verdant fields. Dust and static and cold dissipated as he trudged out of the Plaguewrought Land. He’d made it across!
A flash of white
The lush waterfall vanished as young Duvan dragged himself, exhausted, across a small meadow and collapsed by the trunk of a small cypress tree. The spray that had fractured the sun into rainbow droplets vanished, leaving behind dry grass and sporadic scrubby trees.
Just a mirage. Disappointment flooded him, and he let it sap his will to go on.
Sun shone down on him, warming the chill in his bones. Compared to the excessive gusts of the Plaguewrought Land, filled with flying rocks and dust, the gentle wind felt like a caress. Maybe he could still make it. He’d made it this far through agility and determination and never giving up. He just needed to gather his strength. Then he could find water.
A flash of green
He must have passed out. He awoke to find elf faces staring down at him. They had bronze skin and long hair adorned with forest plants to camouflage them. The elves looked at him with pity, with fear, with concern.
They had come from Wildhome, this small cadre of elven rangers and druids. They offered him food and water, and he accepted. They set up camp around him, too afraid that moving would injure him. Rhiazzshar was not among them. These were not elves he knew, although he thought he might have seen one or two when the wide- ranging scouting teams had come through the Chondalwood.
Had they come for him? How had they known to find him here? He had just made it across the changelands, crawling through the belly of the beast.
The elves were going to take him back. After the impossible trip through the most chaotic and dangerous place in Faerun, he was just going to go back to captivity, to Rhiazzshar. To torture. He wouldn’t let them. He would kill himself rather than go back. He hated them all.
A flash of red
A few days later, the encampment came alive when sounds of a troop of men on horseback approached. Led by a tall woman with long, auburn hair, the armed force looked well enough trained that it would give the small encampment trouble.
First, however, the tall woman spoke to them in sweet, honeyed words. Tyrangal was her name, and just listening to her gave Duvan a rush of joy. Many of the elves obviously felt the same way, and those who didn’t were afraid of her. They certainly would not risk engaging the Copper Guard in combat.
Duvan watched in awe as the elves packed up and rode away, leaving him with Tyrangal and her men. He did not know what this wonderful and frightening new captor would do with him. He did not entertain hope. He’d been down that path before, and it always had led to greater disappointment.
Tyrangal sent the elves home. And after the last horse had disappeared down over the low, rolling grassland hills, the strange woman came to Duvan. She dispelled the charm she had put on him and the others, and she told him that he was free to go wherever he wished. She told him that she would like him to work for her. And that if he did, he would be paid handsomely for his efforts.
She laid out the possibility of a new life for Duvana life of learning and adventure, if he allowed her to guide him. But she emphasized that he was free to refuse her offer. She was not going to force him to do anything. He could walk away freely if he wanted.
Duvan didn’t believe it. And over time, as he slowly came to realize that she had not been lying, he broke down and cried. He still had the nightmares every night, but now he was in charge of his own destiny. Tyrangal hoped that he would stay with her and perform the tasks she requested, but he was always asked and never forced.
A flash of blue
Duvan awoke with a start. He opened his eyes and looked around. Arched stone ceiling streaked with soot. He was in the same room, most likely underground. Maybe beneath the Changing House. The smell of sweat and ashes and healing balm filled the room.
He was still lying on the table where he’d been tortured. Apparently not dead yet, he thought wryly, as ghost sensations of earlier pain filtered back into this consciousness. The room was quiet and felt largely empty, except for Vraith speaking with two others on the other side of the door. He could only catch snatches of words and phrases.
His magical bonds from earlier had been replaced with leather ones. One of the absent spellcasters must’ve been keeping him immobile earlier.
Discreetly, he started testing the limits of his bonds, while focusing to try to understand the conversation outside the room. Vraith’s northern accent was easy to recognize, but he could barely hear enough to follow what they were saying.
“monk is working with us fully now… best of both worlds.”
“… believes he’s free, but the… visions from… Masters of Absolute Accord.” Laughter.
Then Vraith’s voice rose clear and loud. “We must prepare for the festival now. Soon we shall all be part of an historic moment.”
“What about our guest?”
“Continue the testing as appropriate. Jahin will stay. Push him to his limits, but don’t let him die.”
Duvan shuddered. More pain like he’d been through, only to be healed up for further torture? He’d rather die.
He gritted his teeth.
Duvan’s hands slid free of his bonds, and he sat up quickly. Looking around, he noticed a small table on his left, upon which were several knives and a pair of iron tongs. Apparently the planned torture wasn’t limited to just the magical variety.
Duvan grabbed one of the knives, palmed it, then put his hands back against the bonds. Anyone scrutinizing them would know immediately that he’d slipped out, but a casual glance might not give him away.
Hesitation would mean more pain, more and prolonged agony. And even if all that his escape attempt brought was death and an endless oblivion, it was better than writhing in pain. The door opened.
“I think he’s awake again,” said the genasi. “Shall we continue?”
Duvan had made his decision.
“Let’s try this…”
And with that, dread like a dark hole in the slimy recesses of Duvan’s gut penetrated his soul. He felt unclean and smelled waves of putrid spray sluicing off his body. He was being corrupted from the inside out.
There was no choice. There were no other options. This realignment of his soul felt wrong in every way that something could be wrong. If he could beg for it to stop, he would.
If he had to die to make it stop, he would.
With that thought, his reticence vanished. With practiced agility, he spun the knife in his hand, feeling the hilt lock into position in his grasp. Even if he failed to kill all of his captors, Duvan would be making his own choice at the end. He could decide his own fate.
The genasi mage, Jahin. was closest, her attention focused on the torturous spell she was casting.
Duvan sprang free of the table, leaping at the mage in a blur. He brought the knife to bear, aiming for the genasi’s hands. Anything to stop the spell.
Jahin reacted too slowly. Shocked, she stumbled backward as Duvan’s blade slashed with surgical precision along her arm and wrist.
Duvan’s legs shook and buckled from weakness. As he collapsed to the ground, he watched as Jahin’s blood sprayed from the cut in her wrist. She fell back and came down on one knee.
Pain wracked Duvan’s muscles as he braced his fall with outstretched arms. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he struggled to his feet. Which of his captors would be his next victim? Looking past Jahin, clutching her gushing wrist, Duvan caught sight of Renfod’s dark head.
A frown graced the cleric’s face, but there was no fear there. The man seemed to be irritated, and his mouth was uttering something Duvan couldn’t hear. A prayer for magic.
I need to stop him from finishing, he thought.
With all his effort, Duvan lunged across the room toward Renfod. One step. All his attention focused on the effort to get to the cleric before the spell was complete. Two steps. Duvan knew that he’d be caught again if
