The Glass Prison (17 page)

He looked at Melann with a darting glance. Vheod realized he’d said much more than he’d intended to say, and with much more emotion. He breathed heavily and drew his knees up to his chest. He wished he still had his armor on. He looked away.

“What a sad, sad tale,” Melann whispered.

“So you really are what you say you are,” Whitlock said. It was a statement rather than a question.

“Why would I lie about that?” Vheod retorted, a little more edge to his voice than he wished.

Whitlock just nodded and gave him a stern smile—or perhaps it was a grimace, Vheod couldn’t tell. A few more moments of silence passed. Whitlock finished eating. Melann had finished a few minutes before. He took to gathering the remaining food and utensils and packed them into the saddle bags that lay by his bedroll.

“What does your tattoo mean?” Melann asked Vheod quietly.

Again, Vheod’s mind reeled. His eyes grew wide. Lords of the Abyss! The Taint! Who knows what shapes it had taken, or where it had placed itself, making his companions believe him to be even more strange. He glanced down at his arms, but it wasn’t there.

“The tattoo—on your chest, just below your neck,” Melann nodded in his direction. “The red tattoo. I never noticed it before, I suppose because of your armor.” She chewed her lower lip and looked into his face.

Reflexively, he looked down, but he could just barely see it. Fortunately, it looked rather innocuous. Indistinct, actually. He relaxed a little. “That’s not really a tattoo. More a birthmark.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It just seemed so … I don’t know. It just seemed more purposeful than a birthmark. I thought perhaps it had some meaning. Please accept my apologies. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Vheod just shrugged. Now, he realized, he was going to have to worry about what the Taint was doing during the entire time he spent with Melann and Whitlock.

“It’s getting late,” Whitlock interjected. He’d finished packing and prepared his bedroll.

Vheod appreciated the change in subject and was more than happy to lay back away from the fire and the light and stop feeling as if he was on trial. After his experience in the village so soon after his arrival, he never knew how the people of this world would react to him or his past, and he was already tired of thinking about it.

*  *  *  *  *

Morning came and with it a summer storm. Not like the dangerous storm of a few days before, but rather a cool rainstorm with little wind and only a smattering of thunder. The noise echoed through the mountains in ways Whitlock had never heard before, living in the relatively open Dales all his life. He liked it.

The rain really wasn’t so bad. Whitlock appreciated the break from the heat, and he liked how the rain always made Melann so happy. He supposed it was the nurturing nature of the rain and the moisture that it brought to the growing things she loved so much. Anyway, he liked the shine on her cheeks when she smiled in the rain. It made him happy.

While he packed their already soggy things onto the horses, Whitlock noted that the rain would probably make for poor hunting. Most animals would find some sort of shelter. He would have to wait to get the group some food. That thought made Vheod’s next comment so strange.

“What sort of bird is that?” the cambion asked.

Whitlock looked around, not for the bird, but for Melann, assuming she would answer his question.
Melann, however, was a few feet away, tending to her own horse. Whitlock sighed and looked to where the half-breed pointed. Sure enough, a large raven, black as night, sat in a tree not far away and watched them.

“That’s a raven,” he said dismissively.

Before Whitlock could turn away Vheod asked, “Is it an evil bird?”

“Evil?” Whitlock replied. “No. It’s a bird. I suppose some people think they’re a bad omen or something sinister like that, but it’s just a bird.”

“Sinister. An appropriate word. I don’t like that bird.”

Vheod was strange, to say the least. “Look, this isn’t Hell, or wherever you’re from. This is … the world. Here, animals can be just animals. You don’t have to distrust everything.”

“Did my brother just say those words?” Melann asked, approaching the two with a playful smile.

“I came from the Abyss, not Hell,” Vheod said softly but succinctly. “There’s an important difference, but I shouldn’t expect you to understand that.”

Whitlock turned. After all the liberties Whitlock had given this stranger, he wouldn’t be spoken to like that. “Listen, you—”

“Wait. What’s all this about?” Melann asked, stepping between them.

“Oh, he saw a bird and it spooked him,” Whitlock said dismissively.

Both he and Vheod turned toward where the raven had perched, with Melann following their gaze, but it had gone.

