Roghar regarded Uldane thoughtfully as he directed another jet of wine down his throat. Then he wiped his snout and handed the skin to Uldane. “You’ve noticed it too?”
“It’s hard to miss, isn’t it? We were going to go after Vestapalk. We were going to cut the head off the snake and end the plague. Instead…” Uldane shrugged. “We’re building walls. I mean, not that it isn’t a fine wall, but why are we trapping ourselves behind it?”
A proverb of Bahamut’s priesthood rose to Roghar’s tongue: The shield is enough for many. Not everyone was capable of carrying the fight to the enemy. Building the wall was as useful as striking beyond it.
The proverb didn’t escape his mouth. Instead he said, “I know what you mean.” He took back the wineskin before Uldane had a chance to drink, swallowed, and looked down over the empty, smoking streets of the lower town spread out below. Down there on the Market Green, he, Uldane, the warlock Tempest, and the wizard Albanon had destroyed the ancient bodystealer Nu Alin, the very first of the plague demons created by the foul substance known as the Voidharrow.
The creature’s death had been the end of the attack-the end of the battle for Fallcrest as the remaining demons scattered without his command to drive them on. The four of them had returned to the upper town in triumph, filled with plans to strike out after Vestapalk. They even had a clue where to find Vestapalk, thanks to lingering collective memories held by Belen, a human defender of Fallcrest who had been possessed by Nu Alin before his destruction. Vestapalk, their ultimate enemy, had taken a lair in a volcano west of Fallcrest, beyond the Ogrefist Hills that formed one edge of the Nentir Vale, using his command of the Voidharrow to transform it into something he called the Plaguedeep. Belen had experienced the knowledge through her communion with Nu Alin and the rest of the plague demons while possessed. They could go after him and end the threat once and for all.
Except that only hours after their celebration, Albanon had pleaded for more time to study their enemy. Before the attack, he and his treacherous mentor, the old priest Kri, had only just returned to Fallcrest after venturing into the Feywild to a tower that had belonged to the founder of an order dedicated to countering the Voidharrow. Albanon had brought back books and scrolls. If he could take a day to study them, he said, maybe they could find some advantage over Vestapalk and his demonic forces.
One day had turned into two and then six. Enough time for Roghar to muster workers and build a gatehouse while they waited on the eladrin wizard. Enough time that they could have reached Vestapalk’s doorstep by already.
The longer they waited, the more obvious it became that Albanon didn’t want to go.
“When do you think he’ll be ready?” Roghar asked Uldane.
The halfling joined him at the edge of the wall. “He’s not studying.”
Roghar looked down at him sharply. “You mean right now or never?”
“Right now. He’s over that way,” Uldane gestured vaguely into the upper town, “helping Tempest distribute more useful stuff than wine to people who need it… I don’t know about never. Never is a long time.”
“Uldane,” Roghar growled.
“Not in the last couple of days, at least. I know he asked us to stay out of the study at the top of the tower, but I peeked in a couple of times. He wasn’t there but I don’t think anything has been touched since the evening before yesterday.” He looked up at the dragonborn. “Whatever he’s doing, he’s not looking for answers in those books and scrolls.”
Roghar clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together. “We need to talk to him.”
“Do you think…” Uldane hesitated for a moment before pushing the words out. “Do you think it’s because of Shara?”
The paladin considered his answer before he spoke. Although she had stood shoulder to shoulder with him and the others in the past, the warrior Shara had not taken part in the final fight against Nu Alin. Instead, she had slipped away, turning from the defense of Fallcrest in pursuit of her own vengeance against Vestapalk. The murder of her friends and family-among them her father, Borojon, and her love, Jarren-by the dragon haunted her. She’d left at the side of her new lover, Quarhaun-a drow, as hard and cruel as the hatred Shara held for Vestapalk.
