The Glass Prison (15 page)

“I must talk to you,” Vheod shouted earnestly up at the two of them.

The chainmail-clad man ignored him, too preoccupied with at least four foes all around him to notice. The woman only stared at him incredulously—as if he were a madman.

“Talk?” She shouted. Her assailants drew her attention away from him so she couldn’t finish whatever she was going to say.

Vheod ran between them, using them and the fact that the gnolls were focusing on them to gain himself a free moment. He called forth a power he used very infrequently, one that drew on the dark, fiendish portion of his soul. As he felt the chill energy run from the pit of his stomach to his hands, he dashed out and
laid his hand on the shoulder of the nearest gnoll. The creature howled as if struck and ran off, out of the battle and toward the nearby hills.

Vheod touched another, then another, each suddenly gripped by terror with his merest touch. They fled the battle in terror, as if the cambion’s touch called up their greatest and most horrific fear. After the first three or four so affected, some of those gnolls not touched by Vheod’s terrifying power retreated of their own free will, seeing their fellows running from what appeared to be something more dreadful than they wanted to face. Soon the pair on horseback simply watched as one by one their foes retreated into the wilderness.

The gnolls eventually all fled, but not before more than ten of them lay scattered about, dead or dying. The man’s leg bled from a terrible wound. As Vheod looked around for surviving gnolls, he saw that his horse lay on the ground, a spear protruding from its side.

Putting the horse out of his mind, Vheod turned his attention to the two humans. This was a moment he’d both been looking forward to and yet dreaded. What were the right words to say? Vheod wondered if these two knew what they were doing, and if so, if he’d done the right thing in helping them against the gnolls.

The woman stared at him. “Thank … thank you,” she said, clearly out of breath.

“What’s going on?” Vheod asked. “Why were the gnolls attacking you?” He wiped the blood away from his sword.

“There seem to be a lot of them around here,” the warrior said, pained, though it was no answer to Vheod’s question. Besides his chain mail, the human wore simple clothes covered with the dust of extensive travels. His face was covered in a dark beard and mustache, and his dark hair was short.

“They came out of nowhere,” the woman answered. “That’s the second time we’ve been attacked. Just last night they came into our camp. They’re everywhere around here. We’ve heard they’re gathering for some reason.”

Vheod found the young woman compelling. Her long dark hair was tousled from the battle, and even though her clothes and cloak were covered in dirt and blood, her eyes were soft and gentle. She guided her horse nearer her companion and bent over in her saddle to look at his wound. He motioned her away.

“We’ve got to get moving,” the man told her. “They might return at any moment.” He spoke through gritted teeth and swallowed heavily. His face was clenched in obvious pain, but the woman left him alone.

She turned to Vheod, who was preparing to see to his horse. Stonesong shook his head, whinnying in short bursts. The horse’s body twitched and convulsed, his stiff legs now and again flailing against nothing. Vheod almost couldn’t bring himself to look at the animal. I brought you to this, he thought, and I am sorry.

As eager as he was to speak with these others, he couldn’t focus on anything until he did all that he could for Stonesong. It appeared that all he could do was end the animal’s misery. The mercy of death was a concept that came easily to him. In his lifetime he’d seen many who were in such pain that death brought only relief. Stonesong was in as much pain as anything he’d seen in the Abyss. The sight seemed particularly offensive here away from the hellish Lower Planes.

“You served me only a short time, but you did so admirably.”

Vheod cut the horse’s throat. It was a swift, clean gesture. Stonesong’s painful sounds ended immediately.

The woman seemed compelled to stay until the deed was done. Arms folded in front of her, she kept silent on her own horse while Vheod did what he felt he had to do. When he’d wiped Stonesong’s blood from his blade he turned and looked at her. She returned the long look, gazing right into his eyes, but still said nothing. Somehow, Vheod could sense her concern and compassion. It seemed remarkable to him that someone—a stranger—might care that much about him or his mount.

Vheod tried to smile but only managed a nod in her direction. She smiled back.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“My brother is eager to go,” she said softly, “and he won’t allow me to tend to his wound until we leave the area. Will you come with us?”

Vheod nodded. She helped him onto the back of her own horse.

