The Glass Prison (13 page)

“Nothing attacked
Demonwing
. Demogorgon played no tricks and cast no betrayals. Reyniss arrived back in his own shipyards sooner than even he thought possible. His toothy tanar’ri smile was almost as broad as his pride-filled chest.

“When Reyniss disembarked, Prince Demogorgon waited for him, stony-faced. Reyniss expected his reward would come to him at any moment, and he leered at the Abyssal Lord in anticipation and greed. ‘You took me up on my wager,’ Demogorgon said. ‘Did you not expect treachery?’

“Reyniss, his mind still filled with the thoughts of his riches, replied, ‘Oh, I thought about it, but then I realized you would never endanger the ship you wanted so badly just to get out of your obligation. And I was right!’

“Demogorgon spoke, his voice like iron against stone, ‘You were wrong. Oh, I took no action against your journey—that is true enough—but the fact that you believed I might not shows your utter stupidity. I had thought to make you my personal lieutenant and chief builder, but anyone who so completely fails to comprehend the ways of the Abyss shouldn’t be suffered to live. Of course I would have endangered the ship if I thought it might keep me from paying. However, when you accepted the wager, I knew I didn’t have to.’ And with that, Demogorgon strangled the fiendish life out of Reyniss with his own tendrils of rotting death.”

Orrag remained silent for a moment. Vheod watched him closely, waiting for a reaction.

A smile came to the half-orc’s dark lips like a snake rearing up from its coils. “An excellent tale, my friend. Demogorgon! The Abyss! A magical ship!” Orrag exclaimed. “Excellent.” He downed the rest of his drink in a single gulp.

“Well then,” Vheod said slowly, “I believe you agreed to listen to what I had to say.”

“Yes, my friend,” Orrag said, yellow teeth showing. “What is this all about?”

“First, I must ask a little more about you, Orrag. What is it that you do? I must know if you are the right man to whom to pose my questions.”

Orrag’s face showed an evil pride. He leaned back away from the table and looked around the tavern. The patrons were still few in number, and no one paid them any attention. He swooped in close, leaning across the table.

“Well,” he began, “here in Tilverton, we have a group called the Rogues. They operate out of the ancient sewer system and take what they want from locals or travelers.”

“Thieves.” Vheod stated.

“A guild,” said Orrag. Vheod knew a little something about guilds. His thoughts raced back to his days among the Bloody Daggers.

“I, on the other hand,” Orrag continued, “run a small group of … businessmen who live by their wits and procure what they require—while keeping out of the reach of the Rogues.”

Vheod was hardly surprised. Orrag ran a gang of thieves that even the other local thieves didn’t care for. How could Orrag help him? Why had Gyrison and Arach sent him here?

“So, Vheod, what am I supposed to do for you?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Vheod said quietly. “Two people, actually.”

“Why should I know anything about that?”

“Call it a hunch,” Vheod said, standing. “Wait here.”

Vheod walked to the bar and asked for another ale. While the serving woman poured his drink into a wooden flagon, he asked her quietly, “Tell me what you can about Orrag.” He added a moment later an unfamiliar, “Please.”

“A thief and a murderer,” she said quietly, looking over Vheod’s shoulder at the half-orc. “What else is there to know?”

“I see,” Vheod said. Those things he’d already guessed. “What I mean is, is there anything
else
he’s known for?”

“Anything else?” she replied, shaking her head. “Not that I know of. Isn’t that enough?”

“I’m not sure,” Vheod said, laying down a few coins he received as change from his previous purchase. Something about Orrag bothered him. The half-orc was more than just a thief. He took the ale back to the table and set it down in front of Orrag.

“So who are you looking for?” Orrag asked with a furrowed brow narrowing his eyes.

“Like I said: two people, a man and woman—they look similar enough to be related, probably siblings.”

Orrag grunted and worked his jaw. “And do I know them or something?”

Vheod ran his fingers through his long, snarled hair. “I think, somehow, you might.”

“Why?”

“Would you be someone people might come to, looking for information?”

“What sort of information?” Orrag grasped the flagon, but didn’t drink.

“The location of something, perhaps outside of town.”

