The Eye of the Chained God (22 page)

“Goblin kisser!” said Uldane again.

I
will kill him,” snarled Belen. “I will chop him up into little pieces and make halfling sausages.” She stomped—again—on the empty blankets that should have been wrapped around Uldane.

“Quietly,” Tempest reminded her. The tiefling was all for an angry rant but as Belen had said, a tent was not a cottage. Tempest peered through the narrow gap of the tent door. Twilight had fallen and the busy camp had become restless again as the Tigerclaws waited for the feast to begin. Her tail flicking, she scanned the gathering shadows and the half-concealed hiding spots for any sign of Uldane. “Still nothing,” she said.

Belen ground Uldane’s blanket under her heel. “I shouldn’t have trusted him. If he gets caught …”

“He won’t get caught,” said Albanon. “He’s better than that.”

Belen’s response was less of a word and more of an indelicate body noise. Albanon twitched slightly, but
kept a calm expression. His thumbs, however, folded and unfolded rapidly. Tempest knew him well enough to recognize the signs of strain. She let the flap of the door fall and turned back. “We all should have known better than to trust him,” she said. “But Albanon’s right. Uldane won’t get caught. He’ll come back. He’s not entirely stupid—he knows the danger.”

“I’m not certain he does,” said Belen. “The Tigerclaws pride themselves on creative punishment. Ferocity is just one side of their totem spirit.”

“If the Tigerclaws try anything, we can defend ourselves,” Roghar said. He had his sword out, and was occupying himself by polishing the blade.

“Really? Against the whole tribe? Because that’s what we’d be fighting.”

Roghar gave the sword a final buff and slid it back into its scabbard. “If we have to,” he said.

Tempest’s tail twitched again as the conversation she’d had with Albanon just before they’d stumbled across the barbarian camp came back to her. There was definitely something wrong with Roghar. She’d never known the dragonborn to run from a fight, but she’d never known him to seek one out either. “I don’t think we want to do that if we can help it,” she said. “We’re not in trouble yet.”

The words had barely left her mouth before Albanon raised his head and said sharply, “We might be. Listen.”

All four of them paused. In the quiet, Tempest could hear women’s voices raised in song. Belen’s breath hissed. “I know that song. It’s a serving prayer. The feast will start soon.”

Tempest risked another glance through the tent flap—and jerked back. Uldane had run out of time. Outside, Cariss and Hurn were striding together through the camp toward their tent. “The Tigerclaws are coming for us!” she whispered.

Roghar growled and grabbed for his shield as he surged to his feet. Belen cursed. Albanon’s face tightened, but he leaped across the tent and snatched Uldane’s blanket from under Belen’s feet. He shook it, throwing a cloud of dust into the air, then quickly tucked it into the same bundled shape that the halfling had used to trick them. “We tell them Uldane is sick,” he said, standing up.

“That’s not going to fool anyone,” said Roghar.

Albanon’s eyes narrowed in concentration and the long fingers of one hand flicked in the pattern of a simple spell. The blanket began to rise and fall as if a small figure within was breathing. The fingers of his other hand sketched another sign and a piteous moan emanated from the blankets. Albanon looked to Roghar. The dragonborn wrinkled his snout and gave a grudging nod.

And just in time. “Guests of Turbull!” came Hurn’s gruff voice from the other side of the tent door. “Come out!”

Cariss didn’t seem interested in waiting for a response. The tent flap jerked as she pulled it aside. Tempest found herself staring eye to eye with the shifter. Cariss bared sharp teeth. “Try something, tiefling.”

It took effort, but Tempest swallowed her instinct to meet aggression with aggression and stepped back. Cariss scanned the interior of the tent. “Leave your shield,” she
said to Roghar. “You won’t need it.” Her gaze came to rest on Uldane’s twitching, moaning blankets. “What’s wrong with the halfling?”

Relief rolled through Tempest. “He’s sick,” she said. “Something he ate didn’t agree with him. Can he just stay here?”