*  *  *  *  *

Whitlock found a small copse of trees for them to rest in, well out of sight of the surrounding area. The three dismounted, and Melann immediately made Whitlock sit down so she could treat his wound. Whitlock, barely able to stand, found it easy to oblige.

“Look, now that we’re safely away, I’ve got to speak with you,” the stranger said.

Whitlock gritted his teeth through the pain as Melann lifted the lower portion of his hauberk and pulled the blood-stained cloth away from his leg. “Who are you?” she asked the stranger as she worked.

“My name is Vheod Runechild,” he replied.

“I am Melann Brandish, and this is my brother Whitlock.”

“What are you doing out here?” Whitlock asked through teeth clenched in pain.

“Looking for you,” Vheod stated.

“What?” Whitlock started in surprise, then again in pain as his movements put his leg in a bad position.

“What do you mean?” Melann asked Vheod, turning away from Whitlock for the moment.

“I came here looking for you, to warn you that you are about to do something … terrible.” Vheod stood over the two of them, a few steps away.

“What thing?” Whitlock asked, his voice raising in volume, his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? How do you know anything about us?”

“You intend to free the tanar’ri Chare’en from his prison.” Vheod said.

“What?” Whitlock said. “What are you talking about?”

“Just as I’ve said; you’re about to release a terrible evil into the world.”

“No, we’re not,” Whitlock said quickly. “Our business is our own. Besides, isn’t tanar’ri just another word for demon? If anyone’s going to have anything to do with a demon, it’s probably you. You look like you’re probably a demon yourself. Come to think of it, what did you do back there to frighten all the gnolls away?” Whitlock grimaced from the pain.

“Just a moment,” Melann implored, and called on Chauntea to grant her the ability to heal her brother’s wound. When she was finished, she urged Whitlock to lean back and rest easy for a moment. “I’ll talk to him,” she whispered to her brother.

Whitlock grimaced. He was worried that the gnolls might come back. In fact, he really didn’t understand why they ran away in the first place. The twosome—or
rather, the threesome—had slain a fair number, but the gnolls had seemed certain of victory. Somehow, the dark-skinned stranger forced them to flee. The thought didn’t comfort Whitlock, it fueled his suspicions.

Melann got up and moved to Vheod, motioning with her hand that they should walk a few steps away. “Please, sir—” she began.

“Vheod,” he corrected.

Whitlock strained to hear them as he lay on the ground and watched. He could feel the divine energy knitting his wounds together, but he ignored it in favor of the conversation being held.

“All right,” she said with a gentle smile, “Vheod, could you please tell me what all this is about?”

“I’ve told you what I know—what you need to know.” Vheod shook his head. “Are you or are you not going to free Chare’en?”

“Free him?” Melann asked, her face showing confusion. “He’s dead.”

Vheod paused. He cocked his head and stared into the sky through narrow eyes. Whitlock studied this strange man. His breastplate was forged from some black metal covered in bizarre barbs and spikes. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before. The stranger had surprisingly long, reddish hair and a dark, weathered look to his skin. His features were gaunt and pointed—his appearance didn’t suggest the kind of warrior Whitlock had seen in the fight earlier. Something about him, Whitlock thought, made him appear
different
—almost detached from the world around him.

Vheod said, “When I spoke to Orrag—”

“Oh, you know that misbegotten half-orc?” Whitlock called out from behind them. “Well, that at least explains something.” It confirmed his suspicions that Vheod wasn’t to be trusted after all.

Vheod turned to look at Whitlock and said, “I spoke to him briefly while I was looking for you. He indicated you might think Chare’en is a long dead wizard. I can tell you you’re wrong about that. I don’t know why you believe it, but you’re wrong. He’s an imprisoned tanar’ri, and if you go to where he waits you’ll risk freeing him.”

“How did you know to look for
us
?” Melann asked.

Vheod turned back to her. “I spoke to these two men—priests, I believe. They showed me your image in a magical pool and revealed to me that you were going to free Chare’en.”

“Vheod,” she asked him, “where are you from? Do you have something to do with the elves?” She glanced at Whitlock with a look that was supposed to carry with it some meaning—Whitlock was sure of that, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to gain from it. The pain kept him from being able to concentrate.

Vheod paused, his eyes widening slightly, as if he was caught in a trap. “I’m not an elf.”