Orrag’s silence worried Vheod. The cambion considered a few spells that might be appropriate should his questions provoke an attack from Orrag. Vheod had seen better attempts at deception—he was, after all, from the Abyss. He didn’t have time to play Orrag’s little games. He just needed the information.

Finally the half-orc spoke, obviously choosing his words carefully. “I have a contact or two in the wilderness … among those who dwell in caves rather than cities.”

“I think I understand,” Vheod said. “So has anyone come to you recently? A brother and sister, perhaps?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, storyteller,” Orrag stated with a strange smile.

Vheod grasped at Orrag’s words like a falling man to a ledge. “And what did you tell them? Where did they go?”

“So, you’re interested too?” Orrag’s smile broadened. “This is starting to make sense.”

“What? Do you need payment?” Vheod’s words were quick and harsh.

“Oh, not from you. I like you. I think I understand you.”

Before Vheod could speak, Orrag continued. “I sent them to find the Crypt of Chare’en. Do you know about the crypt?”

“Crypt?”

Crypt?
Chare’en was dead? Of course not.

“Yes,” Orrag said, with a serpentine smile widening his fat cheeks. “These two youngsters came to me looking for directions to the crypt of the ancient wizard Chare’en.” Orrag seemed to watch Vheod very closely as he spoke the last words.

“So what did you tell them?”

“I told you, I’ve got some contacts up in the mountains. I knew where they needed to go. I sent them on their way.”

“That was very kind of you,” Vheod said, still careful.

“They were sent to me by my friend, Ferd,” Orrag told him with an exhalation that Vheod thought was supposed to be a laugh.

Vheod said nothing.

“Ferd sent them to me so that I could, ah, procure some of their wealth,” Orrag said with a smile and a wave of his hand.

“But?”

“But as it turns out, they sought information I had, and they were willing to pay very well for it.” He took a draught from the flagon

Vheod let him wipe away the ale from his mouth before speaking again. “But if you were going to rob them anyway, why did you care to give them the location?”

Orrag stared, caught in the obvious lie.

“Call it a change of heart,” he said after a moment. Vheod didn’t have time to figure out Orrag’s real motivations.

“Then you’ll tell me how to get there as well?”

“Certainly,” Orrag said. He repeated the same instructions he’d given to Whitlock and Melann the previous night.

Vheod listened carefully, committing the directions and each landmark to memory. He would need to get a horse. This time he would pay for it.

“Here’s a warning as well, storyteller,” Orrag added at the end. “There’s a dangerous sorceress out near there called the Ravenwitch. Be careful you don’t run afoul of her.”

“I’m not worried. I don’t have time to be worried,” Vheod said as he stood.

Orrag smirked but then asked, “So why are you so interested? Are you really after those two, or is it what they’re looking for you’re concerned with?”

Vheod already started toward the door. He turned back to say, “If I find them quickly enough, I won’t need to worry about what they’re looking for.”

A worried look crossed Orrag’s face, which in turn worried Vheod. Neither spoke. Vheod’s hand flexed, ready to go to his sword hilt. Orrag’s hand slid under the table.

Another moment passed.

Finally, determined, Vheod turned and went for the door and exited into the dark, ill-used street.

After he made a more usable torch from some cloth wrapped around a small piece of wood, Whitlock examined the area near the camp. He’d been able to determine that there were at least a dozen gnolls here, even though he’d only seen a few. Broken branches, trampled grass, and footprints scattered about led him to the conclusion that these gnolls had taken the horses. Worst of all, however, they had taken Melann. He had no idea if she was alive or dead—only that she was gone and that they had carried her away.

The gnolls would be difficult to track, Whitlock figured, particularly in the darkness of the night. The horses, however, might be easier to follow. Obviously, the beasts weren’t happily led away. Signs of struggle here and there provided a path of sorts for Whitlock to follow even in the darkness. He pushed into the woods. The torch was in one hand and his sword in the other. His shield rested on his back, but he’d left the rest of their equipment back at the camp. There was no time to worry about that now.

Whitlock could think of nothing other than finding his sister. She was out in the forest, helpless, in the hands of monsters. It was his fault—it had to be. It was his responsibility to watch over her.