Cariss frowned and started into the tent. Tempest’s relief turned into panic and she glanced at Albanon—just in time to see the wizard narrow his eyes again and twitch his nose. The phantasmal moaning rose to a pained gasp before giving way to the loud and sudden breaking of wind. A horrific stench billowed through the tent, strong enough to make Tempest’s eyes water. Cariss recoiled.

“Maybe a guard to stand watch,” Tempest suggested, trying not to choke on the stink. “Unless it would offend Turbull if Uldane didn’t attend—”

Cariss shook her head hastily and stepped back out of the tent. Tempest was only too glad to follow her. Outside, Hurn was actually grinning. Cariss snarled at him, then gestured for Tempest and the others to follow. Tempest managed to get close enough to Albanon to whisper, “That was foul. Moorin actually taught you that?”

“A child’s trick in the Feywild. Moorin tried his best to make me forget it,” Albanon murmured back. “Where could Uldane have gone? Even if he went to explore the camp he should have come back.”

Tempest could only shake her head.

Roaring fires marked the site of the feast and drove back the chill of the falling night. Once again, Turbull
waited to greet them. This time, however, they were shown to a place where they could sit together, still close to the Tigerclaw chief but apart from, rather than mingled with, the barbarian warriors. This time as well, the entire clan was gathered around them. Tempest would have been lying to herself if she tried to claim she wasn’t intimidated.

And yet it seemed to her that there was tension among the Tigerclaws as well. As platters and bowls made their way first around the inner circle, then out to the rest of the clan, the noises of celebration she associated with a feast were subdued. More than once she caught members of the clan tucking away chunks of meat as if hoarding them against lean times. Others, she noticed, ate with abandon, as if knowing that this might be the last great feast for some time. As the meal progressed, the Tigerclaws squatting beyond the inner circle seemed to lose interest in the outsiders that had come among them, focusing instead on the primal act of eating.

The warriors that sat closer to the chief, however, did not. Just as she’d slipped furtive glances at the Tigerclaws, Tempest found that the warriors were glancing frequently at her and the others. She’d look down at her food, then up again to find half a dozen eyes turning quickly away from her.

If the bulk of the clan was concerned about where their next meal would come from, the warriors had something else on their minds. Tempest couldn’t quite tell what that might be, but it certainly had something to do with them.

Turbull himself remained inscrutable. Again, Belen took the lead in speaking with him, but her attempts to turn the conversation to anything more meaningful than the weather, hunting conditions, and apologies for Uldane’s “illness” were rebuffed. Tempest could see that Roghar was getting impatient. Albanon looked uneasy as well—she guessed that Uldane was on his mind. Even Belen had started to look annoyed with Turbull’s evasiveness, though that only made her push harder. Tempest was beginning to feel frustrated herself. Turbull was playing games with them. The shifter wanted something from them, but why didn’t he come right out and ask it? She took her anger out on the roasted leg of a rabbit, sinking her teeth into the dark flesh and tearing it off the bone.

As usual when she glanced up, she caught eyes turning away. This time, however, the eyes belonged to Turbull and they hadn’t been looking at her.

Turbull had been looking at Albanon.

Realization of what the chief had been waiting for struck her. Tempest elbowed Albanon. “You need to talk to Turbull,” she said in his ear. “Belen said the Tigerclaws would respect you for pushing your request for information. I think he’s waiting for
you
to talk.”

Albanon blinked. His mouth opened and closed, but he didn’t question her. She appreciated that intelligence in him. When the conversation between Turbull and Belen lapsed into a moment’s silence, he leaned forward.

“Before we took our ease,” he said, “we were discussing the land ahead. What do you know of it?”

All movement among the warriors stopped for a moment. Belen glanced sharply at Albanon. Turbull paused, too, but only long enough to sip from a goblet. As he raised the cup, Tempest thought she saw his lips curve in a smile, but when it came down, his face was calm and placid. Tempest felt a quick thrill, knowing she’d guessed right. Turbull’s words confirmed it.

