“The Chained God is chained no more, Albanon,” he said. “He emerges from his prison. And you are a witness. You will be my right hand in the new temple of Tharizdun.”
The words washed over Albanon without registering any meaning, but they left a foul taste behind. Billowing shadow loomed up around him, threatening, but Albanon could feel the promise of power beneath the threat- power that could destroy him or exalt him. Kri wielded that power already, and slowly Albanon understood that Kri was offering to share it with him.
Not offering, he realized-Kri presented him no option to refuse.
His mind grasped at the last word he’d heard, Tharizdun. Three syllables, nine letters, three threes. Each third was a microcosm of the whole, and the whole could be expanded into an ever-growing geometric formula …
Albanon’s body shook with building power and he let it out in a flash of lightning and roar of thunder that hurled Kri away from him and across the room, shook the Vast Gate, and even seemed to push back the billowing mist for a moment. In that moment, he threw himself at the gate.
A snaky tendril caught his ankle and sent him sprawling. Black slime crept toward him on every side, and he felt the full brunt of the Chained God’s awareness focused on him. That more than any physical restraint kept him pinned to the ground, straining to keep a hold on his fragile mind. The physical manifestation of the god, he realized, was just the tiniest extrusion of Tharizdun’s power, like a fingertip poked through the little hole between worlds created by the Vast Gate.
Then Kri was beside him again, looking down and shaking his head. “Albanon, you fool,” he said. “You could have become one of the mightiest beings in all the worlds. Instead, you will be the first thing destroyed when the Eater of Worlds makes his return. The first of many.”
Albanon felt himself lifted up, like an insect pinched between the fingertips of a mighty giant, and drawn toward the Vast Gate. Tendrils of black slime held him aloft, dangling upside-down, as wafting shadow swirled around him. With a jolt of fear, he realized that the tendrils holding him were part of Kri now-the old priest’s legs were gone, replaced or fused with the sickening mass of sludge that extended out to cover the room.
Albanon hung before the Vast Gate and stared into the void beyond. The vastness of nothingness threatened to unhinge his mind again, but he forced himself to consider the curvature of the gate’s archway and the crystalline structure of its substance, which he had helped Kri to form and to focus.
Focus. With the power of the Chained God still flowing through the gate, its focus was fixed in place, the connection between the world and the god’s prison firmly established. That didn’t mean it couldn’t be changed, though.
He had no time for thought, not with the Chained God’s eye fixed on him. Swinging in the grasp of Kri’s snaky tendrils, he planted a hand on the crystal of the Vast Gate and exerted his will to change its destination.
Kri yanked him away from the gate and the smooth crystal fell away from his hand, but too late. The blackness within the arch blinked and vanished, and the power and will that had filled the room was gone. Slimy tentacles still writhed everywhere, and a cloak of misty shadow still surrounded Kri like a manifestation of the power that churned within him, but the Chained God was cut off. Where there had been inky blackness and roiling malice on the other side of the portal, now there was only a dry plain.
“Damned fool,” Kri said. “You are wasting my time. I will kill you, then, and refocus the Vast Gate myself.”
Another inky tendril wrapped around Albanon’s neck, and Kri began to pull from both ends of his body, as if to tear him apart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Roghar stepped out of the Silver Unicorn and was greeted by a cheer-a handful of ragged voices raised in his honor after too much to drink in the local public house. Their acclamation had seemed much louder in the confined space of the inn’s common room, and their numbers had looked greater as well. He looked around the cluster of soldiers and counted about a dozen, all clutching torches and weapons, stamping their feet and clanging steel against their shields.
“What in the Nine Hells was I thinking?” he muttered to Tempest.
“Hush,” she said. “These people need leadership, and they know a hero when they see one.”
“That certainly explains the welcome we received on the bridge.”
“You promised them what they need. Now give it to them.”
He glanced down at Uldane and saw the halfling beaming up at him, the anger of the last hour and the bitterness of his final exchange with Shara apparently forgotten in the excitement of the moment. “You raised an army, Roghar!” Uldane said. “Well, it’s more people than we had when we fought the demons on the bluffs, anyway.”
Somebody set a wooden crate on the cobblestones in front of him and he stepped onto it, looking out over his little army. A line of vermilion across the eastern horizon marked the approach of dawn, though a few stars still burned brightly overhead, shining through chinks in the cloud and smoke that draped the sky. He drew his sword to more cheers, and lifted it high over his head.
“People of Fallcrest!” he said.
Slowly the cheering diminished as the soldiers quieted to listen to him. He let his eyes range over the crowd-he counted fourteen this time-and tried to size them up. A couple were professional soldiers, judging by the quality of their arms and armor, but most were militia, ordinary folks who had risen to the defense of their homes. That was perhaps the only advantage he could claim in the battle ahead. His soldiers would be dedicated to protecting their town. That would have to suffice.
“We face a foe unlike any you have faced before,” he said when the cheers had quieted. “These are not orcs from the Stonemarch, come to sack and burn the way they did ninety years ago. These are not bandits united under some warlord, come to plunder and pillage. You’ve seen them. These are demons, spawned in the dark pit of the Abyss with just one purpose-to destroy everything we know and love. The farms of our neighbors are burning, the Nentir Inn is aflame. Lowtown has become their haunt, and the forests across the river are silent.”
Roghar looked at each soldier gathered there-now he had eighteen-and saw fear in every eye. Good, he thought. They should be afraid.
“But they can be fought,” he went on. “You saw that tonight. Some of them are creatures of living fire, others are nightmare made manifest. But they’re all still flesh and bone that sword and spear can pierce and break. Their greatest weapon is fear. Ours is hope-hope that casts out fear, hope that strengthens our arms to protect our homes, hope that shines light into the darkness!” He lifted his sword again and it began to glow, growing stronger until it was a blazing sun, a beacon of divine light shining across the square.
The little army erupted in cheers again, and at that moment the sun broke over the horizon, sending beams of light into the clouds.
“For Fallcrest!” Roghar shouted over the cheers. “For Bahamut, and for glory!”
Twenty-four soldiers stood before him now, cheering and rattling their weapons. His army had doubled in strength in the time he had taken to speak to them. He wondered how much larger it might grow if he spoke longer, but he shook off the thought. His soldiers were ready to fight, and there would be no better time to strike.
“To the bluffs!” he called. “First we take the Market Green!”
Roghar stepped down off the crate. All around him, soldiers clapped him on the shoulder or slapped their swords against his shield. Tempest and Uldane found their way through the soldiers to his side, and together the three of them led the way down Market Street toward the bluffs.
“Well done,” Tempest whispered to him as they walked.
“Thank you.”
“Your timing was amazing,” Uldane said. “Did you know that the sun was going to rise at that exact moment?”
Roghar laughed. “I had my eye on it, but I basically got lucky. Or else Bahamut put in a good word for me