Wet grass made for slippery footing as he ran through the darkness. Whitlock’s eyes never stopped scanning around him, looking for signs of the horses’ reluctant passage through the brush. His makeshift torch began to die as he reached a narrow creek babbling against rounded stones through the tumbled terrain. He could hear insects chirping around the water but still found no sign of his quarry.

Whitlock allowed himself to think only that Melann was still alive. She obviously put up a struggle. The dying gnoll he finished off lay in grisly testament to that. Yet there hadn’t been enough blood to suggest that they had killed her. He found no trace of her at all but for the torn bit of cloth.

Whitlock followed the creek for a short distance, then splashed across it in his heavy leather boots. His brand flared, then died. Whitlock glanced around, hoping his eyes would adjust to the absolute darkness around him. The chill of the night bit into his wet legs, but he ignored the feeling and walked onward, into the pitch darkness.

Unsure how long he’d been searching, Whitlock heard low growls and snarls and a slight rustling through the undergrowth. The noise seemed to come from one direction, then another. He tried frantically to follow the sound, but no matter which direction he started, it faded.

Whitlock stood in the darkness, alone and confused. He couldn’t determine which way he heard what he thought to be the gnolls. He wasn’t sure how to get back to his campsite. His body ached from the blows he’d taken, and he was exhausted.

Like a granted wish, a cry cut through the night. A snarling bellow of pain rose up, passing through the trees to Whitlock’s eager ears. As the warrior followed the sound, more bestial shouts joined the first. Whitlock himself yelled out, “Melann!”

This time, an answer came.

“Whitlock?” Melann’s voice came through the darkness. “Whitlock, I’m here!”

“Melann, I’m coming! Hang on!”

With renewed fervor, Whitlock charged up the darkened, forested hillside away from the creek and the previous path of his search. Melann had to be at the top of this hill, as did a number of gnolls, by the sound of it. Branches and growth from the forest floor lurched at him as he ran through them, tearing at his clothes and flesh. Leaves battered his face and eyes. He held his free arm in front of his face as he ran. He pushed himself through it all, wishing for a path up the hill. Dark trees loomed at him from all sides, their branches waving at him, clawing like barely seen monsters. Still he drove himself onward. The trees seemed to thin as he worked his way through them, but as the hill grew bald, the surface sprouted rocks and bare stones that he would have to clamber over or move around, slowing him down even more without light to help him.

But then, as if by an act of a god, light came.

Ahead of him, higher on the hill, a brilliant display of light appeared suddenly, shining down toward him. It cut through the night, dispelling the dark and allowing Whitlock to see, at least a little. The sudden flare of illumination caught him off guard and even made him stumble, but he was apparently not the only one, for with the light’s flaring came more bestial cries of surprise.

Guided by that beacon, he moved faster and more determined than ever.

Climbing over a large, irregular boulder, he reached what seemed to be the top of the large, bald hill. In a nimbus of light without source, he saw a number of tall, massive shapes moving about a smaller one.

Melann!

Screaming a hoarse, incoherent wail, Whitlock charged into the scene, his sword raised high above his head. He’d slung his shield over one shoulder by its strap, but now he brought it down to use in battle.

Melann held a small, crude mace with a wooden haft and a lead-covered head. Her free arm hung limp and bloody at her side. Near her, at least nine gnolls bared their teeth and lunged at her with spears and clubs and maces of their own. Whitlock noticed as he drew closer that three of the creatures didn’t move at all—they seemed to be held utterly frozen in place. Further, one gnoll held no weapon but instead clamped his hands over his eyes. That one stood within the center of the globe of light, and Whitlock realized that he’d been the focus of Melann’s spell, or rather his eyes had been.

As Whitlock approached, the remaining five gnolls turned toward him, as did his sister.

“Praise to the Great Mother!” Melann said.

Whitlock said nothing as he threw himself into battle. Three of the musky gnolls met his charge and engaged him. Another continued his attack on Melann, which she fended off with the mace. A fifth attempted in vain to shake free his companions held motionless by Melann’s priestly powers. The blinded gnoll fell to his knees and howled skyward like a wolf.

Long, houndish snouts snapped at Whitlock, and spears lanced in, seeking his blood. His shield turned away the first few attacks long enough for him to bring his already bloodied broadsword down on the head of the foe to his right. As the gnoll fell, he turned to see how Melann fared.