snapping mouth.

The demon toppled backward with half its jaw shattered. The light of Kri’s prayer writhed over it. Behind them, the angry chittering of spiders gave way to frightened hisses, Uldane’s laughter, and the crackling of Quarhaun’s magic as he hurled it again and again. Albanon glanced over his shoulder to see the spiders in retreat from Kri’s light as well.

The light didn’t catch Raid, though. The demon leaped high, yielding to the drag of Tiktag’s tentacles and using it to give extra power to his leap. With a strange whistling cry of distress, Tiktag tumbled back.

Raid came down right beside him. One of his axes had fallen from his grasp as he struggled. He still had the other.

He buried it in the center of Tiktag’s chest. Tiktag fell without another sound, crystal wings ceasing to beat, writhing tentacles falling limp. His body still heaved, though, and his single red eye stared at the weapon embedded in him.

Raid left it there and turned to face Albanon and the others. “This … is … not … possible!” he said between his teeth. “You cannot defeat me!”

“No?” asked Kri. “Why not? What did the Elemental Eye tell you? What did Vestapalk tell you?” The cleric’s voice was low and dangerous. “Did they promise you greatness, Hakken Raid? Did they promise you a destiny?”

Raid’s eyes blazed. “Don’t call me Hakken!” he shouted.

Kri shouted right back at him. “What is the secret of the Voidharrow? What is this new age that Vestapalk has declared?”

Raid stiffened, a sneer crossing his misshapen face. “Find out for yourself,” he spat—and spun around quick as a thought. In one blurring continuous motion, he wrenched the axe from Tiktag’s chest and hurled it at Kri.

Dark hands seized the old cleric’s arm as Quarhaun threw both Kri and himself aside. An instant later, the spinning axe whirred through the space where Kri had been. Shara snarled and turned for Raid, sword already rising.

Raid’s response, however, struck greater fear into Albanon than the hurled axe had. The demon leaped, reaching for Shara with slashing claws, each ragged nail glittering with the Voidharrow. The two had always fought with weapons before. One scratch from Raid.…

Albanon heard a voice as if at a great distance and almost belatedly realized that it was his. “Shara! Down!”

The warrior’s reflexes took over. Shara broke her charge, throwing herself to the ground. Albanon thrust a hand at Raid, palm out, and pushed.

It was a spell that Moorin had been teaching him in the days before his death. Maybe on the very day of his death. Albanon had never attempted it outside those lessons, but it felt right now, his master’s legacy.

Unseen force raised a cloud of dust as it blasted it into the demon and hurled him across the courtyard. Raid crashed into one of the ruins’ fat pillars hard enough to bring loose stones pattering down around him. For a moment, his mismatched eyes—human and demon—blinked in a daze. Then they focused on Albanon and fury flared in them again. Raid rolled to his feet, dusty and battered but still willing to fight.

“I will not,” he growl, “be denied!”

Albanon stared at him, bare chest heaving, misshapen face bloodied—and clenched his jaw. “You keep saying that. But you know what? It’s not going to stop me from doing it.”

Raid’s eyes—all of them—opened wide. With an enormous roar, he came leaping back across the courtyard, glittering claws ready to rake and rend.

Grim anger tightened Albanon’s belly. They’d fought Raid twice before and ended up running from him.

Not this time.

The Voidharrow had escaped to infect Vestapalk because of them. He’d experienced the agony and horror of the Abyssal Plague. He couldn’t allow anyone else to suffer that. Not this time. Not ever.

Albanon focused all of his will on Raid, let his anger build, then spread his arms and shouted words that sizzled on his tongue.

Flames exploded around Raid. The last Albanon saw of his misshapen face, it was wide with shock—then pain. His roar rose into the air as he burned. “I am Raid! I will not be denied! I will not be—”

The words ended in a shriek and a burst of greasy, black smoke. An instant later, Raid’s charred corpse tumbled to the ground in a spray of cinders.

“Sorry,” said Albanon. “You have been.”

A shadow seemed to pass over Nu Alin. For a moment, he felt ill and maybe a little cold. Colder than he already felt, at least: Vestapalk flew so high that the features of the land below blurred together, so high that the horizon bent with the curve of the world.

But the shadow wasn’t just his imagination. Vestapalk shuddered under him and Nu Alin knew that he had felt it, too. He leaned forward, pressing the frost-bitten cheek of his host to the dragon’s neck. “Master!” he called as loudly as he could. “What was that?”

The wind whipped Vestapalk’s answer back to him. “Raid is dead.”

“Dead?”