“We appreciate those who honor our customs, but customs without words are a mask without eyes behind it.” He sat back a little. Movement resumed among the warriors, but all of them watched Albanon warily. Turbull gestured with his goblet and a server stepped forward to refill it. “You seek a valley that lies below a mountain’s pale cliff.”

Albanon hesitated, as if about to ask confirmation from the others. Tempest held back a wince. Turbull had waited to talk to Albanon, not the rest of them. The eladrin was on his own.

Maybe Albanon realized the same thing. He stopped himself and looked back at Turbull with confidence. “It’s what I see in my vision. If you could tell us more about what lies beyond your camp, we’d appreciate that as much as we appreciate your hospitality.”

“As it happens,” said Turbull, “just such a valley is exactly what lies beyond our camp. Less than a day’s travel from this spot, a mountain’s stone face looks down on a fine, rich valley.” He nodded into the darkness. “Does your vision guide you in that direction?”

Albanon stiffened. “Yes.”

Among the warriors, Cariss cursed. Tempest saw both her and Hurn look at each other. Turbull’s face was expressionless. “Our scouts have explored the mountains for four days’ journey in all directions. There is no other similar valley in that direction.”

“What do you know about it?” asked Roghar. Tempest couldn’t blame him. Could Albanon’s random lie about their destination actually lead them to something? Albanon put up a hand, urging Roghar and the rest of them to silence, then raised an eyebrow at Turbull.

“Why are you interested in this valley?” he said.

“I didn’t say we were interested in it,” Turbull answered. “We know about it. The hunting is good there.”

Albanon lowered his hand slowly. “When I first told Cariss we were looking for a valley below a stone face, it completely changed her mood. I don’t think we’d be eating and talking if I hadn’t. Since then, every time we’ve brought up that valley, your warriors react. I think you are interested in the valley. Furthermore, I think there’s more to it than you want to say. You’ve said you’re looking for a better place in which to make your camp. If this valley is fine and rich with good hunting, why aren’t you there already?”

Across from them, Hurn’s broad face had sunk into a glower. His wasn’t the only one. Many of the warriors had dropped their food to grab for their weapons. Cariss had bared her teeth and leaned forward like a great cat ready to lunge. Albanon’s comments had struck close. Tempest shifted her own food to one hand and let the other fall down closer to her warlock’s rod.

Turbull remained calm, at least on the surface. His attention stayed on Albanon. “What do
you
know of the valley?” he asked.

“Only what we’ve told you: that something waits for us there that might help put an end to the Abyssal Plague.” He paused, then added, “In fact, I’ll be fully honest with you if you’ll be honest with me. Something has been guiding us north, but it wasn’t a vision. Until just now, I wasn’t even sure we were looking for a valley. I just made that up.”

Tempest was sure the reaction to Albanon’s announcement was not the one he wanted. Her heart jumped into her mouth. Belen cursed loudly. The warriors erupted into howls of outrage. Beyond Turbull’s inner circle, the Tigerclaws twisted around as one, startled by the sound. Hurn leaped to his feet. Roghar did the same. “They lied to us!” snarled Cariss. “They’ve broken the faith of guests!”

“
Be silent!
” roared Turbull. The warriors all froze where they were and an eerie quiet descended over the camp. Hurn and Roghar faced each other across a frighteningly small patch of ground. Tempest could see the nostrils of both shifter and dragonborn flaring with each breath they took. Turbull rose and looked around at all of them. “Faith has not been broken—the truth has been offered willingly and truth demands truth.” The barbarian chief looked at Albanon. “You are correct. We have held something back from you as well.”

“I’ll say!” Uldane’s voice rang out of the darkness. The halfling came striding in between the feasters. Ignoring all
of them, he walked right up to Turbull. “You’re holding our friends captive.” He turned to Albanon. “Shara and Quarhaun are prisoners here in the camp!”

The first thought to pass through Albanon’s mind was
Not now, Uldane!
Then Uldane’s words actually sank in. His second thought, and the one that made it out of his mouth was, “What? Are you serious?”