from a low branch and tossed it to Uldane, who caught it and took a hungry bite, making little grunts of delight as he chewed.
Suddenly hungry, she picked an apple for herself as well and polished it on her cloak. Fire apples were named for their brilliant red color. She lifted it to her mouth, but paused with her mouth half open. Some insect or worm had gnawed at the fruit, tearing the skin and leaving a jagged wound. The blemish in the scarlet skin conjured images in her mind of rough crystal growths and crimson liquid.
The color of the Voidharrow.
She didn’t feel hungry any more. Uldane didn’t seem the least bit put out by the color, though, so she handed him her apple. “Here’s one for later,” she said.
“They’re delicious,” Uldane said, sliding the apple into a pouch at his belt.
“I’m glad.”
As Roghar hurried into the northern wood to retrieve the horses, the rest of the group drew steadily closer to both the Five-Arch Bridge and the burning wreckage of the Nentir Inn. Shara kept alert, looking for ambushers hidden near the inn, but no demons leaped out from the trees to attack. Once she thought she saw something moving in the blackened husk of the inn itself-something besides the leaping flames, that is-but no threat materialized.
And they reached the bridge. About halfway across its fifty-yard span, a dozen bright torches marked the position of the soldiers posted to hold the bridge against the demons.
“Safety and a warm bed,” Shara said with a sigh.
“Maybe for you,” Quarhaun said.
She turned to look at the drow, who was eyeing the bridge uncertainly. “What do you mean?”
“I think the chances of those soldiers welcoming me to Fallcrest are slim. Is there another way into town?”
“Why wouldn’t they welcome you?” Shara said.
“Because he’s a drow,” Uldane said. “It wouldn’t be too much of a problem in normal circumstances. We’d vouch for you, they’d give you a warning not to act up, and that would be the end of it.
Quarhaun nodded. “But with the town under attack?” he said. “Not a chance.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Shara said.
“You think so?” Quarhaun asked. “You don’t know your people very well.”
“My people? I’m from Winterhaven.”
“We can disguise you,” Uldane said. “Or just cover you up enough that they can’t really see you.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Roghar said, rejoining the group with the horses in tow. “If Shara and Uldane trust you, that’s good enough for me, and I’ll vouch for you to the guards. They’ll heed the word of a paladin of Bahamut.”
Quarhaun laughed, though there was no joy in it. “You two have seen what’s happening here, right? Everything Shara and Tempest were saying? You saw the demons we fought? As far as those guards are concerned, I’m part of the town’s troubles. I might as well be a demon myself.”
“We’ll wrap you up,” Uldane said. “Like a mummy!”
“He’s right, Roghar,” Tempest said. “Even you have encountered your fair share of mistrust, especially in more remote villages where they don’t see many dragonborn.”
“And that mistrust vanishes when they see my shield and witness Bahamut’s presence in me.”
“Well,” Quarhaun said, “if people mistrust dragonborn and fear tieflings, they loathe the drow. It’s not that they haven’t seen many drow-it’s that they’ve seen them and learned to hate and fear them. And I don’t have a divine dragon head on a shield to make people like me. What do I have? A warlock’s eldritch blade, carved with symbols of the infernal power I wield. I’m sure that will help my cause.”
“Then it seems you are reaping the benefits of the life you have chosen, warlock,” Roghar said.
“Roghar,” Shara began.
“The benefits of a life lived without divine meddling?” Quarhaun said. “I’ll take them with all their drawbacks, if it means I’m not the pawn or plaything of some supreme machinator with nothing better to do than wreck people’s lives.”
Roghar drew himself up to his full height, nearly seven feet of scaled fury. “I am not Bahamut’s pawn or plaything,” he said. “I am his champion, his agent in the world.”
“I fail to see the difference. I’ve seen many champions sacrifice themselves in the gambits of the meddling gods.”
“Champions of what god? The Spider Queen? Certainly she is a schemer with no loyalty to her agents, but Bahamut-”
“You know him well? Speak with him personally? You’re so sure he’s better than Lolth?”
“Of course I am!”
“That’s enough, you two,” Shara said, planting herself, greatsword in hand, between them. “Theological questions are beyond the scope of the matter at hand.”
Quarhaun opened his mouth to say something, but bit it back with a visible effort. Roghar slowly relaxed his aggressive stance.
“Maybe not like a mummy,” Uldane said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Tower of Waiting stood dark and silent against the slowly brightening sky. The ancient doorway stood out as a slightly darker shadow in its side, gaping open and empty, the door long since broken down or rotted away. Albanon led the way into the tower, holding his glowing staff high and scanning the shadows at the edge of its light for more demons.
The interior of the tower was as different from the Whitethorn Spire as Albanon could imagine. Instead of a spacious, graceful entry chamber that stretched the entire height of the tower, he found a small, dark antechamber that was barely high enough for him to stand. Three more doorways led out of the chamber, each one cluttered with rubble from the tower’s slow collapse.
“Which way?” Albanon said, glancing back at Kri.
The old priest started and snapped his head around to look at Albanon. “What?”
“I said, which way do we go? Is something wrong?”
“No … no. I don’t think so.”
“Kri? What is it?”
“There’s something … do you hear something?”
Albanon listened, but all he could hear was Kri’s breathing, uneven, a little heavy, nervous. He closed his eyes and extended his other senses to feel the flow of magic in the tower. In contrast to the sense of a fabric or weave he’d noted in the Feywild, or the flow he felt in the river, the tower itself seemed to his senses like a storm, furious but contained, magic churning within the confined space and flashing like lightning in places it was hard for him to pinpoint. Much of the energy seemed angry, perhaps malign or even demonic, but it was much harder to identify any specific source to it, a particular demon or anything else, than it had been in the Feywild.
“Whispers in the dark,” Kri said, his own voice a harsh whisper.
Albanon opened his eyes. Kri was half crouched, clutching his morningstar, looking around wildly.
“I don’t hear anything,” Albanon said. “Kri, what’s wrong?”
“I … I don’t know. Something’s wrong. Something’s definitely wrong.”
Albanon’s heart was pounding. He’d never seen Kri like this-his new mentor was usually so calm, in command of himself and of all around him. Even in the grip of the urgency that had propelled them from the Whitethorn Spire to the Tower of Waiting, Kri had been in charge, barking commands and making plans. Now he appeared unable to complete a sentence.
So I need to take charge, Albanon thought. And why not? I am no longer an apprentice.
“It’s all right, Kri,” he said. “Just follow me, and we’ll get to the heart of this. We’ll find out what’s wrong.”