Vestapalk chuckled. “Don’t fear, Herald. The ocean can spare a bucket of water. Raid was nothing. He played his role. Now there are others to take his place. Vestapalk feels them. They will hasten the spread of the new age as they search for this one.”

Nu Alin knew that what the dragon said was true. The Voidharrow was far more now than just the tiny amount Albric had first called into the world. Its power blazed so bright within Vestapalk that Nu Alin felt as if he rode a second sun across the sky. “Where are we going, master?”

Vestapalk banked suddenly and the panorama swung before Nu Alin. Far ahead, mountains broke the smooth curve of the horizon. In the middle of them reared one in particular, a mountain with the wide flat peak and drifting smoky plume of a slumbering volcano.

“We go,” said Vestapalk, “to plant a seed!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

They left the Temple of Yellow Skulls quickly. None of them felt like lingering.

Before they left, however, Albanon knelt down beside Tiktag. To his amazement, the transformed kobold—Albanon had difficulty thinking of him as a demon, no matter what he looked like—moved fitfully and opened his single eye.

“Fought,” Tiktag said. “Strong.” The deep wound in his chest pumped something like dark blood with every word. “Yes,” said Albanon. “You were strong. Your attack gave us an opening. You saved us. Raid’s dead.”

The narrow mouth in Tiktag’s wedge-shaped head seemed too small to form a smile, but Albanon had the impression that the kobold was trying. “Vestapalk—”

Albanon nodded. “We’ll stop him.”

Tiktag’s hand sought Albanon’s. His grip was weak but surprisingly hot. “Was a proud dragon,” he said. “My … master.” His hand slipped away but his eye remained on Albanon. His small mouth worked as he tried to form final words. He took a shuddering breath and wheezed, “Kill me.”

Albanon pressed his lips together, stood back, and cast a silvery bolt of force through the kobold’s head. Tiktag jerked at the impact, then lay still. Albanon turned away with regret and rage mingling inside him.

They made a camp beside a stream in the woods outside the ruins—Uldane scowled at the stream like he was meeting an old nemesis—as the sun passed its height and settled into afternoon. Shara was the first to approach Albanon. “That was Vestapalk’s wyrmpriest,” she said.

“Tiktag,” said Albanon. “We talked while I was Vestapalk’s prisoner. He was scared of what the Voidharrow had done to Vestapalk, too. He was going to help me escape.”

“A kobold turning against his dragon?”

“I don’t think he ever turned against Vestapalk. Just against the Voidharrow.”

Shara grimaced. “Even after Vestapalk turned him into a demon?” Albanon nodded and sat back against the trunk of a tree. Shara was silent for a moment, then asked quietly. “What was it like?”

Albanon’s guts knotted all the way up to his throat. He closed his eyes, a sensation he’d never take for granted again, then opened them and looked at the warrior. “Terrible. I know how Tempest felt after Nu Alin possessed her now.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t rescue you sooner. We had to rest before we caught up to you and Kri said—”

He held up a hand, stopping her. “I can guess what Kri said. The fight against the Voidharrow was more important than I was. I understand.”

Her face twitched into a smile. “Actually, no. He just kept us from rushing in too fast.”

Albanon looked up and across their rough campsite to stare at the cleric in surprise. Kri raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Albanon felt a bit shaken. Kri had barely even acknowledged him since he’d burned Raid and the Voidharrow.

Shara didn’t seem to notice. “Maybe we should have rushed a bit more. When we got there, you were surrounded by demons. We had to wait for an opportunity, and unfortunately that didn’t come until Vestapalk left.”

“It was amazing!” Uldane chimed in. “You were tied up and changing and Vestapalk was making his speeches, but Kri just put his hand on his holy symbol and prayed. His god told him when it was best for us to make our move.”

The halfling practically bounced with excitement, his old energy returned, but a question nagged at Albanon. “I thought he said that the gods refused to answer questions where the Voidharrow was concerned.”

Shara shrugged. “Maybe Ioun relented. They say the gods favor fools.” She nudged Albanon and nodded slightly with her head. “What about him?” she said softly.

The “him” she referred to was Quarhaun. The drow remained on the other side of the campsite as well, as far from Kri as he was from them. Pausing only long enough to retrieve a cruel looking black greatsword from among the ruins, he’d accompanied them in their departure, an unspoken ally after he had stood with them to fight off the spiders and the demons. Albanon had introduced him to the others and Quarhaun had nodded to them, but then retreated into awkward solitude. Albanon waved for him to join them. “Come sit with us. Talk.”

Quarhaun’s expression tightened. He replied to Albanon in Elven.

“What did he say?” Shara asked.

The drow answered for himself. “My Common is not good,” he said with a thick accent. He rose and came over to join them, however. “I don’t speak it in the Underdark.”