“It’s not even there anymore. Happy now?” Whitlock turned to finish his preparations. When he turned back again he saw the reassuring smile that Melann gave to Vheod. He did not like it.

Once they were back on the move, the rain diminished, and by mid-morning had stopped altogether. The trees dripped with a glistening shine, and the grass they passed over was slick, slowing them a little. The day remained cloudy and dark.

“According to Orrag’s instructions,” Vheod said, “we should probably arrive at the site tomorrow.”

“Late tomorrow, perhaps,” Whitlock added, looking at the mountains and comparing landmarks with the half-orc’s directions. “Assuming he told us the truth in the first place.”

They’d been moving at a dangerously slow pace compared to the earlier portions of their journey. That was to be expected, but the threat of the gnolls made the slow pace all the more nerve-racking.

“That’s my brother for you,” Melann said. She turned to Vheod. “Always the suspicious one.”

Vheod didn’t respond. Whitlock and Melann dismounted, and they prepared to rest for a while, using the opportunity of a nearby stream to water the horses.

Vheod turned with a start.

“What is it?” Melann hissed, turning in the direction Vheod was looking. Whitlock’s hand was already on the hilt of his sword.

“In the trees, to the right,” Vheod said, pointing.

At first Whitlock relaxed a little, thinking Vheod had seen another bird, but no, something passed between two trees—something humanoid. It was running away.

“A gnoll,” Vheod said.

Whitlock leaped back into the saddle and pulled hard at the reins. His boots dug deeply into his steed’s sides as he urged it to speed. Crossing the open space, he raced into the trees where the gnoll was quickly loping away. Whitlock drew his sword
with a single smooth stroke. The gnoll was probably a scout, going to warn a larger group of their position.

He couldn’t let it get away.

The gnoll ran, and ran quickly, but Whitlock saw an opening in the trees large enough to ride through, and he guided his mount into it.

Obviously sensing it was hopeless to attempt to outrun the horse, the gnoll wheeled and pulled at a spiked club that dangled from its belt. Grasping the club in both its clawed hands it planted itself, ready to attack as Whitlock approached.

So Whitlock did what the gnoll was not expecting.

Pulling his left foot up onto the saddle, he pushed off and leaped to the right, toward the surprised gnoll. He crashed into it with great force, knocking the gnoll off its feet. The flat of Whitlock’s sword smashed into the creature’s snout, and blood spattered over both of them as they rolled together. Whitlock used the gnoll’s large, shaggy form to absorb the impact of his leap.

When they stopped rolling, the stunned gnoll lay on the ground under Whitlock and against a tree. The warrior placed his blade across the creature’s neck, but it was still too dazed to even notice. Whitlock glanced up and saw that his horse had stopped about ten yards away and was circling back, out of the trees. He also heard footsteps coming up behind him—Vheod and Melann caught up.

“Melann,” Whitlock said, “remember when those dwarves came to Archendale and they couldn’t speak our language? That old priest—Thontoman, I think his name was—cast a spell that allowed him to speak with them. Can you do that?”

Melann was breathing heavily as she ran up. “No,” she replied. “That’s not a power at my command.”

“I can speak to it,” Vheod said. Whitlock noticed that the half-demon wasn’t breathing heavily at all. Both Melann and Vheod approached and stood over Whitlock and his prisoner. “Assuming he can speak to anyone.”

Whitlock slapped the gnoll’s bloody snout a few times—not hard, but enough so it would notice. “Wake up,” he spat.

The gnoll began to shake its head. Its eyes focused, and the warrior made sure it saw his blade before he put it back at its neck. “Don’t try anything, monster.”

Vheod concentrated for a moment, then bent over the creature to touch it.

“Do not attempt to flee, or you will die,” Vheod said, in the common tongue.

The gnoll grunted and growled.

“What are you doing here?” Vheod asked.

The gnoll bared its teeth, and Whitlock could see its black gums. While it smelled of musk and feces, its breath was much worse, stinking of rancid meat.

“Tell us or you will die,” Vheod’s voice took on a cold quality that sent a chill down Whitlock’s back.

The gnoll silently moved its head back and forth for a moment, then made noises like barking and grunting.

