wasn’t willing to wait longer than it took to have her wounds cleaned and bandaged. “Albanon saved me,” she said. “Do I honor his actions by hesitating when he is in danger?” She even took charge of the wizard’s staff from Uldane.
In less time than it had taken to battle the perytons, they set out across the valley for the scorch-marked cliffs. The Tigerclaws led the way, bounding through the forest with the grace and speed of animals. Shara, almost as at home in the wilds as the barbarians, and Uldane, very nearly as fast, followed close behind. Quarhaun, Tempest, and Belen came after, moving as quickly as they could.
Roghar brought up the rear, the shield and heavy armor that had saved his life on many occasions encumbering him as he ran. In a short dash, he might have kept up with one of the others. Sprinting in armor was part of his training routine, but one only intended to get him quickly around a battlefield. Over longer distance, he would only exhaust himself.
When Tempest and Belen slowed to keep pace with him, he just waved for them to keep going. “I’ll get there,” he shouted. “The trail’s impossible to miss.”
“You shouldn’t be walking alone,” Tempest called back.
“We just killed the largest predators in the valley. What’s going to bother me?” He banged a gauntleted fist against his breastplate for emphasis.
Tempest and Belen exchanged a glance, then the tiefling shrugged and they carried on. Just ahead, Quarhaun paused to give Roghar a long, thoughtful look. Roghar curled his lips and glared back until the drow had gone on with the two women.
He dropped to his knees in a soft clashing of metal. Alone! Truly alone for the first time in two days. Letting the shield slide from his arm, he pulled off his right gauntlet-and almost sobbed.
The abrasion inflicted by Vestagix’s tail had grown into an oozing wound. His scales were shriveling and falling out, leaving the raw flesh beneath exposed. The veins almost seemed to be rising to the surface. Red and pulsing, they snaked out from the wound to push aside healthy scales. Roghar could feel the infection, too. From the tips of his fingers almost to his elbow, his arm burned with a slow, aching heat.
And was it is his imagination or had his left arm started to burn as well? He didn’t dare take his other gauntlet off to look.
Roghar clamped his hand around his arm just below the wound and squeezed as if he could cut off the flow of tainted blood. “Holy Bahamut, Righteous Dragon,” he prayed just as he had morning and night since Winterhaven, “I beg you to heal this wound!”
The sluggish stirring of divine energy was the same. It answered his call, a new warmth caressing his skin, but he knew in his heart that it wasn’t the same as it had once been. When he opened his eyes, the oozing wound had dried and scabbed a little, but it was still there. His arm still burned.
Bleakness settled over him like a heavy cloak. He’d tried to hold it back for several days, but what difference had it made? The Abyssal Plague had him in its grip. Prayer would not drive it away, only hold it back. And it was only getting worse. The night before, stumbling and exhausted in the forest, he’d briefly felt… something… inside him, like a nightmare intruding on his waking mind.
How long would it be before he lost himself entirely and became one of Vestapalk’s demons?
No, Roghar told himself, he wouldn’t let that happen. He picked up his shield and bent his head before the holy symbol on its surface. “If you can’t heal this plague, Bahamut, then give me the strength to fight it. Let me be myself until Vestapalk is dead, then I will surrender to my fate.” He clenched his burning, infected fist. “I swear it.”
He didn’t wait for his god’s response-it would hurt too much if there wasn’t one. Pulling his gauntlet on again, he rose, picked up his shield, and followed the trampled path of the others through the forest.
By the time he’d caught up to them, they’d reached the foot of the towering cliff. From so close an angle, the ledges where the perytons had nested were nearly impossible to make out. The black scorching from the brilliant burst of light stood out, though. Roghar joined Turbull, Belen, and Tempest as they stood staring up at it. “Where is everyone?” he asked.
“Looking for the best route of ascent,” said Belen. “Uldane thinks there should be a way up that he can climb. Quarhaun says it’s insanity but he’s looking, too. The drow has almost as much feel for stone as a dwarf.”