“I saw you in the temple before,” said Uldane. “Were you looking for the treasure, too?”

Quarhaun grunted. “Bad timing for us. When we found Vestapalk in the ruins with the skulls, we decided to attack. Bad choice.”

“Were you the only survivor of your attack?” said Shara. Quarhaun wrinkled his nose.

“Better if I was. I sacrificed a priest of Lolth to try and escape. I didn’t think any drow saw, but someone did. She escaped. I didn’t. If I go back now—” He mimed ripping out his heart. He looked around at them. “What will you do now?”

Albanon glanced at Shara and Uldane. Shara’s face darkened. “Vestapalk’s still alive. I want him dead.” She turned to Quarhaun. “He killed my father and the man I loved.”

The drow nodded in understanding. Uldane, however, just seemed to sag a little.

“Shara,” he said, “this can’t just be about Borojon and Jarren anymore. They were my friends, too, but that can’t our only reason to go after Vestapalk. He’s dangerous. He’s got demons backing him up. Look at what he did to those people in the ruins. And this new age he was going on about?”

Shara stared him. “He killed them!” she said harshly.

The halfling just spread his hands. “This is bigger than our revenge now.”

“Uldane is right.”

Albanon turned. Kri stood over them, his wrinkled face unreadable. “We need to let go of our prejudices and expectations. We need to stop thinking of vengeance and of Vestapalk as just a dragon.” He gestured for Albanon. “Follow me.”

Kri turned away. His stomach fluttering, Albanon went after him. Kri stopped a short distance from the camp at a spot where a turn of the stream made a little pool that sparkled in the sun. The cleric stood looking down into the water for a long moment. The fluttering in Albanon’s stomach increased. “Kri, I’m sorry I sent the exarchs away after Vestapalk. It was the only thing I could think of. If they’d stayed, they would have killed us, wouldn’t they? I didn’t think. I just needed to stop Raid and the Voidharrow—”

“Albanon.” Kri turned to face him. “If you hadn’t gotten them away, we’d be dead and we both know it. Yes, they’ll spread the Abyssal Plague, but we still have the chance to stop it. If you hadn’t done what you could, we wouldn’t be here at all. The Order of Vigilance—such as it is—lives because of your quick thinking. And what’s more, you stood up to me when I confronted you. I respect that. You’re growing.”

“I’m—? You—?” Albanon blinked in surprise. He tried to smile, but found he couldn’t. “Kri, we failed. Vestapalk is out there somewhere just dripping with the Voidharrow. He has exarchs on the loose, and all we’ve managed to do is kill Raid and a few brute demons. It feels like we’ve completely let down the memory of the Order.”

“Don’t say that.” The cleric shook his head. “You did a lot, Albanon. We know more than we did because of you—and you were willing to sacrifice yourself for the cause. I’d say that shows tremendous respect for the Order.” Kri reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “And you fought the Voidharrow on a personal level that no member of the Order ever has. I’m proud of you. Moorin would be proud of you.”

A smile and a sense of satisfaction finally came to Albanon. “Thank you, Kri. That means a lot.”

“Good.” The grip on his shoulder turned to a pat. “Now go back to the others. I need to meditate. You need to rest and try to enjoy yourself.”

The old cleric’s voice was light, but Albanon caught the tension underneath his words and knew what he really meant. Rest and try to enjoy yourself—until we have to sit down and figure out a way to stop Vestapalk.

Uldane’s voice rose from the direction of the campsite as he launched into another of his stories. One of his tall tales sounded like exactly the sort of thing Albanon wanted to hear. He put his hand over Kri’s for a moment, then turned away. Suddenly the days of his apprenticeship and his longing to leave Fallcrest seemed far, far behind him. The town might be only a few days’ journey away, but in his mind, he’d already left it for the wider world.

And he finally felt like he was ready.

Kri watched Albanon disappear into the trees—then waited a few moments more before he allowed his old body to sag. It had been so long … and he had come so close. “Ioun, you taunt me,” he said. He wrapped his hand around the holy symbol at his throat and felt the familiar shifting within.

He glanced over his shoulder. Albanon was gone. The campsite was invisible through the trees. He pulled the crook and eye symbol of Ioun from his neck and looked at it for a moment, lying in his palm.

Then he unscrewed the lower portion of the shaft and slid out the tiny crystal vial, as slim as a reed and less than half a finger’s length long, that lay hidden inside.

Within the crystal, a drop of red liquid caught the sunlight as it moved back and forth in its prison.

His own secret. His own connection to the Voidharrow. Kri closed his fist around it.

“Soon,” he whispered.