“He can understand what you’re saying?” Melann asked from behind both Vheod and Whitlock. “You sound as though you’re speaking normally.”

Vheod didn’t turn his gaze from the captive. “He can not understand the actual words I speak, exactly, but I can make him understand what I
mean—
and I can understand what he means.”

She paused to consider this, and Vheod resumed the interrogation. “Why were you here? Were you looking for us?”

The gnoll responded with a few short grunts, then a string of unintelligible growls.

“It says,” Vheod said, still focused on the gnoll, “that it wasn’t here looking for us, but something else.”

“They were expecting someone else along this path?” Whitlock asked.

“No,
something
, it said,” Vheod reached into his pocket, and pulled forth the small green stone.

“Is this what you were looking for?” Vheod asked.

Though he couldn’t understand the gnoll’s crude speech, Whitlock could tell by the sudden look of recognition in its eyes that the answer was yes.

“What are they? What are they for?” Vheod asked sternly, still holding up the green stone that glistened like the wet leaves around them.

The creature spoke again, and Vheod translated, “It says they must gather these lost stones to bring to their master.”

“Who in the Nine Hells is their master?” Whitlock demanded.

Vheod gave Whitlock a questioning look, but then asked the gnoll and got a reply. “It says its master is ‘he who has called to its people.’ ‘He who will soon awaken from a long sleep.’ It doesn’t have a name for this master.”

“That’s why there’re so many gnolls in the area,” Melann interjected. “Someone has been calling them here.”

“Chare’en,” Vheod stated flatly.

“Is that what the creature said?” Melann asked.

“No, not by name.” Vheod shook his head.

“Look,” Whitlock said, “we can talk about that later. Are there more questions we need to ask this thing?”

Vheod proceeded to ask if there were more gnolls nearby, but the creature replied that most of the
gnolls in this area were killed or chased off by something it didn’t know or understand.

“That sounds bad,” Whitlock said. He cleared his throat, not wanting Melann to hear the worry in his voice.

“Perhaps it means the crypt,” Melann said suddenly. “Perhaps something about the crypt of Chare’en frightened the gnolls away. If we head toward it, we won’t have to worry about them while we’re there.”

“Perhaps,” Whitlock said slowly, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t have to be worried about whatever it is
they’re
afraid of.”

“True,” she agreed.

Vheod sighed audibly. “I doubt there’s anything more we can get from this creature.”

“Now what?” Melann asked.

Vheod turned to her, his brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do we do with our … prisoner?” She looked to Whitlock, who still watched over the gnoll.

Whitlock raised his sword suddenly and brought the pommel down on its head. With a heavy thud, the creature’s face fell to one side, and its eyes closed. Whitlock stood, brushed himself off, and walked to where the gnoll’s weapon had dropped.

Picking up the club, he said “By the time the creature wakes up we’ll be long gone and won’t have to worry about any others it might talk to.”

Melann sighed, turned and walked back to her horse. Whitlock heard her mutter a prayer to Chauntea under her breath, imploring her to guide them along the right path.

Whitlock lingered back to walk alongside Vheod for a moment. He recognized Vheod’s surprise at
their comparative leniency toward the gnoll, and knew what Vheod would have done.

He whispered tersely to Vheod, “We don’t kill prisoners here, demon,” then sped past him, going to gather his own horse.

The travelers said little after their encounter and “conversation” with the gnoll. That night the ground was still wet from the morning rains, so they made their camp in the driest area they could find. The top of a large hill provided a small, flat area suitable for the three of them and the two horses. Their packs offered little to eat, but none of them really seemed to care. Clouds obscured the moon and stars more than the mountains ever could, conjuring an utterly black night. Their fire provided the only light, and they kept it very small so as not to draw too much attention.

As they prepared to sleep, Whitlock took Melann aside to speak with her. They stood in the edges of shadow and light, their faces masked in darkness but their eyes sparkling from the campfire.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began in hushed tones, “about our new traveling companion.”

Melann said nothing.

“What if this is all some sort of elaborate ruse? What if he’s working with the gnolls for some purpose? His sudden appearance seemed awfully convenient, as did his supposed translation of what the gnoll was saying. How do we know if it really said those things?”