“Coming from the Underdark, he would.” The words came out gruffer than he’d intended-as so many of his words seemed to lately. It earned him a sharp glance from Tempest. He turned away rather than meet her gaze.
The trees grew thinner close to the base of the cliff, but the underbrush became heavier. Hardy vines clung a short way up the stone face itself. Here and there, they’d been torn back to expose the rock beneath. Where the vines had protected it, the surface was pocked by potential handholds. Farther up, however, it was weathered almost smooth. Uldane would need to find a more sheltered spot or a vein of some hard stone that might have resisted the weather.
If there was still any need to make the climb. The dragonborn cupped his hands around his muzzle and bellowed “ Albanon! ”
The echoes that rolled back at him were the only response. “We’ve tried that,” Turbull growled. “No answer. Not even a pebble dropped over the edge as a sign.”
“So we could be trying to rescue a corpse?”
Another glance from Tempest. This time it irritated Roghar more than it shamed him. He glared back at his old friend. “It’s a possibility.”
“He could be lying wounded. He might not be able to answer. We’re going after him.”
Roghar wanted to apologize, to tell her that he’d never meant to question whether they’d go after Albanon. Something dark and angry rose inside him, though. Who was Tempest to question him? He tried to fight the feeling down, but it still came out as a derisive snort. Tempest’s eyebrows drew together beneath her horns and she frowned.
Anything else she might have said was interrupted, however, by a shout from along the cliff face. There was a snarl to it, but also an uneasy whine, like a frightened animal-it must have been one of the Tigerclaws.
Long experience adventuring together took over. Roghar and Tempest exchanged a knowing glance and followed the sound. The paladin led with his shield up and a hand on his sword, while the warlock followed a couple of paces behind, her rod at the ready. But they weren’t the only ones to investigate. Belen fell in beside Roghar while Turbull raced ahead. Other Tigerclaws seemed to melt out of the forest and rush past them. Uldane caught up to them. “What was that?”
Roghar shook his head and shoved the halfling back with Tempest. Ahead, the Tigerclaws, together with Shara and Quarhaun, were gathered around something on the cliff face. The shifters were growling and unsettled, for the most part keeping their distance. Shara saw Roghar and the others and waved them forward. Roghar pushed through-and growled as well.
There, vines grew higher than normal on the cliff, but some had been pulled down. What lay beneath was not rough rock, however. The stone surface had been worked smooth and flat-and carved with a jagged spiral.
“The sign of the Elder Eye,” said Cariss. She made a gesture Roghar guessed was meant to ward off evil. “In Winterbole Forest, a few monstrous creatures with an affinity to ice and cold make offerings to it.”
“Packs of Riven, too,” Hurn bared his teeth and spat. “Filthy, feral traitors to the tribe.”
Roghar saw Belen flinch at the mention of the Riven-Hurn’s anger had struck too close to her secret. He tried to change the subject. “It’s the symbol of Tharizdun,” he said. “The Chained God tries to lure worshipers in the guise of the Elder Elemental Eye.”
“And not all exiles from the tribe turn to the Elder Eye, Hurn,” said Turbull. “They turn their backs on the Spirit of Hota, but they don’t become beasts.” His face tightened as he studied the jagged spiral, though. “Elder Eye or Chained God, I don’t like the sign’s presence in this valley. What is it doing here? Who carved it?”
Quarhaun stepped closer to the rock face and his pale eyes narrowed. “The symbol isn’t the only thing here.” He drew his sword, stretched up and placed its tip in the center of the spiral, then pulled the sword carefully down the stone.
Dirt and fine debris peeled away after it, revealing a dark, straight line in the rock. “It’s a seam,” he said. “This looks like the work of dwarves.” He grabbed a handful of vines and pulled them away to expose more of the smooth surface. Shara went to help him. Then Tempest. And Uldane. And Turbull, and Belen, and others. In a short time, all of the vines along that stretch of the cliff face were down.