Roghar couldn’t find it in himself to support her decision. Nor did he think Albanon was particularly wracked by grief, certainly not to the point of delaying their departure from Fallcrest. The guilt that crept into Uldane’s eyes whenever Shara’s name was mentioned, however, was painful. He was one of her oldest friends and he’d been with her when Vestapalk had slaughtered their companions. He’d also been the last to speak with her. To argue with her, in fact. His harsh words, accusations that Shara dishonored the memory of Jarren by loving Quarhaun, had been the wedge that split their friendship.
“I think,” Roghar said carefully, “that none of us should let the choices Shara made hold us back. We have a greater duty now. Shara went looking for Vestapalk, too. If we’re looking for him, maybe we’ll find her along the way.”
“Just her?”
Uldane didn’t mention Quarhaun by name, but Roghar knew exactly what the halfling meant. Roghar had no love for the drow, either. He wrinkled his muzzle and looked back out over Fallcrest’s lower town. “There is no peach without a-”
Figures moved among the ruins, running hard along a rubble-strewn road. Roghar squinted, trying to make them out. “Uldane,” he said, “look there. Just where the Blue Moon Alehouse used to be.”
Uldane eyes were sharper than his. “I see them. And I see what’s chasing them!” He flung up an arm and Roghar looked where he pointed.
Some distance behind the running figures, more shapes came bounding over the rubble of what had been a gate in the wall of the lower town. Where the figures in the street ran on two legs, their pursuers ran sometimes on two, sometimes on four. The afternoon sunlight flashed on red crystal as the creatures ran and a shift in the wind brought a faint, inhuman shriek to Roghar’s ears.
“Plague demons!” he spat. “Uldane, you said Albanon and Tempest were close? Get them!” He whirled and leaped off the wall, drawing cries of surprise from startled workers.
“You’re going down there?” Uldane called after him. “Armed with what?”
“Bahamut’s warriors may set aside their weapons, but they never leave them.” Roghar reached into a niche and pulled out a canvas-shrouded bundle. The wrapping fell away as he lifted the bundle, revealing his sword and a shield emblazoned with the dragonhead crest of his god. He looked back up at Uldane. “Hurry and I’ll let you come with us!”
“Like you could leave me behind.” The halfling sprinted off along the wall.
Around Roghar, townsfolk were reacting as others caught sight of the pursuit below. Some screamed in fear that the refugees might lead the demons straight into their haven. Hardier souls shouted for members of the guard to go to the refugees’ aid, but the few guards close to the scene only looked at each other in confusion. They would never organize themselves to reach the lower town in time. Roghar slid his arm into the familiar straps of his shield and touched the fingers of his other hand to the holy symbol on the shield’s face.
“I answer your call, O Bahamut,” he growled. “Put speed in my feet and strength in my arm.” He snatched up his sword, flicked away the scabbard, and charged through the half-finished gate. “ For Fallcrest! ”
“Bless you, eladrin.” The old woman’s gnarled fingers fastened on Albanon’s hand before he could draw away and she looked up at him with weary, but grateful eyes. “May all the gods smile on you.”
Albanon stiffened, but forced himself to answer kindly. “May the gods of light smile on us all,” he answered and slid his hand away, leaving a fat wedge of cheese from the basket he carried in the woman’s grasp. She turned, breaking the cheese in two to share with an even older man.
“You get blessings,” murmured a voice in his pointed ear, “I’m lucky if I get a surly look, although there was one charming child that spit at me by way of saying thank you.”
He answered without thinking. “Maybe some kind of mask or a hood. Or a bag over your head.”
The air seemed to warm around him and he caught a distinct whiff of smoke and sulfur. “You’ve been around Uldane too long.”
Albanon blinked, shook his head, and turned to Tempest. The tiefling stood behind him with her eyebrows arched so high they almost merged with the curled horns on her head. Her thick, fleshy tail lashed the air and her dark red eyes glared at him. A hint of the infernal power she wielded both by heritage and by bargain rose from her.
“Sorry,” he said hastily. “I didn’t mean that. I think it’s Uldane and Splendid both.”