“But that’s not what I asked,” she said gently.

“I come from another plane, if you must know.” Vheod said sullenly. “I came here seeking my heritage—my family—and instead I met a pair of priests who warned me that the two of you are going to do something awful. I’ve searched for you ever since.”

“You’re a cambion, aren’t you?” Melann asked, taking a step backward.

Vheod stared at her flatly. Before he could answer, Whitlock asked from behind them, “What’s a cambion?”

Vheod looked at Melann. “Yes,” he said. “Does it make a difference?”

“Shouldn’t it?” She shook her head, mouth slightly open.

“What’s a cambion?” Whitlock demanded, standing up. The wound was almost entirely healed by the spell, and he felt much stronger.

“My father was a tanar’ri, but my mother was a human—from this world. Don’t judge me by that, though. I am my own man.”

All three stood in silence, a gentle breeze blowing through the trees, providing relief to an otherwise sweltering day. A few insects flew around their faces, Melann brushing away the buzzing from her ear. She turned to Whitlock.

“He helped us fight off the gnolls. He might have saved our lives. We owe him our thanks and respect for that.” She knew just what to say to him. Those were words she knew he would take to heart, and she was right. Whitlock couldn’t argue with that.

“Well, I suppose that’s true enough,” he said to Vheod. “We thank you for that, sir.”

Vheod looked back and forth between the two of them, his long hair tossed about in the breeze. He seemed confused.

Melann’s church spoke of tanar’ri distantly—as only something to be feared and destroyed. That had been easy enough for Whitlock to accept. Until this moment, Whitlock hadn’t even been certain they were real. Demons were just something that didn’t come up in everyday life. Now one stood before him, and he owed the demon a debt. Whitlock still didn’t understand why Vheod sought them and what it was he was trying to accomplish. It might be best, Whitlock thought, to never find out.

“We must be on our way,” Whitlock said.

“Wait,” Vheod implored. “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? Chare’en is a
balor
! If you go to him you’ll loose a terrible evil into this world.”

“First of all,” Whitlock said, “there’s already evil in this world—plenty of it. Second, Chare’en’s not a demon, he’s a long-dead wizard. And third, why, by the name of all that’s holy, should we listen to you? Just because you helped us against those gnolls? Now we’re supposed to believe everything you say? Does everyone in the world think I’m a complete idiot? I’ll have no more of this. Melann, come, we’re leaving.”

“Wait,” Vheod said again.

A long silence passed as the siblings both looked at the mysterious newcomer. Vheod stood very still, his arms hanging down at his sides. Melann seemed uncomfortable and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Whitlock glanced between the two of them, wanting nothing more than to leave. Damn the debt.

“If what you are saying is true,” Melann said, “then our family is doomed … and so are we.”

*  *  *  *  *

Now it was Vheod’s turn to be confused. He looked deeply into Melann’s brown eyes and saw sincerity and sadness. Her long, dark hair had fallen out of the tie that had held it behind her head, and now it cascaded around her smooth, slightly sunburned face. As tears welled in her eyes, Vheod took a step forward and placed his hand on her arm.

“Perhaps you could tell me what it is you’re doing here, and why you seek Chare’en,” he said, attempting to keep his voice at a gentle level.

“Our family, long ago, had a curse placed on it. We don’t know all the details, but we’ve been told it happened in the days of Chare’en, a powerful wizard. In his tomb we believe we’ll find a magical staff that can remove the curse from our family.” Melann wiped her eyes before continuing. “It’s most important that
we find the tomb now. Both our parents have fallen ill—struck down by the curse.”

“I see,” Vheod replied, already deep in thought and filled with doubts.

His own motives seemed shallow and selfish now. If Melann and Whitlock were correct, it would be wrong to stop them. But no, he
knew
Chare’en was his great-grandfather, a tanar’ri balor, not some mortal sorcerer. Vheod had been telling them about the great wrong that would be inflicted on the world if Chare’en were freed—now he was beginning to realize how true his words were. He wondered if it was his responsibility to make sure that the balor stayed imprisoned. He wondered too at the circumstances in which the balor was imprisoned. Was there any truth at all about this magical staff? Melann certainly seemed to honestly believe in the curse.